Just Another Walk in the Park -- NOT!

The evening began as many previous scorching late-July evenings. Brendan, minus Shay who was spending the night with a buddy, hit the house about 6:15. Mike whizzed around the Indy 500 lawn-track on his riding mower while I battled Zuma’s relentless forces between preparations of our evening meal.

After reading a text during supper, Brendan announced, “I think he’s about to leave right now.”

“You THINK, or he is?” Mike responded.

“He IS.”

“Do we need to leave now?”

“No, we can finish supper then go.”

From the dialogue, I inferred they had plans. (I’m smart like that, you know.)

At this point, Mike turned to me, “You wanna come?”

Clueless, I gave the logical, “Where?”

Seems arrangements had been made to kick the soccer ball at Tiffany Park with a younger friend of Brendon’s.

“Maybe,” I mustered.

See………I had BIG plans the following morning. A college friend whom I hadn’t seen in thirteen years and I were meeting at the Colcord House Bed & Breakfast in Waco for a catch-up weekend. I still had to plan my wardrobe, wash clothes, pack and gas up. The responsible thing would be to stay home and get organized.

On the other hand…..I wouldn’t see Mike the rest of the weekend plus I wouldn’t have time with the boys. I felt almost obligated to spend some quality time watching two of them run around and sweat. So, when Brendan asked if I was coming while we cleared the supper dishes, I said, “Sure!”

I put on my go-to Yellow Box sandals expecting to plop down for the 3-on-3 exhibition and hopped behind the wheel to chauffeur my crew.

When we arrived at the park, Mike observed my inappropriate shoe attire. “I figured you’d want to walk, but I guess not since you’re wearing sandals. You know there’s that nice track around the park.”

“Yeah,” Brendan chimed in, “the new trails are pretty cool. We’ve ridden our bikes through there.”

I hadn’t intended to walk while they played. My agenda was spending time with them even though I had other things to do. I guess Mike had an agenda of his own – exercise time for me.

“These sandals are practically the most comfortable shoes I have. They’ll be fine for a walk,” I threw over my shoulder as I headed off to check out Park Hudson Trail winding through and around Tiffany Park.

Wow! These were nice trails – wide sidewalks spacious enough for bikers, walkers and joggers at the same time. I crossed an ornamental bridge into a palatial view of serenity. It wasn’t just ONE trail either. There were many forks – all kinds of places to explore. Although I had no idea where I was going I assumed all paths pretty much led to the same area.

A pair of bunnies darted into view, stopped, sniffed the air, and hopped playfully out of sight. Hosts of squirrels darted up and down tree branches while katydids chirped amicably and birds warbled, repositioning themselves to a better vantage point at times.

Eventually I arrived at an entrance/exit farther up the street where I saw the trail pick up again across the road. I sometimes drove this street on heavy traffic days as an alternate less-congested route, so I’d seen early-morning walkers/joggers entering and exiting these specific trails. Now, I too, would know where they led.

Navigating that section was easy. So easy, in fact, when I exited again, I re-crossed the street heading back the way I came. Only THIS time, I would take different trails.

Almost immediately I encountered a deer standing erect with cocked ears and black watchful eyes. I stopped, and for a while we stood motionless observing each other. I baby-talked the deer, as I’m prone to do with most animals, hoping he/she recognized me as friendly.

What a placid trail.

When I returned to the original path I took out of Tiffany Park, I opted to venture the right-side fork for a different view. The sun had sunk lower in the sky and the trail’s sodium vapor lights popped on. Just enough time to round out my evening walk.

An apartment complex sat to my right. How cool to have access to all of this just twenty yards from your front door. I continued on, anxious to see what other compelling sights awaited.

Maybe it was the late evening sunset or the thicker tree limbs above the path, but the trail was definitely darker, even with streetlights on. The tone in the movie version of my stroll would have been “ominous” and “foreboding,” but hey…..this is real life, so I still saw it as an evening walk in the park.

I watched as a huge bird, maybe a hawk or a buzzard, soared overhead alighting the topmost branch of a Live Oak. He paid little attention as I passed. I guess it meant I wasn’t dead or decaying, always a good thing. We had a storm four nights earlier with winds strong enough to knock down the fence at my house, so this particular trail was littered with small sticks, leaves and other debris I suspect wasn’t usually there. I paid more attention to this path lest I step wrong and put a damper on my reunion-weekend plans.

Unexpectedly a downed, quarter-sized branch sprang to life only two short steps in front of me. It zigzagged away from my direction, but I couldn’t have cared less! In my haste to be ANYWHERE other than where the snake was I shot like a rocket into the air. Much to my dismay, my JP4 pack promptly hit empty and I returned to earth, my left foot landing half-on the sidewalk and half-on the unlevel ground. Of course I had on those stupid sandals and could feel my foot slip. This was a feet-don’t-fail-me-now situation if I’d EVER experienced one, so I wasn’t about to allow that sandal fall off. Imperative I hit the ground running, I shoved my foot hard, relieved when the strap caught hold even as it cut into flesh.

“Screechhhhhhh, Screechhhhhh,” echoed from somewhere behind as the sudden activity captured the monster bird’s attention. I was semi-aware of large flapping wings as we both, apparently, vacated the area. From a safe distance I finally turned to view the scene. The snake was nowhere in sight, but it didn’t matter. He could be lurking ANYWHERE, plotting a grisly attack.

Surprised to be alive and completely amazed I didn’t suffer the fatal heart attack I always assumed would occur with a snake encounter, I wasted no time in heading on down the path, painfully respectful of the tender skin under my sandal strap. I couldn’t wait to be back at the park!

With the exit/entrance in sight, I slowed my pace considering removing my left shoe. However, as relief was literally steps away, I thought the better of it “just in case.”

Wait! This didn’t look right. There was no power plant near the park, and an electrical power plant lay dead ahead.

Reaching the exit, I surveyed the area with no clue as to my location. This was absurd – I thought ALL these paths led to the same approximate place. Guess I thought wrong. Imagine that.

A football field length to my left lay a semi-busy street. Surely I’d recognize where I was then. Even though the street looked familiar, I still couldn’t place it -- specifically in retrospect to Tiffany Park. I had no choice but to turn around and head back the direction I’d just come.

BACK ON SNAKE TRAIL!!!!!

The funny thing…. Park Hudson Trail truly was well-planned. Strategically scattered emergency phones lined the paths. I’m positive those phones contained GPS so the exact location of any call was instantly discernable. I could picture the reaction on the other end if I picked up a phone and said, “I don’t have a clue where I am. Can you tell me?” Lost on the Park Hudson Trail was not considered an emergency, I’m fairly sure.

By now it was dusk, my foot was being rubbed more raw with each step, and here I was forced to backtrack. I knew Mike, Brendan, and the friend were definitely finished playing soccer. I also knew I was a brisk twenty minute walk from the park. But since I was back on the snake trail, brisk wouldn’t be an issue.

With trepidation and minimal discomfort, I set foot back on the path. As it was considerably darker every stick on the sidewalk loomed menacingly, a potential villain. Once soothing night sounds heightened my tension. In anticipation of the park, I scamper-gimped forward.

It was probably a good thing I didn’t recall the exact spot I encountered Mr. Snake.

Unscathed I reached the fork-not-taken leading back to Tiffany Park. In record time I crossed the bridge, soccer fields in view.

