Fall go boom.

“Movie mishap”

    Last weekend I went to the Market Street Theatre in The Woodlands to see “The Rover.” I am so pleased that Market Street provides an outlet for little known Independent films.

    “The Rover” was billed as being about post-apocalyptic Australia. Kay doesn’t like post-apocalyptic movies set in Australia… or anywhere else for that matter. Oddly enough, she didn’t even enjoy any of the Mad Max movies. I have no idea how this marriage is holding together.

    While I much prefer going to the movie with Kay, going alone does have its perks. I don’t have to share my popcorn and I can get a root beer instead of a Coke Zero.  Market Street’s large popcorn comes in a bucket. I’m not sure the bucket holds as much as the medium bag, but it’s a bucket. Get it?

I entered the last theatre on the right about five minutes before previews. The theatre was one of the smaller ones. The one where if you sit on the far side you have to walk in front of the screen to go to the restroom. I hate to do that.

    Anyway, I walked in feeling as happy as if my car had just passed inspection. I had my bucket of popcorn and medium root beer and was going to see Guy Pearce playing Mad Max.

Before heading up the steps I counted five patrons -- one lady sitting on the first row, a middle-aged couple on the fourth and another on the sixth. No one appeared to be a threat. Jason Bourne taught me to always make a note when I enter a place. Bourne was never taken by surprise.  

No one noticed me casing the joint, because I’ve got panache. Loaded with panache. They noted nothing suspicious when I took my first step and then my second. But the third step? That’s when it all went crazy. My right foot never landed on the third step. It hit the surface of something, causing me to stumble a bit. No problem. I’ve got great balance. All I had to do was find it.

I was going be fine. Slightly embarrassed, but I can deal with slight embarrassment. But, I kept stumbling, so much so that I lost a bit of my popcorn. I figured maybe two bucks worth. I can do math fast.

I gave up searching for my balance, ‘cause I knew it was gone. Now all I could do was plan my fall. I figured I’d land on my right knee and spring right back up. Piece of cake. Unfortunately, my legs were uncooperative. I was going all the way on this one. This would be a big one. Oh, the humiliation.

I was about ten minutes into the stumble, when I lost all the popcorn. It went everywhere. I believe the laser-like beam from the camera showed some of it fly across  the screen.

Fortunately, the floor finally came up to meet me. Both my elbows landed on the same step. Not real sure what happened to the rest of my body. At some point during the free fall, my root beer left my hand and hit my left foot. I soon discovered that the medium cup holds a lot of liquid.  If I had let the girl talk me into the large drink, they would’ve had to re-carpet the entire theatre.

I stayed down longer than I intended, ‘cause I wanted to savor the moment. The first thing I noticed was that the place was quiet. Everyone was staring at me, but not saying a word. The entire spectacle was a little over 40 minutes, yet, no one had reacted.*

After gathering my wits I said, “All of you keep your seats! I’m okay.” Everyone continued to sit and stare. They were expressionless. Void of expression.   

The lady sitting closest to me did ask if I was okay, and then reminded me that I could get a free refill of popcorn. I felt like giving her a hug just for expressing a kind thought.

I did go out and tell a theatre employee about the mess. The kid showed up with a broom, a bucket and paper towels. While he was sweeping, I noticed that the steps had different widths. Every second or third step was wider than the one before it. That’s so you can enter the rows better. I guess. I must’ve subconsciously been expecting a longer platform ahead of me when there was really just a short one. 

When the kid finished cleaning up, I tried to give him some money, but he declined it. Told me he was only doing his job. I was about to wrestle him right there in the theatre, but figured I had already made enough of a scene.

Oh, and the movie? “The Rover.” Most forgettable. Mad Max it wasn’t. It did have a bunch of flies, filth, desert and mean people. The most memorable thing about the movie was the guy who fell on the steps.

As for me, I’ve never seen anyone trip in a theatre. In fact, the only fall I remember was at college when a guy slipped on an icy sidewalk. It took him 15 minutes to hit the ground. I got a good laugh out of that. And, last Friday at the Market Street Theatre I got my payback. Payback is a bear.

