Category: Interesting Stuff

A Fishy Little Tail

A Fishy Little Tail

I ran across an interesting little piece of trivia a few whiles back regarding Woodstock, Captain D’s Seafood restaurants, and Long John Silver’s restaurants. It seems that the first Captain D’s opened on August 15, 1969… the same day as the start of the famous Woodstock Music Festival held in upstate New York. The Festival’s last day was on August 18, 1969… the same day that the first Long John Silver’s launched.

I posted that little piece of trivia on my Facebook page the other day with some interesting responses, including from a woman claiming to be from Dayton Ohio who wanted me to add her to my friends list. She persisted, even though I indirectly accused her of “Catfishing.” Long story short, she is blocked from seeing what I do on Facebook.

Anyhoo, I had my first encounter with Captain D’s while on my way to Savannah this past June. To that point, I had been a semi-regular of Long John Silver’s for quite some time. For the most part, I liked what they offered, but one can do only so much with fish and chips, battered and deep-fried. In the absence of Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips, and the ever more elusive Alfie’s Fish and Chips (There’s only one, now, in Lompoc California), LJS was pretty much a safe bet… and they were pretty much everywhere. The better half and I stopped at Captain D’s in Fort Valley Georgia. I appreciated the fact that they offered different kinds of fish served in ways other than being battered and deep-fried. Besides, the staff was friendly. If I lived there, I would likely be a regular and know at least one of the staff by name.

(As an aside, I was a regular at Alfie’s Fish and Chips in Chillicothe Ohio and one of the staff was a classmate of mine – Sue Costoff. I’m mentioning this because Sue passed recently. She was an interesting person in her own right and she will be missed by many.)

Back to the tale.

Something I noticed on the trip to Georgia was the numerous Catfish Farms going through Alabama. They were almost as prolific as the Solar Farms on the same stretch of road. While a lot of people love farm-bred catfish, I’m not so fond of it. While I was working offshore, I could count on there being catfish on the menu every Friday for at least one of the meals. One of the summers I worked on the rigs, the rig I was on was towed up to New England, off Nantucket. I looked forward to there perhaps being some variety on the Friday night menu, but I ended up being disappointed. The catering crew would go to the trouble of having farm-fed catfish every Friday. The southern boys I worked with had a latent distrust of us “Yankees” and our fancy New England seafood. I deliberately delayed a flight back to Houston so I could revel in real seafood at a real seafood restaurant in Boston.

I don’t limit my seafood preferences to ocean creatures. The better half has, on more than one occasion, told of living in Colorado. Her parents would go trout fishing in the early morning to catch trout for breakfast. I love trout when I can get it. When the better half recounts those stories, I find my mouth watering at the prospect of going somewhere for some broiled trout.

There was a “Farmer’s Market” held at the Tractor Supply parking lot this morning and one of the vendors was selling fishing gear. I spoke with him because of his hat, indicating that he was a fan of West Virginia University. The gear he had on display was purchased in West Virginia on what he called an annual trip back east. He would clean up and restore the gear before selling it at various flea markets in my little corner of the DFW Metromess. No doubt that he makes back the money spent on the trip and a little more to boot. Nice to have some extra money to spend here and there.

Enough fish.

There is one other piece of trivia I’ve encountered, having to do with excess money. A gentleman by the name of Godfrey Hounsfield had an idea on how to take multiple X-Ray photographs of the human body as a diagnostic tool. He took his idea to a British company that had a surplus of money thanks to a successful deal with a “Guitar Band” of note. Hounsfield’s invention, the CAT scan, was introduced to the world in 1972 thanks to the people at EMI labs. Their surplus of money came from deals they had with The Beatles!

The woman usually at the reception desk at Texas Oncology (where I go to have CAT scans) is a Beatlemaniac. Somehow I think she is secretly pleased.

Enough rambling on a Saturday Afternoon.

Be Seeing You!