“There she is!” Brendan announced.

“You made it.” Mike smiled.

“You got lost, didn’t you? That’s what I told Dad. There’s a bunch of trails that go all over the place back there.”

“Did you enjoy your walk?”

Hmmmmmm…….not quite sure “enjoy” is the best term to describe my eventful stroll. Perhaps “entertaining” is a better choice. It was without a doubt, THE most entertaining walk in the park ever.

Just Another Walk in the Park -- NOT!!!!

Your stories wanted......

I will be writing and compling stories demonstrating the "up-side" of cancer.

I need humorous and inspirational stories from current or former breast cancer patients for a collaborative work. This booklet will benefit breast cancer patients and the American Cancer Society.

I can't do it alone. I need YOUR help.

Almost everyone has been impacted by breast cancer in some way whether you are a survivor yourself or the co-worker/friend/family member -- husband, brother, son, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, niece or granddaughter -- of a breast cancer patient.

An example of what I'm looking for:

• July 15, 2008-Before I end today, I have to share something I thought was pretty funny. Last night in the shower I noticed that some of my remaining hair was coming out (even though I shaved my head there are still a few areas that haven't fallen out.) When I got out of the shower and dried my head, I still was getting little pieces of hair on my hands. I decided to use a lint roller so that it wouldn't make a mess in my bed. It was pretty funny "lint rolling" my head but it worked pretty well.

Who can't smile when reading that story despite facing surgery, chemo and radiation!

Names will be kept strictly confidential. No one needs to fear unnecessary publicity.

All stories should be emailed to me at: cathyhodg@gmail.com

Please pass this request on. Together we can make a difference.

Thank you for helping!

me - October 2005

Risk Everything????

Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean, has an opinion piece in the June edition of Reader’s Digest in which she encourages her children to “risk everything” in regards to their career dreams and goals as “Plans B, C, D, and E will always be there. Grab Plan A.” In reference to her 13-year-old daughter’s latest and greatest desire to join the FBI, Jacquelyn writes, “I hope that her life turns out absolutely according to her dreams. If she doesn’t quite hit the bull’s eye, then she’ll still have aimed in the right direction.”

What a wonderful thought. That’s exactly what we all want for our kids – financial and personal success pursuing something about which they are passionate.

She cites a father who encouraged his eleven and twelve year old sons to pursue business technology college careers even though they’d both inherited their mother’s concert-quality music abilities. She expresses concern that at their young ages, he’s “already squelched the aptitudes and passions to which his boys had devoted their childhoods.” “That’s not my place as a parent,” she writes. “The world will dole out its own reality checks to my kids.”

So, what exactly IS the place of the parent? There’s little doubt in my mind we want the absolute best for our children. We want them to be self-sufficient AND more successful than we are. But do we really want them to risk everything in this day and age of economic uncertainty? Where academic and technical education is competitive and excruciatingly expensive? Are we prepared to support them financially as they pursue their dream goal of being the next Andy Warhol, Julia Roberts, Rachel Ray, Ryan Seacrest or Tiger Woods? Can we support them financially into their thirties, forties?

I know I can’t.

Life is plentiful with numerous reality checks. So if we can prevent some of those, shouldn't we?

Jacquelyn writes that her 10-year old recently mentioned her dream of being a professional cheerleader and to open an ear-piercing boutique for dogs. She states she kept her thoughts to herself (wisely, I might add) but later “wondered why we hadn’t already heard about the trend of dogs sporting chandelier earrings. My daughter might be a visionary!” We haven’t heard about canine ear-piercing pagodas because it wouldn’t work! Fifi would have blood trickling down her dainty bedazzled earlobes within sixty seconds of piercing them. Earrings for dogs would be as annoying as fleas! Imagine pitching that proposal, complete with business analysis, to your lender……..Her daughter might well be a visionary-in-the-making, but hardly for piercing doggie ears I would venture. The ASPCA would have a field day.

I agree with Jacquelyn’s position that the wisest parents she knows are honest. To take her statement a step further……I believe honest not only with their children, but also with themselves. AND realistic. Parents watch their children grow, struggle, succeed, blossom and shrink on a daily basis. It is a parental “duty” to encourage toward strengths and sound judgment, away from impracticality or weakness regardless of the passion. If your child loves the game of soccer but only sees the field for three minutes at the end of the first half, chances are he will not be the next David Beckham. By the same token, I wanted my son to excel on the high school football field. While he was pretty good in junior high, he didn’t LOVE it the way I did. It was my dream, not his. So when he quit in 9th grade, it was ok. His strengths lay in computer graphics which he turned into a job with Activision Blizzard.

The true key is to encourage innovative/visionary thinking while keeping your child grounded and living in the “real” world. It’s both fantastic and healthy for Jacquelyn’s daughter to have dreams of a dog ear-piercing boutique at age ten. It’s a completely different thing to encourage that same goal as an 18-year-old. I’m sure Jacquelyn’s daughter will change her mind twenty more times between now and college enrollment, so her pioneer way-of-thought, crucial to life skills development, should be nurtured and taken with a grain of salt. Where there’s a will there’s a way, but if the battle is all uphill, there may be a different will with a better way just waiting for the opportunity to thrive.

The encouragement “risk everything” runs totally contrary to everything I believe. In this day and age, only a select silver-spooned few have the ability to risk everything with no consequences. The real damage occurs when parents encourage their children to pursue unrealistic opportunities or those in which the risks outweigh the benefits.

Certainly, do not give up on the dream, but realize that dream must be kept in perspective. Is it working for you? In other words, are you achieving the results you desire? If not, you are free to make an infinite number of choices resulting in possibly a different goal.

Will our children make mistakes – yes. Will they have regrets – maybe?

Do you?

That’s life.

While Jacquelyn’s best advice is “risk everything” mine would be do not risk what you can’t afford to lose and never be afraid to make a different choice. It doesn’t mean you’re compromising or giving up on your dream, it simply means you are creating a new one.

Happy Mother's Day

When I returned to work after Mother’s Day, I asked my hard-working, ever-present boss if she took time off to visit her mom.

“Let me recount,” she began.

“My mother’s turned into this little old lady. She never used to be, but all of a sudden she is.”

We were joined by another co-worker, who asked the same question, but added, “I wasn’t sure you were having such a great time when you called and said you’d rather be at the Mother’s Day Brunch,” which, of course, meant she’d rather be AT WORK.

Kris returned to her dissertation.

“Mom’s got her routine. She gets up, has breakfast, putters around, sits down in her recliner for a morning nap, wakes up, has lunch, putters some more, THEN lays down in the bed around 3:00 for an afternoon nap, wakes up, putters again and is down for the night in front of the TV by 7:00 p.m.! She’s a sit-around-the-house person now and I’m just the opposite. I want to go somewhere, do something.”

“How old is she?” I inquire.

“She’s only 71,” Kris states in her most inconceivable voice.

I smile remembering how active my mother was at 71. She didn’t begin to slow down until shortly before her heart attack at age 86.

“It’s not like I get to go home that often. Needless to say, I want to go somewhere, do something fun especially with Mom. So I say, ‘Hey, Mom….wanna go shopping?’ She says, ‘Let me check my coupons. Honey, we can go to Kohl’s. I’ve got a 20% off.’ I’m like, Mom I don’t want to use your coupons. I want to go shopping with you. We can go ANYWHERE to ANY store.”