* Scientists will tell you that only three things can slow time. Gravity, an object going the speed of light, and a fall. Einstein did the math on all three.

end

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Pliler Anniversary

“The Gold One”

    Virginia and Freeman just celebrated their 50-Year Anniversary. Their son, Michael, threw them a big party over at the church, and we had barbecue and all the fixin’s. BBQ is pretty much the scriptural meal for celebrating stuff. I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy. 

Fifty of anything is a lot, and when you’re talking wedded years, it’s a whole lot. That’s why they call it the Golden Anniversary. Since Kay and I couldn’t afford to get ‘em anything made of gold, we decided to give them some golden memories.

 Golden memories are cheap as all get out, but they’re so valuable. I’m fairly sure our best friends would’ve rather had something in real gold, but we’re not that good of best friends. To tell the truth there hasn’t been a great deal of friend nurturing of late.

That’s what I talked about while emceeing the anniversary party. The emcee can say just about anything he wants. That’s why they call it “Emcee.” It stands for… I have no idea. Just one of those weird words.

So, I told everyone at the party how the Plilers used to be. We went everywhere and did everything together. We had birthday trips where the birthday person was given $15 to spend on something they wouldn’t ordinarily buy. Something fun.

Virginia always bought candles, ‘cause she’s a goober. Freeman would buy fishing lures or ammunition or camouflage drawers. Camouflage something. Kay usually got costume jewelry, and I usually bought something in a cashew. Roasted, chocolate covered, honey-coated, peanut-butter drenched, Cheeto-mixed… anything in a cashew.

Besides the birthday trips, the Plilers and Hayters also used to camp out a lot. We had to borrow the Jackson’s camper until Virginia and Freeman broke down and bought one of their own. Took me forever to persuade them to do that. The Jacksons were good friends, but I just hated to keep borrowing their camper.

We also used to eat supper out every Thursday. In fact, the death of that tradition is what signaled the demise of a wonderful friendship. And, do you wanna know what caused it? Grandkids. Grandkids can really mess up a friendship.

It happened all at once, too. I called over at the Plilers’ one Thursday afternoon and asked where we were gonna eat. Do you know what Virginia said? “Oh, we can’t go out tonight, ‘cause the grandkids are coming over.” That was her excuse. The Hayters were weighed in the balance and found wanting.

It went on like that for several Thursdays until I just quit pushing. You don’t hafta hit me over the head. And that’s what I told all of those gathered at the anniversary party. No one can compete with grandkids. You might as well load up your bean dip and nachos and head for the casa, ‘cause the grandkids are going to rule.

By the way, all the grandkids were at the anniversary party and heard me say all of this. If any of them felt the least bit guilty, I couldn’t tell. I shouldn’t blame them, though. Seems that most parents love their kids, but they worship their grandkids. Humans are the only creatures that are big on grandkids. Do you think chickens care for their grandkids? They couldn’t even pick ‘em out of a carton.

Kay and I never had kids, so Virginia and Freeman were like our grandkids. -- Uh, strike that. But, you get the point. – Point being, we enjoyed the moments. Do you know who got me started writing this column? Virginia. Back in ’79 The Hayters and Plilers had just returned from a tubing expedition in New Braunsfels and Virginia recommended I write a story about it and submit it to The Courier. Thirty-five years later I’m still writing for the Courier and The Villager.

By the way, Virginia became a teacher because of her best friend. One night around a campfire I asked her what she’d like to do if she could do anything. She said she’d like to be a teacher. I went way out on a limb and said, “Well, why don’t you go to college, get a degree and teach?”

She did, too. Impressed everyone she knew, and helped hundreds of students move on in life. And, I’m the one responsible. Well, I had a hand in it.

And, Freeman? Don’t get me started. I don’t want you to take advantage of him, but Freeman will do anything for you. He’s helped us move four times, taken me to the doctor a few times, fixed stuff for me all the time… He’s “Good ‘ol Free,” and always will be.