I have this Uncle…

I have this Uncle…

While poking and prodding around social media, I’ve been followed by the occasional Crypto pusher. They’re somewhat easy to spot – usually a young (under 40) female following a ton of people, yet, only a few followers. If one becomes a follower, there is a small period where there is a mundane conversation, followed by a suggestion to move to another platform (Telegraph and/or WhatsApp) where eventually the conversation winds around to how the young female is living the good life by trading in Cryptocurrency.

“It’s fun! It’s easy! It allows me to lead a life of luxury!”

Uh huh. So, what do you know about how to make money in the Cryptocurrency (racket) market?

“Well, I have this Uncle…”

Uncles reportedly know everything there is to know about life, the universe, and trading Crypto.

I have two uncles.

One worked practically all his life for an electrical utility, the other worked for an oil company and invested in electrical utilities. One of those Ying and Yang deals. Neither of them met the other but they both benefited from the other’s enterprise.

Now, I’m an uncle myself with four nieces and four nephews (I need a moment or two to count. Bear with me… yeah, I’m correct. Four of each). Not one of them has asked me for financial advice. I honestly don’t think I’d ask for financial advice from me either.

I’ve been known as an “Uncle” for a few people in Southern Ohio who listened to me on the radio back in the day. Some people still remember me – including a woman I met while I was working in a retail store in Texas. She remembered listening to me back when I was “Uncle Bruco” (think Harpo, Chico, and Groucho) between sporting events.

And no, she didn’t ask me for financial advice. That’s why we’re still friends.

There were other “Uncles” in my life – Like Uncle Donald and Uncle Jimmy. Both Godfathers. One of them worked for an electrical utility, the other, a dermatologist.

Great Uncles included a car dealer, an uncle who I believe was under the care of a psychiatrist, and Mosby. I never met Mosby, but my father told stories about Mosby. I’ve been known to use Mosby every once in a while when a story I’m telling needs a character to cover for another character.

I am not going to use Mosby as a source for financial advice. Besides, he’s been on the other side of the grass for many years.

I’m not going to use this (probably fictional) uncle quoted by the sirens trying to get me into investing in Crypto.

I have better sense than to do so.

My uncle told me.

Be Seeing You!

Roller Skates

Roller Skates

A few months back, the better half’s car bit the dust and had to be replaced. She really wanted an electric, but electric then (as now) is a bit out of our price range. What we got instead was a small, Korean-made Chevrolet Spark. I call it the “Roller Skate.” Now that we’ve had it a few months, I’m starting to like our Roller Skate. It’s zippy, eats very little gasoline, and darn it, the Roller Skate is fun to drive!

I had forgotten how fun driving a diminutive car can be. Two of my favorite cars were Roller Skates, too!

The first car I ever owned was a 1969 Austin America. I paid something like $350 for a slightly larger version of the Mini. It needed work, and as I worked for the MG/Austin dealership at the time, I ended up getting an education about how cars work – or how British cars of the era worked. British cars had a terrible reputation, especially for the electrical parts made by Lucas… nicknamed “The Prince of Darkness.” The only electrical problem I had during my time with what my father called “The Little Yellow Monster” was with the starter. It ate up starter drives. I finally broke down, bought a second starter, keeping it reserve so when one starter failed a replacement was readily available.

I could change starters in five minutes flat.

When the Austin ran, it ran quite well and was perfectly suited for the driving I was doing at the time. And she could corner. I scared the snot out of a college roommate by taking a 25 MPH curve at 50. Looking back, I was damn lucky neither one of us was killed during that maneuver.

The Austin eventually died, a cracked head which I almost fixed was the culprit. I sold it for $50 as a parts car to a mechanic I knew. Both of us were happy with the deal.

My second Roller Skate was a Renault 5, with little letters on the side declaring it to be a LeCar. The car was manufactured and sold before Renault and AMC hooked up in the mid-seventies. The dealer was glad to be rid of the car as it was sitting in his back lot for over a year. I traded a troublesome Mustang II and was happier than the proverbial Pig in Mud with my purchase.