“At least she’s frugal,” I offer with a snicker.

“Yeah, frugal doesn’t come close. It’s that way with everything. But let me back up. You’ll love this. She quit smoking a couple of years ago, and by the way, that’s what’s wrong with her. Years of cigarettes took a toll on her heath. Anyhow, we’re at Kohl’s….because we’ve got ‘THE COUPON.’ I’m looking at clothes and suddenly I can’t find Mom. She doesn’t get around that well, so how far can she go, you know. I look all over the store, no Mom. So I check out front. There she is – outside. She’s bummed a cigarette from some little old man. They’re standing together just chattering away, puffing. I walk out and say, ‘Mom, what are you doing! Put that cigarette out! You quit, remember?’ ‘You weren’t supposed to find me,' she tells me.’”

Our co-worker, Tammy, chuckles nodding in agreement with the frustration of parent/child role reversal.

Without skipping a beat, Kris continued, “After we get home my sister calls. We’re expecting her any minute, but she says she won’t make it till 8:30 that evening. Well, you know what time that is….we’ve already bedded down in front of the TV, so I tell Mom, ‘I’ll take you to dinner around 5:30 – just the two of us. Where do you want to go?’ Next thing I know, she’s back digging in the coupon box looking for a restaurant coupon! Out she comes with Cheddars – of all places! It’s Houston for Pete’s sake, with all those wonderful dining experiences and she wants to go to Cheddars so we can use that blasted coupon.”

By that time, Tammy and I were in stitches over the word pictures Kris so eloquently painted.

I could just visualize her little ole’ mom puffing frantically in attempt to finish her smoke before getting caught.

“Too bad. Out of all the restaurants in Houston she could choose, your mom picks one you can eat at HERE anytime you want.”

“Yeah I know, and Mom’s always pulling something. I’ll bring food or go buy the fixins’ to make something special. I tell her what I’ve planned of course. I might get everything to do Eggs Benedict for breakfast, but I walk in the kitchen and there sits Mom eating a piece of toast. I’ll ask her about it and she says, ‘I didn’t want you to go to any trouble, or I’m not that hungry.’ I tell her, ‘MOM, I already WENT to the trouble!’"

"ARRRGGHHHHH!"

"It’s like – love your show, Mom, but gotta go.”

What a card.

“So, Tammy, when you asked if I was having a good time and I said I’d rather be at the Brunch…..that’s WHY.”

“How was your Mother’s Day? Did you get to spend time with your mom?” she politely returned Tammy’s question.

“My mother’s day went kind of like yours, but in a different way. Mom gets rattled over the slightest things now, so if something changes it really upsets her. I’m constantly reassuring her. And, she’s stuck on something new now. She keeps trying to fix me up – with any male who’s ‘available.’ I show up after work for what I think is a nice dinner and here are people I don’t even know in the house because ‘we should meet.’ It’s crazy!”

Enjoying the banter and exasperation with their respective parental trauma drama, I resist the urge to tell them to enjoy it while they can. They couldn’t appreciate the sentiment anyway.

I smile and laugh good-naturedly, sharing in the moment of woman bonding, while my mind drifts elsewhere to previous Mother’s Days and times past when I HAD a mother to “complain” about – her last birthday when we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey and she tagged its back, Chad’s graduation party where she enjoyed the visit with family and friends, 4th of July at Washington on the Brazos when we walked about a mile to get to the park and she was thrilled she DID it, our first Thanksgiving back in Texas from Little Rock AFB when we donned shorts because it was too HOT for winter clothes, the time she wouldn't give me permission to car date to Odessa, her pride they day I graduated from McMurry…..the sad look in her eyes every time Mike and I backed down the drive, waving all the way, after an afternoon of yard mowing.

How wonderful it would be, again, to be in her presence. To enjoy lunch with three generations – my kids, my mom, and me.

I wish I’d seen the generations of hands picture before she died. I would love to display a black and white or sepia photograph of hers, Amanda’s and my hands forming the circle of unity.

“How was your day, Cathy?”

“What?” I stammer at the faraway sound of my name pulling me back in the moment, their eyes fixed on mine in anticipation.

“Oh, it was great, relaxing." I participate. "My daughter and step-sons were here. Mike grilled our favorites. We ate by the pool.”

“What about your mom?"


“I don’t have her anymore,” I sigh, “she died in October ’06.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” is the unison reply.

“Thanks. Me, too.”


Most definitely, me too.




To all mothers and the other phenomenal women who make a difference in our lives, we salute and honor you for your endless love, dedication and countless hours of prayer and patience.
Thank you.

Help! I Got an Earworm!!!!!

Ever heard of an earworm? Sounds gross, doesn’t it? Like the email that circulated a couple of years ago about the South American larvae that burrowed 5 cm. deep in the lady’s breast, which would have been totally gross IF IT WERE TRUE (thank Snopes.com.)

An earworm is the term coined by University of Cincinnati research professor, Dr. James Kellaris, to reference getting a catchy/annoying song, tune, or jingle stuck in your head. http://www.business.uc.edu/earworms

Earworms aren’t actually heard, but are mentally recited over and over, often to distraction. At first it’s ok, but the longer the song repeats itself in your head the more annoying it gets.

What’s worse, you feel powerless to escape its effect. As you focus on NOT thinking about it, the stronger the repetitions are.

Next, you find yourself singing it aloud and infecting others with the annoyingly mesmerizing lyrics.

It creates a vicious cycle from which there is no return, until sleep or something totally fascinating knocks the tune right out of your brain.

My number one earworm has to be Amy Winehouse’s, “They tried to make me go to Rehab but I said no, no, no.” In my opinion, it’s the worst offender of all time.

Each time my co-worker, Jeri Ann, and I experienced the misfortune of hearing it on the radio and we sang it all day in that nasally, whiney intonation, no less. It got so bad, we began assaulting each other on purpose with the Rehab Virus. Once it took hold, there was no halting the attack.

But why does your internal record player gets stuck?

The answer is as elusive as Carter’s little liver pills are plentiful.
No one really knows.

At first, Dr. Kellaris presumed “music characterized by simplicity, repetitiveness, and incongruity with listeners’ expectations is most likely to become ‘stuck.’" However, his research showed that despite these traits “virtually any song can become an earworm for some people and some are more prone to earworms than others.”

Here's three theories:

• It can be likened to allergic reactions on the skin to certain biochemical agents which cause the skin to itch. The only way to relieve the irritation is to scratch, but scratching exacerbates the itch, throwing the victim into a vicious cycle of itch/scratch. This is known as Kellaris’ Theory of Cognitive Itch.
  
  
• Stuck songs are like stuck thoughts. To suppress a thought, we must actually HOLD that thought in the back of our minds. It’s not discarded, but rather guarded under lock and key to keep it at bay. Therefore, you subconsciously must think about exactly what you don’t want to think about.
  
  Like playing "The Game" for all of you “Game Players” out there. As soon as you think about the game you lose. Then it’s hard not to keep thinking about it, which is exactly why the rules say after somebody loses, everyone’s safe for the day.
  
  
• It’s a manifestation of one’s subconscious – the brain’s way of communicating something important such as the solution to a problem or a warning. To take it one step further, a message of Divine Intervention; God or our angels trying to tell us something.