That doesn’t even touch the surface of what all that couple has meant to Kay and me. And, that’s what I told ‘em at the anniversary party. Instead of waiting to say good stuff at their funerals, I got it out of the way while they’re still alive. I’m not sure that’s scriptural, but I did it anyway.

And, yes, they’re still our best friends. We don’t rate up there with their grandkids, but who does? Makes no sense, you ask me. 

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Mascot game

Hutto High School Mascot attacks Jill!

Paw Paw and Hippos

    BASTROP – About this time next year, Kay and I may go on an Alaskan cruise. However, this year at about this time we decided to go on a trip to Bastrop.

Bastrop is just a few miles southeast of Austin. We might’ve gone further, but we’re saving our money so we can go on an Alaskan cruise next year. I thought sure I already told you that.

We invited Jill along with us on this trip ‘cause she’s a hoot to travel with. On the way here she had us playing the mascot game. Anytime you pass a town, you have to find out  it’s High School’s mascot. A lot of times you can figure it out by the names of some of the businesses on the main drag. “Bulldog Bowling Alley” or “The Bears Lair.” 

    But sometimes you have to search out the school. That can be a challenge, ‘cause some of the towns don’t have high schools. Chappell Hill has no high school. They’re a tricker town. That’s what you call small towns with no high schools. They have you driving around the area looking  for something they don’t have.

They have no high school, but they do have a museum in a place that used to be an old schoolhouse. Kay and I had visited it on a previous trip, but Jill had never seen it. Jill likes museums. I like to looking at the faces of people in old school photos and try to imagine their futures from their expressions. I didn’t do that with all the faces on pictures in the Chappell Hill Museum, ‘cause we’d still be there..

By the time we checked into the hotel in Bastrop, it was too late for lunch and too early for supper. That’s what I call naptime. We had had a late breakfast, and during much of the trip had snacked on almond, pecan, cashew clusters from Sam’s. The third best invention in humankind. I say “humankind” ‘cause pandas don’t like ‘em at all. Not exactly a favorite among koala’s either. Sticks to their gums.

After my nap, we went to Paw Paw’s in downtown Bastrop for some fried catfish. I once read that “fried” is not the only way to prepare catfish. I consider that crazy talk. Paw Paw’s catfish was good, just not as good as Vernon’s. What is?

At the table next to us in Paw Paw’s was seated a lady who had just placed her order. I waited for her to complete her text message before asking about the big Bastrop fire, the one that destroyed much of the Lost Pine Forest.

Georgia didn’t hesitate a second. “It was September 4, 2011,” she said. She went on to tell us that the fires burned for three weeks. I remember her name was Georgia ‘cause it was the same as the state where she was born -- Delaware. No, she was born in Ty Ty, Georgia. She was probably joking with me. I could believe Ty Ty, California.

 In her storytelling, Georgia included directions to some of the worst burned over sites. As soon as we left Paw Paw’s, we drove through one of the State Parks that had been undamaged by the fire. Absolutely beautiful. Then we crossed over to the west side of Hwy 71 and saw some serious fire damage. It was hill after hill of tall, barkless and limbless pine boles. Occasionally we’d see concrete foundations. Lost homes and subdivisions.

Lost Pines 3 yrs after fire

The one hopeful indicator to the tremendous destruction was the sight of thousands and thousands of pine saplings that had sprung up over the area. We were informed by Georgia that some had been planted. She said that people from Georgia helped in that effort by donating a good number of the loblolly seedlings. She was happy that her hometown of Ty Ty took part in the effort. Ty Ty?

Tomorrow we plan to load up and visit a town where Kay and I lived back in 1991-’93. Georgetown. A beautiful place. On the drive over I plan to drive through Hutto, and let Jill see the statue of the hippo -- Hutto High’s mascot. How cool is that?