On my way home from the dealer, I was side-tracked by a collection of Corvettes in a mall parking lot. They had set up a track, of sorts, with cones, and for $20 (Donated to Big Brothers/Big Sisters), you could run through the course with the best time of the day being awarded with a trophy. I had $20 and took my turn. Second-Best-Time-of-the-Day. There were more than several Corvette drivers with their jaws on the ground. My performance probably generated another $200 – $300 from drivers attempting to best the time of my Roller Skate.

“Froggy LeCar” as I called her was usually reliable and stayed with me for the better part of three years. I managed to load the car up with most of my belongings and drove it down to Houston where I had a job waiting for me in the Oil Patch. I was waylaid in Memphis when I had a problem with the car running. A tune-up was all it needed. Did another overnight in LaFayette Louisiana where I got a phone call in my hotel room from a strange woman wanting to invite herself over to see me. It was my first time being solicited by a prostitute, but I didn’t realize it until sometime the next day while crossing the Sabine River.

I eventually let “Froggy” go, as it had no Air Conditioning. If you’ve ever lived in Houston, you’d know that AC is mandatory. I almost regret letting the car go. It was zippy and easy on gas.

Just like the better half’s Spark.

My little Jeep is larger and can carry more. Willy (Willy the Jeep – for somewhat obvious reasons) has been my favorite for most of seven years, but the Spark… well… there’s a part of me that wants to commandeer the Spark and call it my own.

For old time’s sake.

Be Seeing You!

Seventh Grade

Seventh Grade

A question posed the other day on Facebook asked why square dancing was included in physical education classes. The question was, more specifically, about why fourth graders were square dancing in physical education classes. My answer was based on having had square dancing taught when I was in the seventh grade. The classes went a long way towards teaching basic social skills to boys and girls undergoing the changes brought about by puberty. At least that’s the way I look at it over my shoulder. It was useful in that it was one of the first times us seventh-grade boys came to the realization that girls didn’t have or pass along the dreaded “cooties!”

That being said, there is nothing filthier than the mind of a seventh-grade boy.

Seventh-grade is about the time when certain changes start happening in our bodies. Formerly flat-chested girls start to develop breasts, something noted by seventh-grade boys. Seventh-grade girls are well aware of the reactions of seventh-grade boys and some of the, shall we say, less gifted of the girls attempted to “pad their resumes.” There were several instances of boys telling other boys about seeing bits of tissue peeking out of the shirts of certain girls. Those certain girls usually were friends with other girls who developed at a faster rate. They just wanted to keep up.

I found that the girls worth talking to were unconcerned about what other girls thought. Flat-chested or quickly developing, it didn’t matter to me. Much. I was surprised when a girl I met up with at a seventh-grade mixer showed up in a dress which hinted at her bosom not being augmented by tissue. Of course, I was asked about it by one or two of the other boys, but I said nothing. She had become too good a friend to betray her trust.

Many of the other boys were dealing with issues of their own, including nocturnal emissions and communal showers after gym class where they were noticing that they had hair “in places where they didn’t have hair before.” There were gross jokes about parts of the anatomy between the shoulders and the knees of both genders, as well as size comparisons not usually mentioned in polite company.

It was square dancing which became the equalizer. The division between the girls’ side and the boys’ side of the gym was gone. Had something to do with basketball. And the entire gym became a dance floor. We’d pair up, form squares, and learned the basics, all while learning valuable social skills and generally having a good time. For once, some of the filthy minds of the seventh-grade boys were tempered by having to interact with seventh-grade girls with (undoubtably) similar mind sets.

I put aside square dancing for a couple of decades, coming back to it when the first spouse suggested we take square dancing lessons. We had fun for a while, enjoying the company of other dancers who would burn off calories, only to get them back by stopping at the Big Boy on the way back home.