Dr. Kellaris further proposes that “earworms may not have a single cause. An earworm may be like a stomach ache, for which there are many different possible causes. “

Whatever the reason, I find it amazing anyone was interested OR bored enough to actually study this phenomenon! I’ve been experiencing it all my life and never gave it so much as a second thought. It is what it is – a minimal nuisance/a part of life.

Aren't you glad your tuition didn't go to fund any of this, uhhhh....."research."

The following songs are examples of earworms according to Shawn Amos at getback.com:

“I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred
“Who Let the Dogs Out” by Baha Men
“We Will Rock You” by Queen
“YMCA” by Village People

Now that you get the idea, play along.

This requires PARTICIPATION!

Comment to this post with YOUR personal earworms.

I can’t wait to read all the different tunes that get stuck in your head.

I’ll be waiting and looking……..in fact, I’ll go first with another one that comes to my mind.

I sure hope it doesn’t get stuck.

Customer Service, I'm a Fan!

Who says customer service isn’t alive and well in Bryan/College Station Texas?

Let me share.

As my Arkansas friend, Terri, so appropriately pointed out, I’m wearing something BLACK in almost every photo in my Facebook profile. Despite the slimming appearance, I felt some splashes of color might be in order.

Anyone who knows me understands I’m not a huge fan of shopping, nor do I enjoy parting with a buck. Therefore, I search for justification – some valid “good reason” to buy clothes for my “really great closet.”

Years ago I needed no inducement to hit the mall or my favorite shops like Stein Mart and TJ Maxx. When it was reported Imelda Marcos possessed 2500 pairs of shoes in her wardrobe arsenal, I knew I had a lot of catching up to do and merrily set about the task of rousing competition.

That kind of shopping no longer holds appeal. The exhilaration of the search, the pleasure of strutting and posing in front of the three-sided mirror, as well as the thrill of finding the can’t-live-without-it bargain exited around the time those twenty pounds I can’t seem to shed appeared. And the shoes…..I was forced to wean myself years ago when I ran out of closet space and discovered Mike didn’t share the same affinity for my hero, Imelda. Now, the new shoes I buy, only because the old ones broke or wore out, rub blisters so I put that off as long as I positively can.

My justification two-fold this time -- my new job and the annual Spring Tea I attend at Bethel Lutheran as a guest of Mrs. Kathy Zelenka, or Mrs. Barbara McCannon when Kathy decides to run off on a family adventure weekend to Tarpley. I figured I could find something colorful and “springy” for the tea that would still be professional and appropriate for Miramont (no cleavage at church/no cleavage at work – no problem!)

The mail arrived before I left on my shopping extravaganza. Behold, a Bealls circular complete with a coupon for 20% off ALL purchases was among the junk and bills, so I clipped and headed that direction. Besides, it’s the closest store to my house, so I was thrilled to get a coupon. I hoped to avoid a lengthy outing by remaining on my side of town.

The BOGO half-off shoe sale initially caught my eye. I headed to that department first, reasoning if I had to tote items around, it was much easier to lug shoe boxes than clothing on hangers. I visited with Julie, a sweet Down’s lady who plopped down beside me, exhausted from her shopping excursion with mom. She offered an honest opinion on precisely which pair of brown heels looked best. After I selected Julie’s favorites, she ended our moment-in-time encounter with a warm bear hug and toothy smile. What a delight.

I then focused on the real reason I came – color! There was a nice variety of pastel and primary clearance and sale dresses to choose from. I re-loaded stacks of hopefuls four times before deciding on three NON-black outfits from the original try-on group, no less – two dresses and a sophisticated three piece outfit. I must confess, though, there was this awesome little black “Slenderizing Skirt” (the label advertised) that had built in lycra leggings. I just couldn’t resist. It will go with EVERYTHING in that great closet of mine.

All this I performed in the record time of two hours twenty minutes, just in time to go home and prepare supper. I was quite pleased on several levels as I presented my purchases and 20% off coupon at the register.

“What’s this? I haven’t seen this coupon,” the salesclerk admitted.

“I just got it today. It came in the circular.”

“Yeah, it’s a great coupon, but I’m sorry, it’s not good until the 29th. See. It says 4/29 through 5/5.”

“You’re kidding!”

Just my luck to spend all that time and effort and my coupon’s not valid till next week.

“Ok,” I sighed. “I’ll wait. The 20% is significant enough I don’t want to buy it without.”

I was met with the blank stare of the sales clerk as if to say, “But you looked so lovely in the blue and brown suit.” Yeah, I know. I really did!

I managed the only thing I could think to say, “I realize I run the risk of it being gone when I return, but that’s the way it goes, I guess.”

Sad ending to the story……….why no! My sales clerk saved an otherwise wasted afternoon.

“I’ll solve this dilemma,” she beamed. “Let me have your name and phone number. We’ll hold these till the 29th. When can you come in?”

What an awesome solution. Since she obviously wasn’t authorized to give me the coupon discount prior to the date, she did the next best thing. I confirmed I’d return Wednesday afternoon, coupon in hand, to complete the transaction. I came for color and by golly, I should receive color for my two hour twenty minute effort. It was, at least, minimal comfort to know my choices were safe and sound until coupon D-Day.

Although I had to pull something old from my closet to wear to the Spring Tea, I was elated to discover the bit of exercising I’d been doing paid off when the only yellow, spring-like dress I own zipped effortlessly. Besides, it wasn’t that old – I’d only worn it a couple of times last spring and summer. For just a moment, I considered not buying the pretty mint and chocolate dress I intended to wear to the tea………ah, but only for a minute. It was on sale with an additional 20% off and the sales clerk with the excellent customer service skills had it on hold.

It paid off for Bealls, too. When I went back Wednesday the 29th, I couldn’t resist the temptation to look again, in case I missed something. I found three more clearance sale things-I-couldn’t-live-without.

Who says customer manipulation, I mean, customer service doesn’t pay.

Too Busy -- WHATEVER!

Know what makes me roll my eyes?

When I say, “Hey, do watch American Idol?” And the reply is, “I’m too busy to watch TV.”

You have to love it – too busy to watch TV.

As if TV watching requires the dedication and commitment of singing in the church choir or chairing the Junior League or coaching Little League. Yeah, that’s really comparing apples to apples, isn’t it?

But wait, maybe I’ve been too hasty in my judgment. Just maybe the all-too-busy-one is really a super hero saving the world from destruction one event at a time. That would be dramatically time-consuming.

A former co-worker used to take every opportunity to expound on her lack of free time or rather, her self-appointed worth. If we heard it once, we heard it a hundred times. Didn’t matter what we discussed, Michelle never robbed us of the pleasure to hear how SHE DIDN’T HAVE TIME. More likely, she purposely didn’t watch TV so she could declare it – TO US!

It’s all a matter of perspective and priority. If you want to sit down, relax and watch a little tube, you will. You make time. If you don’t, you won’t. It’s that simple.

There’s no calculated formula for whether you have time or not. OK……fly in from work + take kids to sports practice + help with homework + cook supper + feed pets + chat on phone ++++ DIVIDED BY watching Chuck, Heroes, and CSI Miami = -5.75 hours. OH NO! The TV view-a-meter registers the huge flashing red “NO TIME.”

If you want to run a marathon, you make time to train. If you want to attend church, you get up early Sunday morning. If you want to get a ticket, you run red lights in College Station. See the correlation?