After that, we’ll probably beat this article home, but not by much And as soon as we get home, we’ll continue saving for next year’s Alaskan cruise. Of some concern about the trip is the belief that Alaskans aren’t big into catfish. They mostly eat just salmon. And get this, they’re not big into fried salmon. They’ll smoke it before they fry it. And we made ‘em a state? *

* (The comment about the Statehood of Alaska is not to be taken seriously. Mark respects the daylights out of Alaskans. And Hutto High, too. Go, Hippos!)


End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Going nuts

"Forgetting the buzzard”

    ROOFTOP – Can you believe this? It’s 7:00 in the p.m. and we’ve still got lots of daylight ahead of us. Right now the direct rays of the sun are hitting so close to the Tropic of Cancer it’s not funny.

After the first day of summer, June 21, the rays will start receding and the days will get shorter. I’d tell you more, but most of you already know about the reason for the seasons, and the rest of you don’t care. I can hear you. The height and heat has not hampered my hearing.

We should’ve waited a couple of hours before climbing up here. The temperature at the moment is well past my comfort level. If I were older, I’d be cooler. When you get old, your tolerance for heat increases tremendously.

I love old people to death, but I hate visiting in their homes. The first words out of my mouth are along the lines of -- “Sweet Mother MacRae, turn on the air conditioner!”

Right now, I’m too young to be cold when it’s hot. I’ve got about 20 years before my inner thermostat goes haywire? Age really does a number on you. I notice stuff. 

Memory loss is tied to getting old. Those of you still lucid know that. Up until last week, I feared I was losing my mind. Now, I know I’m farther from nuts than I thought, thanks to an article by a guy whose name escapes me. The researcher introduced me to something he called “Event Boundary.” Sounds like a movie starring Dustin Hoffman.

The writer explained why we sometimes enter a room and forget the reason we’re there. Take last Thursday, I was sitting in the living room reading, when all of a sudden I saw something short and dark walking past the window. I’ve got great peripheral vision. I get comments all the time. – “Hey, Mark, you’ve got great peripheral.” Stuff like that. 

Where was I? Oh, yeah, short and dark. I figured it was either a large cat or a slow-moving beach ball. Turns out it was a buzzard. I thought that odd. Buzzards don’t often walk past me while I’m reading. 

My first thought was about how dirty the windowsill was. Must inform Kay. My second thought had to do with the purpose of a buzzard walking in my yard. Who or what lay rotting over by the pansies.

The only way I was going to find out was to get off my rear and go check. I would’ve yelled for Kay, but she’s less curious about the behavior of buzzards. So, I got up, walked out of the living room and was about to exit through the backdoor when I spotted my coffee carafe in the kitchen. I don’t have a coffeepot. I’ve got a carafe. Says it right there on the box. 

As I had hoped, there was still coffee in the carafe, so I poured me a cup and went back to the living room to read the paper. It wasn’t till the next day that I thought of the buzzard. I was in the living room at the time, and might’ve gone outside to check for carcass residue, but I just didn’t care enough. That lounge chair can be a bear.

I might’ve thought that my buzzard experience was another example of an Alzheimer’s moment, but I remembered the Event Boundary article. And, now, I’m ready to share it with you. I just wanted to tell you about the buzzard first.

According to the article’s author, anytime we leave a room, our brain gathers our thoughts and files them. The minute we set foot in a different room, our brain starts gathering information on the new site. All the while, our old room thoughts are being stuffed into a mental file cabinet. My cabinet is full to the brim, and my filing system stinks on ice.

Obviously, the more urgent the call to action, the less likely we’ll forget our purpose for entering a room. I seldom enter the restroom without a hint as to why I’m there. If you have trouble remembering the reason for a restroom visit, it’s likely unwise for you to be up here with us. Aside from that, you’re probably in pretty good mental shape.

Isn’t that reassuring? Did you ever think a buzzard could make you feel better about your brain? So, you’re a little forgetful. No worry. Your brain is merely trying to acclimate to new surroundings. – Excuse me a second. – Gloria, it’s a turbo vent. Don’t try to sit on it. – See? What did I tell you about my peripheral vision?

No, Gloria, I didn’t know you were kidding. It’s the first time you’ve displayed a sense of humor. I like it. – And, no I’m not crazy about Matlock. -- You Rooftoppers are such joker people.