It has been a couple of decades since. The current spouse and I have said something about getting back into square dancing, but the discussion was short. Nothing against it – we’re not sure if we want to invest the time at this point in our lives.

And about seventh-grade boys… well, there’s a saying out there about the difference between men and bonds: “Bonds mature.” Not all men are immature as seventh-grade boys. I’d like to think I’ve matured. However, there is still a part of me which harkens back to the day!

(Notice the evil grin at the top of the page!)

Be Seeing You!

Crypto Through the Tulips

Crypto Through the Tulips

Yeah. I know. It’s a terrible pun. But bear with me.

Over the past year or so, I’ve had the occasional contact with women with *ahem* obvious assets who, when questioned, say something about dealing in cryptocurrency. Just the other day, a woman tried to get me into a conversation about Crypto. Funny how the conversation came to an abrupt halt when I said no. No Crypto. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nyet! Considering last year’s dramatic drop in the value (?) of Crypto, I wonder about the wisdom of even considering it as an investment, being somewhere between a Ponzi scheme and outright robbery. This latest exchange brought to mind “Tulipmania” as happened in Holland at the first part of the seventeenth century.

To recap: Between 1634 and February 3, 1637, someone had the bright idea that Tulips had value beyond just a couple of stray Guilders hanging around the windmill. The value of Tulips skyrocketed toward the end of the year 1636 and February 1637. On February third, the value of Tulips dropped like a rock, eventually hitting pre-Tulipmania levels in a few short weeks.

Although I can’t put a date on it, the same thing happened to Crypto sometime last year. It was floating high, then all of a sudden, the value dropped like a rock. Recent attempts to interest me in Crypto are likely from people who may have been burned.

I told the latest person who attempted to get me interested that whatever she did with crypto was her choice – I wasn’t going to discourage her. (Well, this may be construed as discouragement to her and others, but since I suspect that I won’t be hearing from her again, I’m not losing any sleep.)

Crypto is not the first time nor is it the last time I’ve brushed up against a shady investment. I mentioned the term “Ponzi Scheme.” Other variations are referred to as “Pyramid Schemes” or the more sophisticated (and somewhat more legitimate) “Multi-Level Marketing.”

I recall being out shooting pictures for my high school yearbook when I was approached by someone not much older than I was driving a top-of-the-line Cadillac. There was a short pitch, followed by an invitation to a presentation held at the local YMCA the next evening. I was one of a room filled with people who were invited to participate in something called “Dare To Be Great!” Someone named Glen Turner had been selling cosmetics to a large degree of success. We were invited to take his course, “Dare To Be Great” so that we could sell others on the course to be able to sell others on the course ad-infinitum. It only cost $400 (this was 50 years ago) I didn’t have, and I saw little or no reason to even find the money to invest. Mr. Tolliver (the person who invited me to the course) was disappointed, I’m sure. I wondered for a while how long he was going to be able to afford his Cadillac.

There were several points in time where I encountered Amway. One was when I answered an ad and was invited to a house in an eastern suburb of Columbus Ohio where I was pitched by a man whose wife was running a daycare business with boxes of soap and evidence of several other MLM deals the couple had going. One thing I will say – Amway had some decent products. For some time I was a regular purchaser of their laundry detergent – at first from my then, Father-in-Law, and later from a friend I used to work with. Neither made a career of the business but managed to make a few bucks on the side.

Most of us are looking for ways of making a few bucks on the side.

A woman I know in Japan is out-earning her day job by a side hustle involving something called “Bey Blades.” There’s a site where another woman I am acquainted with bares her body for “tips” on a site called “Only Fans.” Another former co-worker drives an Uber (or is that Lyft) part-time. Or there was the operator of a local pizza buffet who maintained a room full of machines vending cheap trinkets and gumballs in his son’s name. For that matter, I can monetize my little blurbs on this site for tips, or coffee, or to sell my books.

But not now.