My son didn’t own a TV. A product of the computer technology age, he watched his favorite shows on-line. It worked.

How about that “old fashioned” invention the VCR? Practically every household has one or two. For years, my friend, Kathy, taped her daytime soaps to be replayed during the mundane chore of ironing. She’s now graduated to a more high tech operation—my personal favorite, THE DVR.

What a great little tool -- which, by the way, if you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know I was only introduced to my personal DVR four blessed months ago when I refused to be labeled as one who clings to the obsolete. I take full advantage of its revolutionary capabilities. My most difficult task is viewing a recording before next week’s episode.

I'd be remiss not to mention is anything more awesome than fast forwarding through commercials? Why, it practically cuts the viewing time in half! I’ve considered taping EVERY show I watch just to save a time. But you know what? I personally am not that busy.

My advice to all you anti-TV busy-bodies, don’t try to impress with how important you think you are, just state the obvious -- I don’t watch TV, I do other things.

Cat Swimming 101

Yesterday morning Cheddar took a dip in the pool.

But let me back-track to set the scene.

Cheddar used to be a pain in the butt. He was a night owl. Sleeping all day and only a small portion of the night, he meowed incessantly to wake us. He was hungry. Easy fix, you’d think. Just leave a bowl of dry food at his disposal. But, that was a no-no.

Before Stop-n-Go died, the Vet put him on a special diet with prescription food for kidney function. Cheddar wasn’t supposed to eat it, but anyone who’s had multiple pets knows it’s impossible to prevent one from eating the other’s food, so they both ate the same thing. Apparently Science Diet KD is rather rich in nutrients. Cheddar had to “loosen his kitty belt.”

Weighing in at a whopping 21 pounds, we had the almighty Cheddar struggling valiantly to extricate himself from the scale and the vet tech.

“You have to put Cheddar on a diet. He weighs entirely too much. It’s unhealthy!” Dr. Taylor scolded.

Alrighty then…..far be it for me to contribute to his detrimental lifestyle.

Cheddar came home with measured portions and Science Diet WD, aka diet food. THAT’S when the waking us up in the middle of the night started. Cheddar thought he was starving!

Around 3:00 – 4:00 a.m. (I assume that was his previous grazing hour) Cheddar commenced to meow. When mewling had little effect, he launched a more aggressive attack. He learned to bang kitchen cabinets. That’s right. He put his paw in the door, pulled just hard enough to open it then let it bang shut. He continued in this fashion until Mike stormed out of bed in raging defeat to put him outside.

Nightlife actually kept Cheddar occupied for a brief time. Then around 5:00 a.m. he appeared on the bedroom window sill next to Mike’s head, slapping his tail against the screen and of course, meowing. There again, Mike could only take so much before he charged out of bed to let the cat in and give him a morsel.

It was bad. This went on night after night, month after agonizing month for well over a year! There was no place to secure Cheddar that his mournful meows, slaps and bangs wouldn’t penetrate.

Relief arrived in the form of Amanda and a New Year’s vacation. She stayed at the house while we visited Mike’s parents. Cheddar never woke her once. He slept peacefully all night every night.

I knew it could be done. The timing was perfect. He’d done without for a whole week. I just had to convince Mike to remain put.

“Think of Cheddar as a baby. He’s accustomed to us responding to his every whim. If we want him to sleep through the night, we have to quit giving him a bottle. Ignore him, no matter what. He’ll stop when he doesn’t get his way.”

And that’s when it stopped as quickly as it began. Our first night home Mike remained still during the cabinet-banging. Cheddar slammed only twice before returning to sleep at the foot of our bed.

He hasn’t been obnoxious or annoying in the middle of the night in a long time. So, when he stirred at 4:44 this morning, I hardly noticed.

“Meow, meow.”

Nuzzling beside me, giving my paw a few licks, I thought he just wanted to snuggle. Alas, no. He had more devious plans. He banged a cabinet!

Without thinking I leapt out of bed, tossing a pillow in his general direction. When I heard scurrying paws, I felt bad, so I decided to let him out.

“Uh, I thought we weren’t getting up anymore. He’ll get back in the pattern.”

Touché Mike. He’s absolutely correct. I pulled a no-no, plus I'd said exactly the same thing to him the week before, and he couldn't miss the opportunity to reciprocate.

The sound of the alarm woke me. I lay in bed outlining my morning activities.

“Merrrrowwwww” bellowed at the kitchen window. Even though it was open, the sound was too loud, too urgent. That wasn’t his normal, soft I’m-home-let-me-in mew.

“Chewwie,” I answered climbing out of bed.

Merrrrowwwww!

As Cheddar came through the front door, he brushed against me. It was ice cold. My cognitive skills translated “cold” into “wet.” Even without my glasses I could squint well enough to tell it hadn’t rained. That much water would have been Ike all over again.

Turning on the light, I discovered a completely soaked cat! It was like I’d bathed him! He literally dripped.

I didn’t know what to think, but Mike’s initial response was the pool. I couldn’t imagine that. Cheddar is scared of the water. I know he wasn't leaning over the edge trying to get a drink. I can’t even get him to come near enough to pet when I’m in the water.

Upon surveying the scene, Cheddar apparently took the plunge by the jump rock and tried to get out as evidenced by major splash marks on the sidewalk. There were splashes for approximately 6 feet along edge of the pool where he finally found success by the Jacuzzi. The wet tracks led through the trellis and over the fence which was also soaked. Poor Cheddar must have shot like a bullet when he came out of that burr cold water.

Amanda blamed it on the ghost of Stop-n-Go. "He materialized, said Boo, and it scared Cheddar so bad he fell in." While I LOVE this version, it’s fairly obvious something alive chased him into the pool. We’re guessing one of the mean birds who inhabit the back yard trees might have launched an attacked forcing our poor kitty off balance. Who knows…..but I’ll bet Cheddar’s eyes were as big as saucers when he hit the water.

Toweling him dry I could feel his little heart pounding. He doesn’t look nearly so large when he’s wet.

Since this story had a happy ending, I can laugh. Believe me I do every time I think of Cheddar’s swimming debut. It’s scary, though, because this event could have had a much different outcome. Ironically, Stop-no-Go died April 14th two years ago. Cheddars dip in the pool was on April 13th.

I'm sure he won't soon forget this escapade. I know we won't.

I'm so glad Cheddar aced Cat Swimming 101.

Decisions, Decisions

As the work days wear on, I find myself plagued by that age old question -- what do I wear today?

Come on, ladies, and maybe some of you guys, too, I KNOW you know what I'm talking about. It's the perpetual decision looming behind the closet door morning after morning.

I open the door and flip the light switch. Illuminated before me is a vast array of pretty-looking garments. One would think, WOW! This is a great closet!

I want to wear something other than black today. It seems I'm always clad in black slacks, black capris, black skirts, black jackets. I have a lot of black, I guess. I don't particularly know why.

I reach for the brown blazer then remember Amanda says she doesn't like it on me. Makes me look frumpy. I don't want to look "frumpy."

I fondle the sleeve of the red tailored Studio I dress, recalling the last time I wore it which was to a co-worker's wedding three years ago. It's gorgeous -- would be ideal for my new job. As soon as my fingers hit the sleeve, I also remember why it hasn't been worn in three years. IT'S TOO SMALL.