No, Darrell, we’re not going to check on the buzzard pickings. -- Oh, you’re not joking. Then, yes, we’ll go check. Assuming we can remember once we get to ground level.   

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Clothes ironing

The last ironing


    I can’t iron clothes. I’m not happy about that, but I have learned to accept it. Unfortunately, Kay has proved to be less accepting.

It all started when I asked Kay if she had seen my favorite shirt. It had been missing for weeks. She informed me that it was likely with the stack of clothes behind the door in our bedroom. I don’t look behind doors. And, yes, this obviously makes me vulnerable to a sneak attack by anyone wearing a hockey mask.

Turns out, it was more of a mountain of clothes than a stack. What happened? That’s what I asked Kay. “Hey, Sweetpea, what happened? Why haven’t you ironed these things?”

Do you know what she said? You’re not going to understand it anymore than I did. She said, “I don’t want to.” What kind of answer is that? I don’t want to watch reruns of ‘The Mentalist’, but I have to till the next season starts. There are just things we have to do. Everybody knows that.

Kay said that she let the stack get so big that the mere thought of ironing it made her sick. I knew that to be an exaggeration, but didn’t want to push the ironer too far. I did that with my barber once. I told her, “Kay, if you raise the tip of the scissors just a bit before moving them toward my head, you may manage to quit stabbing me.” You would’ve thought I recommended she spit polish my TV tray.

Well, what are we supposed to do with the pile of clothes? They’re not going to iron themselves. That’s what I told her. Her answer was so bizarre that I thought the woman had had one of those extraterrestrial encounters. You know, the aliens with the long, skinny arms and legs. There’s a not a fat one in the bunch.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, Kay’s response. Kay said, “Let’s take ‘em to the cleaners.” -- Take ‘em to the cleaners? They’re not dirty! They just need ironing. She said that we should just stuff ‘em in a bag and turn ‘em in as if they were dirty. I’m not making this up.

Pretend you’re working at a dry cleaners and you start stuffing some clothes in a machine. All of sudden you notice that they’ve already been washed. How does that make you feel? It would make me feel angry. – “This guy has no more respect for me than to make me wash his clean clothes.”

Waiters have been known to spit on the food of rude customers. I don’t know what a dry cleaning person would do to a snobbish patron. I’m thinking head lice.

That’s when I agreed to iron half of the stack. Kay was so impressed with my offer that she instructed me not to iron anything of hers and only half of my shirts. I could tell she didn’t think I could do it. Truth is, I never thought I’d have to do it. Go back to the first sentence of this thing.

I set the ironing board up in the living room, poured some distilled water into the Sunbeam, turned the TV on and watched half of a Dateline. Then I decided to turn the iron on. I thought it was just slow at heating up. It’s an old iron. I had no idea it had an on/off switch just under the handle. I imagine they hide it so men can’t find it.

The first thing I discovered as I passed hot iron over cool cloth was that it’s impossible to watch TV while ironing. My mom used to do it, but the secret died with her. The woman ironed clothes for nine people. And this was back before permanent press. Mom even ironed our bed sheets. And, she’d watch Arthur Godfrey or Kate Smith at the same time. A fascinating woman, my mom. She liked Kate Smith.

As I ironed, Kay was reading her book, in the other room, but eventually came to check on me. She took a gander at what I was wrestling with and said, “Did you start with collar?” -- Start with the collar? Why would I? She told me it didn’t really matter. She was just curious. It’s one way women have of messing with us guys.

After two hours, the task was done. The shirts ended up with more creases than wrinkles. Parts of the shirts refused to lay flat, so I just pressed ‘em in place. What a horrible mess. But, Kay said I did a great job, and told me that she would now let me iron all my stuff. But, as for her, she was taking her ironables to the dry cleaners.