Spring is around the corner and the better half is making noises about planting tulips.

Be Seeing You!

Smells Like

Smells Like

I totally hate the smell of cooked or cooking cabbage.

Hate it.

It all goes back to the time I was in the fourth grade. I went with my mother to the eye doctor to be examined for glasses. As part of the examination, he dropped a chemical in my eyes to dilate my pupils. The after-effect (and it still applies today) was that I became slightly nauseous and particularly sensitive to smells. My mother decided that it was the perfect night to introduce the family to something called “Cabbage Rolls.” I couldn’t stand the smell and gave them a pass.

To this day, the smell of cooked cabbage kills any appetite I may have.

My reaction to cooked cabbage became even more pronounced when we moved to a town with a paper mill. There were mornings walking to school when the smell was so bad that it was all I could smell for the rest of the day. The town and the paper mill were famous for creating a stink, leading some to call our burg the armpit of the Midwest. The TV weathermen in Columbus would regularly point out any stink coming from our paper mill whenever the wind was coming out of the south. They ignored the box plant between us and them which was much more aromatic. It kept everybody happy! (There might be a few people who will see what I just did.)

My better half is well aware of my aversion to cooked cabbage. When we went to the warehouse store the other week, she saw and wanted to try Kimchi. I know about Kimchi. It’s a Korean concoction made of fermented cabbage. Not cooked. She got a bottle of Kimchi and has enjoyed every bite she’s had so far. As for me, well, I know it’s not cooked cabbage, but somehow I just can’t handle the idea. Next week I might try it. And the Hindenburg will successfully fly into DFW after crossing the Atlantic.

There are all sorts of smells which are, shall we say, easily identifiable. Like Marijuana. (“I don’t smell anything, and you don’t either!” – Willie Nelson) Cigar smoke or the residual smoke from cigarettes. Or wet dog. Very few people don’t know what wet dog smells like.

The smell of wet dog doesn’t seem to bother the dog. Perhaps that’s because the dog is too busy smelling just about anything coming within a few feet from their noses – apparently even other dogs downwind of them. When I take the dog Filbrix out on one of her several daily walks, there are a few places where I can just count on being barked at by dogs behind six-foot privacy fences. I get in on the smelling when I am out with the dog. For instance, I can pretty much tell when someone in the neighborhood is doing laundry by the smell of dryer sheets vented outside the house. Pinion is another smell, as is barbecue, or wood burning in a fireplace, diesel fumes from passing trucks, and one other which I couldn’t quite place until another someone pointed out the source.

There’s a landfill a few miles north of us and fumes from the landfill seem to envelope our little corner of the DFW Metromess whenever the wind blows from the north. It’s not cooked cabbage by any means. But it’s getting close to being the second most annoying smell I’ve encountered.

As Simpson’s character Nelson Muntz would say, “Smell you later!”

Be Seeing You!

{For those not familiar with vaudeville entertainer Ted Lewis, his catch phrase was “Is everybody happy?” Ted Lewis is celebrated as Circleville Ohio’s native son. There was a cardboard box plant in Circleville at one point in time. Nowadays, they host a toilet paper plant.}

Ants at a Picnic

Ants at a Picnic

There’s an adage here in the Lone Star State – “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. It will be different.”

Last Thursday evening, we went from some pretty nice weather to really crappy in no time flat. Just after supper, the tornado sirens went off, announcing the arrival of a severe thunderstorm with rain and high winds. Things started blowing around and the next thing we knew, we were in an interior closet with the dog Filbrix listening to a whole bunch of clattering and thumping – wondering if we were to lose power or our lives to what was going on outside.

The dog Filbrix insisted that she bring one of her tennis balls into the closet so we could toss it to her.

When the wind died down, we took a peek as best we could in our back yard, to find a major portion of our roof scattered about. When we got out on Saturday morning, we found that, indeed, large chunks of the roofing on the west side of our house had made it into the back and side yards. For the most part, it was just the shingles (as you can see in the photo above). The other half went to work, and I was left to take care of the mess as best I could.