At this point, I vow to lose the twenty pounds (a whole dress size) I put on during chemo three years ago and STILL haven't managed to shed.

My eyes next fall on the new shirt I bought on clearance at Macy's after Christmas sale. Really stylish, it's hot. I take it out, grab beige capri's and make four steps toward the bedroom before halting in my tracks. The neckline is awfully revealing........perhaps a little too risque for the country club front desk. Can't have cleavage showing (yes, this shirt gives EVEN ME the appearance of breasts.....that's why I bought it!)

So, it's back to square one.

I re-hang the hot shirt. Perhaps something to go with these beige capri's will work.

I reach for the sleeveless leopard-spotted turtle neck with decorative buttons adorning the back. It looks good with black, brown, or beige and doesn't accent the disappearing waistline I'm so displeased with (again, why I bought it.) Perfect!

EXCEPT, what if I get cold? I don't have a dressy enough blazer or sweater to put with the top. More importantly, what if my upper arms gross somebody out? That would NOT be acceptable. I hear so many females declare, " I don't wear sleeveless tops because my upper arms are flabby," as if to inform it's a duty of all women everywhere. What if my new co-workers have this bare arm-itis? Hmmmmmm......maybe I'll rethink my choice.

I wish I was like Mike. He gets dressed in the dark most mornings, a feat which completely eludes me. He dons a short-sleeved or long-sleeved Oxford or pullover with a pair of coordinating Dockers. His most difficult decision certainly must be which pair of socks to wear. Or maybe, did Cathy iron this or did I snag it from the laundry room too quickly.

Rifling through my "great closet" there is something wrong with EVERYTHING I look at.

I steal a glance at the clock on the bathroom counter. I've already wasted a full eight minutes and still have nothing to wear!

I need to leave the house by 7:40 to be comfortably in my chair before 8:00, which by the way, is part of my actual job description. You think at some point in the past, someone may have mistaken 8:10 or 8:15 for 8:00? So, yes, this IS high school where attendance is taken via the time clock and video surveillance. The tardy bell rings promptly at 8:00 a.m. -- sharp. I'm not willing to get detention. Besides, if I leave later than 7:40, I won't get my usual parking spot across from the walkway, nor will I have time to stop by the club's kitchen to fill up a glass of ice water or cranberry juice cocktail. Perish the thought! I must get a move-on.

That said, I have an easy solution. The black ankle length capri's and the black & white skirted top I also purchased on clearance at Macy's after Christmas. It flatters my non-existing waist and I receive compliments each time I wear it. Another benefit, I haven't technically worn it to "work" yet. I interviewed in the outfit for this job, but only my boss and one receptionist saw me.

Sigh.

So much for wearing something other than black.

But hey, the proverbial "THEY" say black makes you look thinner.

And, why would I possibly want to ever appear thicker?

E-recruiting -- It's Everywhere You Want To Be

Is there anything more time consuming or draining than job hunting?

I’d forgotten just how much “fun” the experience is until I recently had the privilege.

Things changed!

Seven years ago the local newspaper’s classified section was THE PLACE to look. It took fifteen minutes to scan and circle prospects. Today, posting sites are limitless thanks to the World Wide Web. Rather than fifteen minutes, the process lasts hours.

My daily searches, all online of course, included The Eagle Classifieds, journalismjobs.com, Craigslist, Blinn College, City of Bryan, City of College Station, St. Joseph’s Hospital, The Med, Physician’s Center, Land That Job, Jobs.net, Employment Guide.com, KBTX Job Search, and any other potentially informative site my internet search turned up.

It was nothing for me to plant myself in front of the computer at 7:30 a.m. and find myself still seated there well after noon, viewing postings and applying.

Such is the technique of e-recruiting.

There’s no lack of employment opportunity information. It’s just housed in a variety of places. It’s up to you to search every internet nook and cranny, decipher the application process and comply with those specificities.

Application
Hand-completing an application in person is virtually unheard of. Instructions now range from faxing or emailing your resume to downloading an app, then faxing or emailing it – a procedure that can take twenty minutes or six hours (as I discovered with Blinn’s employment process) depending on the complexity of the application.

Cover Letter
Then there’s the omnipotent cover letter, which becomes even more critical to electronic transmission. At my last job, I paid as much attention to this as I did the resume! It is your ONLY chance to personalize the submission and make yourself standout. You cannot/should not have a blanket cover letter. It must be specifically tailored to each company, job posting and qualifications.

Concern

I have Microsoft Office 2007 and understand older versions of Word won’t open the newest word processing program. I was never sure whether the company actually received what I sent. How am I supposed to get hired if the company doesn’t know I applied?

Pros and cons of electronic transmission:

• A stack of resumes provides a quick view of the prospective applicant pool. It’s not necessary for every single candidate to complete a company app.
• There’s no visual. Choices are based on information alone, so negative first impressions can’t render pre-mature or inaccurate judgments.
• It’s immediate and cost effective. However, without a return receipt, the applicant can’t be 100% certain their paperwork transmitted successfully.
• A hand-written application says much about a potential employee — legibility, neatness, thoroughness, accuracy all demonstrates attention to detail and quality of work.
• It’s highly impersonal. There’s no opportunity to formulate an initial positive connection, except via cover letter.
• It’s exclusive. Even if this day and age, not everyone has access to a computer or fax machine.
  

While beneficial, e-recruitment and e-transmission shouldn’t be the only HR tool. The wise recognize the advantage of a traditional methods/e-resource combination. That way, you, the awesome prospective applicant, may decide which method best allows you to shine.

Embrace that we live in the Information Era where data is instantly accessible and relayed. Get on board before you get left behind.

Don’t limit your search to one source. Explore all options.

Don’t be intimidated by e-overload. Search multiple sights and bookmark all with potential.

The ideal job may be waiting in the most obscure location. All you have to do is find it.

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days Gone By

Thanks to the digital age and programs like Facebook, MySpace and classmates.com reconnection with childhood friends triggers memories of another place and time. My musings lie in the one-horse west Texas town of Kermit.

The frog, you ask? NO!!!!!!!!

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that over the years……...although Kermit the frog did celebrate his 50th birthday in MY HOME TOWN on November 8, 2005.

I was not in attendance for the commemorative festivities.

Local town “elite” replaced the mighty fightin’ Yellow Jacket on the infamous water tower with the graven image of the birthday frog. Not a popular decision in my humble, yet obviously feeble, opinion. Downright sacrilegious some would say. Although I'm sure it was ideal to the Disney crowd.

Despite notoriety as MY birthplace and where I spent MY formative years, Winkler County seat, Kermit, has several additional claims to fame:

• It was named for Teddy Roosevelt’s son after a visit from the President to the county in 1910.
• Roy Orbison hails from 7-mile-away neighboring community, Wink.
• Two-time PRCA World Champion Bull Rider Jim Sharp is a Kermit High School graduate.
• NBC Heroes deceased character Meredith Gordon (Claire/Hayden Panettiere’s birth mother) resided in K-Town.
• Actor Jay Thomas, better known as Eddie LeBec, Carla Tortelli’s love on Cheers, was born at Kermit Memorial Hospital in 1948.
• Miss Jane Hathaway of Beverly Hillbillies prominence, Nancy Culp, was a frequent visitor as the guest of long-time resident Thelma Carr. Many a Kermit citizen, me included, thrilled over catching a glimpse of Miss Jane in Skaggs Grocery from time to time.
  