She said we could afford it if we gave up HBO and my cell phone. Give up “Game of Thrones” and the quarter inch thick, metallic block that I don’t know how to operate? That’s a low blow, you ask me. But, I’m giving in, ‘cause if I don’t, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my barber.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com   

Shopping without kids

The Kid Season


    A couple of weeks ago a hint from Heloise sent me right back to the summers of my youth. The hint was stupid as all get out, but it did serve to launch my thoughts back to the fun days.

The Heloise contributor offered what she considered a great way to save money while grocery shopping. -- Ready for it? – She suggested that moms leave their kids at home. If you bring your kids shopping with you, they will beg for stuff and you’ll have to buy it. That makes the experience more costly.

The moment that ingenious advice got around, parents everywhere were stirred from their sleep-of-the-simple. Instantly they became aware of the advantage of leaving their kids at home while shopping. I’m just glad my Mom was not alive to read that. I fear she would’ve slapped the closest person to her.

    During the summer, Mom always took us with her grocery shopping. She just didn’t let us get out of the car. I assure you that her reasoning had nothing to do with saving money. – “Mom, could we have some Twinkies? Pleeeease!” – Whop!

    I know it’s going to sound like Mom was cruel, but truth is she didn’t let us go inside the grocery store with her, ‘cause our presence was not appreciated. That was back when five of us were still at home.

Fortunately for everyone, Susan was old enough to stay home by herself. We just weren’t always trusted to stay with her. Turns out, our older sister had less patience with us than Mom did, and Mom had just slightly more than the minimum daily requirement.

And, speaking of careless, mom overlooked so many important things in our rearing. As I remember, she never once told us to be sure to keep the car windows down while she was shopping. There is no question that we would’ve died had we closed the windows, but she never warned us of that possibility.

Could it be that she trusted us not to do something that stupid? She never told Dennis and I not to shoot each other with our BB guns. Never warned us not to run with a 16 penny nail in our mouth. 

She either had a great deal of faith in us or she feared the power of suggestion. Had she mentioned rolling the windows up, I’m pretty sure we would’ve done it. Dennis would’ve said, “Hey, let’s see how long we can stay in here with the windows up. First one who passes out is a rotten egg.” A “rotten egg” was about as bad a name-calling as we could imagine.

Don’t shoot at Mark with the BB gun? Hmmm. – “New game! Let’s see which one of us can make it to the gate before the other can cock the BB gun and shoot him.” We would’ve never thought of that on our own.

Come to think of it, Mom seldom warned us about anything. We pretty much learned the dos and don’ts from spankings. She might come back to the car from shopping and notice a tear in the upholstery. A couple of minutes after getting home we’d all catch onto the rule concerning pulling a loose thread from the upholstery.

There was absolutely no use in reminding Mom that we had not been warned about juggling apples in the house. She might’ve warned us had she not over exaggerated our ability to reason. She did that a lot in the summer.

Of course, even when you’re a dumb little kid, you still possess somewhat of a moral scale. There is just something inside that encourages you to test the scale’s limits. I think Charles Dickens expressed it best when he wrote -- “It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity.” – I’m fairly sure that has nothing to do with what I was talking about, but I do like the word “incredulity.” You can almost feel your I.Q. increase a point or two just from saying it. Incredulity.

And, speaking of incredulity, a couple of you are wondering how this Heloise business has anything thing to do with reminding me of the summer. Well, it’s all tied to the fact that during school, Mom didn’t have to take us to town with her, ‘cause we weren’t home. We were in school. Get it? We would’ve loved to have her pick us up so we could go shopping with her, but for whatever reason, she never thought to do that.

It was always in the summer that things got turned all upside down for Mom. It was the season when we were home all day, and had to be dealt with. I think Charles Dickens said it best when he wrote -- It was the season of hope, it was the season of despair.

He wrote something like that. He must’ve been a mom. And, yes, that somewhat stretches the boundary of credulity. – Such a cool word.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Graduation Ceremony

Graduation Ceremonies: Major snoozefests

    I’ve been to only one graduation ceremony this year. I’m happy about that ‘cause I not exactly a fan of the ritual surrounding school departures.