Now, here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess (well, not just this corner, but in every corner), disasters are followed by contractors looking for work. Can’t say as I blame them. They swarmed our neighborhood like ants at a picnic from Friday morning and into Monday afternoon (while I was writing this). There were tarps going up almost as fast as they could be gotten from the home improvement stores with salesmen running about like kids in a candy store, trying to lock repair contracts as quickly as they could be written. I had a conversation with a fellow on a neighbor’s roof while I was in the back yard attempting to clean up the mess left by Mother Nature. He came to our door an hour later with a pen and a contract in hand, wanting me to commit then and there to having him take care of the damage done on my roof.

I told him that I already had a commitment with another contractor. No worries… but if you are unhappy with your contractor, here’s my card, give me a call.

Walking the dog Filbrix Friday evening, I was asked the same question about my roof, and did I need a contractor at least half a dozen times. Not surprising. I had a similar experience a few years back when I stopped at a fast-food restaurant with my son in an area where a storm hit a few days earlier. We were approached several times by contractors asking about our roof. While we were eating.

Ants at a picnic.

The fellow I talked to came by on Saturday morning to put up a tarp in anticipation of rain, possibly on Tuesday. He lightened my wallet by the better part of $500 for labor and materials – and the salespeople kept on a coming.

Sunday morning, the roofers were out at least at 7am and were out and about after noon. Sunday afternoon, we learned that the city was going to have a dumpster ready for people to come by to dump debris. The better half and I gathered what we had, loaded into the Jeep, and were the first to take advantage of the dumpster.

Tuesday morning I will be here with the contractor and the insurance adjuster to see what the damage to my wallet will be. It ain’t going to be pretty.

At this point, all I can say is that it could be worse. Crews could be rooting around the remains of the house looking for corpses. Other than a few aches and pains, we are intact and will be getting at least a portion of a new roof.

A couple of other notes.

The solar panels we have on the south side of the house were untouched. And our neighbor had the best comment about the whole ordeal – quipping that we were likely getting the indoor swimming pool we always wanted. It took me a while to realize what he meant. Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

Will update, maybe, later.

Be Seeing You!

All Roads Lead to a Detour

All Roads Lead to a Detour

We’ve hit a bit of a challenge lately going from place to place here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess. Seems that the most efficient ways of getting from point A to point B are unavailable at this time. The better half and I found out the other day on our way home from running errands in nearby McKinney.

The big errand was to head to Costco. Usually, we parallel the big road to the north, making a nice little drive which puts us in Costco’s parking lot without having to be on the big road. Unfortunately, the city fathers in McKinney decided to upgrade one of the roads we usually take – putting the road out of commission at least until February 10th. With the ice storm last week, it might be a safe bet to say the road will be closed well past the stated deadline. We managed the big road as best we could and made it to Costco safe and relatively sound.

Our second stop was a few miles to the south and east. We figured we would make good time by taking the southern parallel to the big road. All went well until we encountered the flagman. No one behind us and we were close to catching up to a line of traffic headed in our direction, but we were the ones stuck waiting for the better part of five minutes waiting for traffic coming from the other direction. Other than that, it was clear sailing until another detour took us on a barely improved country road leading in an almost direct line to the house.

Later, we headed into town to hit the gym. The two most direct routes to the gym were again, under construction. We had to use a detour. We took the long detour this time as the shorter detour took us on a short stretch of dirt road (inside city limits) which, at last look had one of those speed monitor signs reminding us of the speed limit and telling us what our actual speed was at the moment.

Our city has numerous detours which lead the casual visitor to believe that you can’t get there from here.

When you get right down to it, the situation with the roads here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess is a lot like life. We have all sorts of little detours we take while we travel the road ahead of us. Some are minor annoyances, others, major problems which require patience and understanding. Sometimes detours take us places we never thought of going in the first place – the roads less traveled mentioned by the poet Frost. We never get to go directly to where we want to go. And that’s okay. Sometimes the detour is a whole lot more fun.