Not so one-horse after all, you muse.

Oh, I can assure you it was/still is.

Everyone knew everybody’s business. I couldn’t make a move Saturday night without hearing about it Sunday morning at church.

My gate keeper, Mr. Hale, fellow church board member of my dad’s, had a scanner. “Why was your car parked at Phil Campbell’s warehouse last night?” Yes, indeed…….why? At seventeen, that was for me to know and my parents NOT to find out.

My best friend, Victoria, and I rode our bikes all the way to East Primary everyday it wasn’t too cold or raining in 2nd grade – no locks required for those bicycles to return us home again after school. I broke my right arm in two places when I fell off the top rung of the high slide at the park. I walked the cinder block fence enclosing my home on a regular basis. I ate persimmons from Walter and Joyce Anderson’s tree. Our circular driveway was ideal for roller skating with metal skates requiring a key. I worshipped Donny Osmond and the Osmond Brothers from the poster-clad shrine in my bedroom with a 33 long play record player.

1960 Downtown Kermit -- the year I was born

Friday night football held an aura of reverence for me from the age of 3. Since I couldn’t play the sport, I settled for dreams of leading the band and being in the homecoming court when I grew up. To a little girl, smiling, parade-waving homecoming nominees with their dazzling LIVE gold and white mums seated regally atop Mustang convertibles riding in parades and around the football field track were the most exquisite creatures ever.

Alas, I was never to become one of those goddesses. To be nominated you had to be (1) popular and (2) have a football player boyfriend. I had neither. Funny thing, though, when you actually KNOW the nominees their allure falls short.

Yet, I had two close friends who made homecoming court my senior year. I was quite proud of and for them both. They each represented with the pomp and circumstance of my childhood reverie.

I did fulfill my other goal, however. I was a 3-year drum major. No one loved a position more. Nothing rivaled my exhilaration for “kelping” (an older military-style tradition) onto the field with all eyes focused on me performing a short salute before tweeting the band to follow. Yes, you could say I was a “ham” or a professional photographer’s daughter accustomed to the spotlight. Either way, it’s about the same.

Senior year, twirling my stave one Friday morning practice, I hurled it to the ground in disgust as the band director stopped to re-start us for the umpteenth time. It retaliated in a major way. The tip of that spinning staff bounced off the ground impacting the corner of my eyebrow. Blood spurted everywhere to the tune of “ewwwww” and “gross.” A trip to the doctor yielded a butterfly bandage, no stitches thankfully, and a massive black eye with a walloping powerful headache. I performed that night as a “true professional” would. I looked like hell, I’m sure.

We “made the drag,” a large square route around town. You drove one direction for awhile, then turned around in the high school parking lot to go the other way to see who’d you’d missed. This was a HUGE deal. Undoubtedly the most important duty of the Kermit teenager.

My experiences include a most embarrassing pre-driving drag blunder. My homecoming nominee friend, Laurie, and I were with my mom and her best friend, Jean Adams. Since Mrs. Adams was chauffeuring, Laurie and I convinced her to drive through the high school parking lot so we could look at boys. Windows down, discretion was mandatory. Who could chance being seen with two old women? Jean, the red-haired character she was, dutifully obeyed our wishes, quietly and inconspicuously navigating the prestigious parking lot. However, things changed when she reached the end. “Oh my goodness, this is SO MUCH FUN, let’s do it again,” she squealed. To our horror, Jean threw the car in REVERSE and backed-up all the way! Laurie and I hit the floorboard, but I’m sure it was too little too late. We were quite the spectacle.

Kay Crawford's mother was more hip than that. She agreed to remain "invisible" while taking four unlicensed slumber-party girls to the drive-in theater. A light-weight blanket her cloaking device, Katherine read a book by flashlight underneath that blanket for the duration of the movie! She only re-emerged after most other cars had driven away, bless her heart.

A wonderful K-Town tradition was painting the street in front of the high school. It’s literally like it sounds. We painted such iconic statements as “Seniors ‘78” and “Beat the Mustangs” or “Patti –n- Mickey 4-ever” and “Sting ‘Em Yellow Jackets.” I wonder if that’s still allowed or if changing times reversed a right of passage into vandalism and destruction?

With this stroll down memory lane, it appears I've been enrolled in the “good ole days” school. I’m not sure what age qualifies you for this group, or when I arrived at it. I still remember thinking age 30 ancient and it seems not that long ago!

Here I am, nonetheless, stuck between new memories I’m making and appreciating the old ones.

Maroon and gold roots run deep. Memories live forever. Kermit was a wonderful place to grow up. I couldn’t wait to leave when I graduated, nor can I think of a better place to call my hometown.

00:00 Again?!

It was not my intent to twice address the subject of hoops, but I can't let the opportunity go by to mention that little 6th overtime win!

Talk about stress, I had a most difficult time riding the sofa. I can only imagine the intensity of being at the game. Move over Boeheim. Move out of the way Calhoun. I GOTTA HAVE A LANE TO PACE.

As far as I'm concerned, Syracuse won the Big East tourney and the NCAA championship right there, that moment. To beat UConn and Thabeet was victory enough in itself. To play an extra hour and a half to do it was extraordinary.

Did I mention 6 overtimes?

I found myself holding my breath. How will it end? WHEN will it end?

Did I mention immeasurable exhaustion?

Players muscles and tendons functioned by memory recall alone.

No one can fathom how mentally and physically depleted EVERY player was when the score finally ended not in a tie. I, myself, spectator-drained, too wound for immediate slumber, was forced to unwind with Forensic Files until my eyes eventually gave way to gravity. It was reported Jonny Flynn couldn't sleep at all that night. Go figure? An athlete who's already played two-in-a-row games, one going until 1:23 a.m., managing to perform at TOP level, AGAIN, in overtime the following night with no sleep. Now that, my friends, is breathtaking commitment, not to mention extreme physical conditioning. I want that kind of dedication in the workplace!

The fact Flynn was required to play almost every minute of every game last year, due to Rautins and Devendorf's season-ending injuries, surely paid off this season, this tournament.

Remarkable athletes, inconceivable endurance, mind-blowing quarterfinals.

The look on Devendorf's face just about sums it up. These hoop giants had the honor to play in the most incredible display of stamina and will in college basketball history.

Where will it take them? Most won't see the NBA. Doesn't much matter because they will forever cherish the memory of that moment in time when the game clock at Madison Square Garden struck 00:00 seven times.

March Madness Memories

Flynn brings it down. He jukes Hazell and passes behind his back to Rick Jackson. Jackson performs his own form of razzle dazzle getting the ball to Onuaku who pops an easy two. Harris steals and drives the lane finding Rautins in the right corner. Whoosh! It’s good for three. BABYYYYYY!

That can only mean one thing. It’s Big East tournament time. Dick Vitale warm up your vocals. Here comes the ‘Cuse.

I love March when Syracuse is playing well.

They clobbered St. John’s, trashed Cincinnati, annihilated Rutgers, and then edged out then No. 13-ranked Marquette. How sweet it was, and about time. I actually felt good coming in. Last year, Syracuse sucked, but this year the Orange secured a sixth seed by peaking here at the end of the regular season. How ‘bout them apples!