     The third worst migraine I ever had was the last Saturday in May in the early 80s at the graduation of one the senior classes from McCullough High. The ceremony was held  at The Woodlands Tennis Arena place. I’m sure it had a name.

It must’ve been 110 degrees inside that enclosure. Ten seconds after a student’s name was called you could hear the sound of shoes against wooden steps, as the kid’s parents exited the facility.

I was sick as a dog, but stayed through the entire tortuous spectacle, because that’s the way I roll. The students always came first for me. Plus, I couldn’t find my ride home until after the kids tossed their square hats into the air. I’m getting a headache just retelling that experience. 

Of course, I hated graduations way before the near death experience at the tennis palace. Hated ‘em so much that I chose to skip one of mine. I had to actually write a formal letter to get out of walking across the stage at Stephen F. Austin University. I even had to create an excuse. I lied and mentioned a job interview somewhere.

I hated going to my own ceremony, yet, last Sunday, Kay and I drove to San Marcos to attend the graduation ceremony for Virginia and Freeman’s grandson, Ryan. I’ll make allowances for Ryan’s graduation, ‘cause he’s Virginia’s grandson. I believe I mentioned that. Oh, and Ryan happens to be a great kid.

He’s also a good athlete. He was a good athlete when he attended Montgomery High School, but a great athlete when he attended a private school that had a graduating class of 62 seniors. I would’ve been a star athlete had there been 200 less guys in my class. I’m just saying.

The decision-maker at the private school chose Sunday as the day of the ceremony. I’m fairly sure that’s unscriptural, but the preacher who delivered the commencement address apparently didn’t see it that way.

I skipped church so we could make it to San Marcos in time, yet I still had to hear a sermon. I doubt the Class of 2014 appreciated the sermon any more than I did. It was something about how to be a success in life. I passed out in the middle of Point Four -- “Be nice.”

Besides getting to hold Virginia’s great-grandson during part of the ceremony, the other good parts were listening to a couple of kids play something from Bach on the piano and violin, and watching Ryan walk across the stage to get his satin-covered folder. They never give you the real diploma at graduation. I think it’s a law.

After the festivities we all went to a place called Fuschak’s. It was there that I learned that Montgomery County doesn’t have a monopoly on great BBQ. Inside the restaurant, Ryan opened his graduation gifts. Other than a bunch of money, he got a couple of filled photo albums and a journal with a collection of mementos from his childhood. Stuff that Virginia had collected. His first potty seat and sippy cup and trainer wheels. I didn’t really get a look at the book, but I imagine that’s what was stuffed in it.

On our way home, Kay and I had the privilege of stopping in Bastrop at the biggest Buc-ee’s in the Continental US. That thing was as big as Kroger’s. I can’t speak for the girls restroom, but the boys room was the Cadillac of Privies. I’ve never seen a men’s restroom where privacy was actually taken into consideration. Designers of mens’ rooms usually just calculate how many guys can fit against a wall inside a 150 sq. ft. enclosure?

Of course, Buc-ee’s has more than just urinals and toilets. They’ve got every kind of jerky imaginable. If it can be jerked, they’ve got it piled behind a sneeze shield. And then there are peanuts, popcorn, ice cream, BBQ, burgers, hotdogs… They’ve got everything. And everything is reasonably expensive.

That’s why I only got the coffee. After spending about 40 minutes taking in the sights in the mens room, I figured I oughtta buy something. Do you realize that from outside the toilet cubicles, you can’t even see the feet of the guy sitting on the toilet? The cubicle is completely enclosed from floor to ceiling. I’m not making this up.

    All in all, the graduation trip was relatively enjoyable. You take out the commencement address and the long drive, and it was a blast.

Speaking of blast, let me tell you the summer job that Ryan managed to land. The kid is going to be a caddy for a guy making the PGA tour. Ryan gets to travel all over the country and walk around some of the most beautiful pieces of real-estate on the planet.

Me? I’ll probably find an excuse to make another trip to the Bastrop Buc-ee’s. I doubt many Country Clubs have restrooms that nice. Not that I would know.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com