Be Seeing You!

Snow Day!

Snow Day!

We here in my little corner of the DFW Metromess are having a snow day. Some sort of winter storm has descended on our little burg, closing schools, governments, and businesses so that we can sit at home (hopefully not in the dark) and not be out freezing our little keisters and/or being terribly inconvenienced by the freezing weather.

We’re taking advantage of it. Sort of.

The better half’s boss messaged us early this morning to say that she didn’t think that it was worth the risk to drive the five or so miles to work. We concurred. The only problem is that the better half can’t work from home – meaning that she will miss a few hours’ worth of salary because of the weather. A minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. It does give her a chance to work on renewing her nursing license – something she has been working towards on her last couple of days off.

Those of us in our household who are semi-retired or the dog Filbrix have anticipated the coming storm and have prepared for the onslaught. We have plenty of bread, plenty of toilet paper and plenty of milk, so I imagine that we will weather this storm. There’s no need to go out except for potty breaks for the dog Filbrix. So far, she has been inactive, negating the need for any such breaks. When it’s time, I suppose I’ll get into some appropriate outdoor clothing and go out with her to keep her company while she does her business. Maybe I can convince the better half to take out the dog – she’s already sitting and studying in her sweats, while I’m in naught but my bathrobe.

Yesterday, I prepared soup. Five quarts of soup. It required a trip to Wally World, and wouldn’t you know it, once I got the missing ingredients for my concoction, I found that I had to stand in line to be able to stand in line for the checkout. Wally World can be a busy place when there’s bad weather anticipated. But I made it home. And I made Chicken Corn Chowder – enough for both humans and enough to put in jars for later consumption.

Mmmmm! Tasty!

Now, let’s be mindful of a thing or two. Here in the DFW Metromess, just a little bit of snow and ice are enough to bring most outdoor activity to a standstill.

That’s most.

We’re not one of those snowbelt states which gets whalloped every winter with winter weather. I have friends in Cleveland, Erie, and Buffalo who would look at what we get here and shake their heads, wondering why we make such a fuss about just a tiny bit of snow. They’ll post pictures on the usual social media pages of them out shoveling several feet of snow out of their driveways to get to work to reenforce the Puritan work ethic ingrained in them from an early age. As for us here in this part of the Lone Star State, well, an inch or two spells catastrophe.

When things are at a standstill, though, there are some advantages. But for the occasional cycling of the furnace and the noise I make running my fingers over the keyboard of the laptop, it’s mostly quiet. No traffic noise. Nothing. Yes, there’s the occasional bark of a neighbor’s dog wanting to be let in after doing their business, but other than that, not much of anything. (While writing that last sentence, I caught the noise of the neighborhood kids going outside to experience the weather – and the dog Filbrix is whining – a sign that it’s time for her to go outside to relieve herself. So much for quiet.)

******

It’s now Wednesday. I gave up writing this entry to my blog when I got dressed to take the dog Filbrix out to relieve herself. At 4:00, nothing has really changed. More precipitation – this time, freezing rain. No school, no other activities, just like yesterday and just like tomorrow.

I had a bit of a panic Tuesday afternoon. I had to set up an appointment to renew my driver’s license at the DPS (Department of Public Safety. After being in a panic most of Tuesday afternoon, I finally went to the web site to find out that my appointment is NEXT Wednesday – Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel. This afternoon I wondered about my EFM class. I found out that it, too will be put off until next week.

So, we are in for another day of having to twiddle our thumbs and toes while the weather decides to ease off and give us a break. In the meantime, we have enough bread, milk and toilet paper to see us through a while longer. Just me, the better half, and the dog Filbrix waiting out the inconveniences brought about by the latest invasion of cold weather from the north.

Be Seeing You!