Riding their four-win comet, they mightily defeated Seton Hall last night despite nasty attitudes and intentional fouls. Since Garcia couldn’t fend off Onuaku, I guess he thought he’d out-mouth him—more than once! At one point almost everyone on the court tried to mix it up. I’ve never seen the Orange behave like T.O.—ever! That’s not their style; they’re typically poised and all about playing the game. Although, I must admit it was mildly entertaining. Devendorf bared his teeth one minute, then performed the I-put-3-in-yo-face dance the next. Lucky that display didn’t land him a technical coming off the recent near-melee, though. Boeheim would have been chewing some “glut,” BIGTIME.

Just one time, one game I’d like to commentate. If I must listen to their…uh ummm…opinions, it’s only fair they should have to listen to mine. Don’t you agree?

I’m taken back to a memorable basketball era.

The year – 2006.

The star – Gerry McNamara, who was in the Garden supporting his former teammates last night, still looking very “Gerry-ish” I might add.

Me – I had no hair, but did have a fantastic wig. Hurricane Rita only recently wiped out my favorite gambling hall, Harrah’s in Lake Charles. Didn’t matter, though, because we weren’t traveling at that time anyway. I couldn’t be around public germs. My mom was still alive, playing with Little Blackie and lighting up our lives. My co-workers teased me for falling asleep at my desk, head on a blanket with a thin line of drool adorning my chin. Radiation just completed, I was dedicated to walking myself back to health. The Rosemary Street neighborhood was alive with buds, greenery, chirping birds, and a loose dog or two, just to help restore my mental alertness. At first, I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Just making it out the back door at work and down the alley was a cumbersome effort. By the start of the tournament, however, I was strolling the stretch at a fairly quick clip. I was never so alive as when walking that route, experiencing the rebirth of that spring. It was a glorious time to be alive.

After their whomping Big East tournament victory, ‘Cuse had to play A&M in their first round!

It was major, too, because TAMU was making their first appearance in the NCAA tournament since 1987. Furthermore, the Aggies, who hadn’t won an NCAA game since 1980, were intent on breaking that agony-of-defeat streak. What’s a fan to do?

Mike was beside himself. He walked around for days saying, “I don’t care who wins. It’s all good.” I’m afraid his loyalty to both teams was only marginally skewed toward the old home-town team, but I remained “Syracuseeeee Ball” all the way.

On game day, Mike was true to his stance. He settled on the edge of the recliner, celebratory Corona in hand, dressed in his Syracuse Orange t-shirt, maroon Aggie tee draped ceremoniously across right shoulder. Win or lose, he was having a victory.

12th-ranked A&M edged out my 5th-ranked Orangemen 66 – 58 that year. Dominique Kirk shut Gerry down, holding him to a measly two points in his final game at Syracuse. Ahhhh, that was quite an NCAA tourney, quite a Big East championship, and quite a year.

Tonight, Syracuse must face #3-UConn, or should I say #1-Thabeet, again! I hope their momentum yields a better outcome than the previous meeting where Thabeet creamed our netters. He’s such a giant, he seems to get away with blocks most would consider a foul. Madison Square Garden better have good Refs. I don’t care how important you are or what titles you’ve won, you can’t smash players to the floor or go over the top.

Go Orange! Long-live maroon & white.

Bluebonnet Time, Ya'll

Spring is in the air. Even though Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow in Pennsylvania, I caught my first glimpse of this year's bluebonnet crop today. Just a small patch on Hwy. 6, but gleaming regally nonetheless.

The bluebonnets need rain to produce that amazing blanket of blue we so vividly yearn for as we make our annual trek through the Navasota, Brenham, Bellville, Independence, Chappell Hill, Roundtop corridor. So come on clouds and storms forcast this week. Thousands are counting on you!

It’s difficult to explain to non-Texans, until they experience it for themselves, the exhilaration of topping a hill to be greeted by a vast sea of bluebonnets waving gently in the breeze, dotted with swirls of yellow coreopsis, pastel pink primrose and crimson phlox. If ever there was a “Kodak Moment,” this is it.

Bluebonnet History
Because of the not-so-famous 70-year Bluebonnet War, Texas officially has five state flowers, maybe more. On March 7, 1901, the Texas Legislature adopted the Lupinus subcarnosus as the official state flower. Beautiful enough, though daintier, a faction of bluebonnet enthusiasts felt this species was the least attractive of Texas’ bluebonnet population. They argued in favor of the Lupinus texensis, the showier, bolder bloom which covers the majority of the state and provides inspiration for many an artist. In the way of true “political correctness,” the Legislature eventually reached a solution to appease these sparring groups. In 1971, it added the texensis, plus "any other variety of bluebonnet not heretofore recorded," making both the state flower. What politicians didn’t realize was that three other species of Lupines are native to Texas, so the umbrella clause makes all five, officially, our state flower. And, if any new species are discovered, they will assume the exalted title as well.

Bluebonnet Facts
Each year the TXDOT sows 5000+ different species of 30,000 pounds of wildflower seeds, including the brilliant Lupinus texensis, along our highways.

Their website discourages “picture-taking that damages the wildflowers” because too much trampling will kill them preventing them from seeding. If you know anything about annuals, they must go to seed to come back next year, so TXDOT further discourages “picking the flowers for the same reason.”

As you can see, we follow instruction well

Illegal to Pick?
Contrary to what you’ve been told since birth, there is no law on Texas' books against picking the state flower. You will not receive a fine, be hauled off to jail, or incur the evil wrath of the bluebonnet gods if you do. According to the TXDOT press release on the subject, you may legally pick a bluebonnet or two as long as you don’t break any other laws in the process.

Your Very Own Bluebonnet Garden
The more adventurous devotee may desire their own bluebonnet patch, but it’s too late for the 2009 season. Bluebonnets must be planted in the fall. The Texas Cooperative Extension Service recommends planting scarified seeds — seeds chemically treated to encourage germination. The process of scarification occurs naturally in the wild meaning only a small percentage of the seed germinates during the first season after planting. “This delayed germination ensures species survival during periods of adverse growing conditions such as prolonged drought.”

It appears the bluebonnet seed understood our south central Texas climate quite well.


The ideal location is an area of full sun with a minimum daily requirement of 8-10 direct hours. The soil must be well drained as opposed to sticky, thick clay. Should you need to build a planting bed, you’ll want at least 6 inches of depth topped with 3-4 inches of organic matter. When planted, the seed must be raked into the soil or lightly covered over. If merely scattered, birds will have a field day. Optimal fall planting occurs in September or October but definitely no later than mid-November.

For a truly spectacular patch, don’t overwater during winter months, but do water occasionally during dry spells.

Texas Bluebonnet Seed Company in Bedias sells a one-pound bag for $20.00. For a complete price list, visit their website at www.texasbluebonnetseeds.com.

Updates
To enjoy this year’s season, TXDOT will keep you updated with WEB postings and its highway hotline at 1-800-452-9292. They also provide listings of numerous wildflower festivals and events.

Pick up a Wildflowers Trails map at the Washington County Visitors Center, from numerous businesses around Washington County or request one online at www.brenhamtexas.com.


Historian Jack Maguire wrote, "The bluebonnet is to Texas what the shamrock is to Ireland, the cherry blossom to Japan, the lily to France, the rose to England and the tulip to Holland." He further affirmed, "It's not only the state flower but also a kind of floral trademark almost as well known to outsiders as cowboy boots and the Stetson hat."