Chevy vs Ford

Back in the 60's you were either a Chevy or Ford guy.  Facts didn't matter, you were either on one side of the other.  There was always discussions on which car was the fastest.

 
Some time during the early 60's, the two guys  with the fastest cars decided to answer the question.  It was an impromptu race.  Three or four of my buddies were at the local Pig Stand drive in drinking shakes and eating fries when the word begin to spread.

Interstate 10 west of Beaumont was not completed.  Concrete had been poured on the west bound lane but not open to traffic.  The race was to take place on the unopened lanes .  It was dark and 100s of people showed up and were lining the side of the road.  This was before cell phones, twitter, even pagers, but, nevertheless the word spread.  We road to the spot supposed to be the finish line and all got out to watch.  As we gathered near what was to be the finish line, a vehicle with lights on came through.  It was an old pick up and kept on going.  Then the Ford took off and as it raced across the finish line with the driver hollering.  "COPS"!!  Everyone scrambled for their vehicles to make an escape.  I had drifted away from my friends and by the time I got to where we had parked, they were gone.

It appeared that the pick up was a local constable that went to the other end of the concrete and set up a road block.  I jumped into the first car available and it was one of my other classmates, Richard Cook.  Richard knew a back way out  and we took a dirt road and got out.  We went back to the Pig Stand to await the arrival of my "Friends" (two are shown above).  In a couple of hours they all showed up.  They weren't as lucky and were stopped by the cops and charged with "unlawful assembly".  I think it cost them about $50 each.  Still don't know which car was the fastest.  All I know is that on that day, "Cookie" was my hero

The Junior/Senior Prom

I was twelve years old and in the sixth grade.  My Mother asked me if I wanted to take dancing lessons with other members in my class.  Many of my friends were going to sign up along with some "girls".  Apparently, some adults had figured that we needed to learn some social skills and have some exposure to the arts.  Well, I didn't like girls.  They couldn't play baseball.  They couldn't hit or catch or throw.  I was probably a little intimidated by the fact that I might not be any good at dancing. 

In all my trips to Lamar Theater on Saturdays, I had never seen Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, John Wayne or Captain Video dancing with a girl.  Nor was there any evidence that Duke Snider, Roy Campanella or Mickey Mantle knew how to dance.  So, how important could this skill be?  After repeatedly refusing my Mother's requests, she gave up on me.  So while Joel Wrotan, Bobby Katz and others went to dance class, I stayed home and played with my baseball cards.

In my mid teens girls took a whole new perspective.  All at once it didn't matter if they "threw like girls".  All of a sudden I woke up and found out I was on the bench.  My reputation as a "non-dancer" spread.  The only thing that saved me was the fact that I had my drivers license at the age of 14.  Otherwise, I would have been a total social outcast.

I was about 16 and had been dating a girl from another town.  She knew my limited dancing skills and invited me to her prom anyway.  By that time I had matured and was able to swallow my pride. I decided it was time to learn to dance.  For my dance instructor I selected my next door neighbor.

Barbara Alexander was the pretty young girl that lived next door.  There are lots of country songs written about these girls.  The little girl you used to pick on.  Freckled faced kid getting in the way. The one that wanted to tag along.  Then one day they grew up to be beautiful women.  Well in the Winter/Spring of 1961 Barbara was somewhere in the middle of the above mentioned metamorphosis when I approached her about teaching me to dance.  She agreed. (Her Mother probably made her).

Everyday after school and whatever sports practice was in season.  I would go to Barbara's house  and we would practice dancing in her living room.  Since I was rhymatically retarded we focused on the slow dance.  With "The Platters" in the background, I painfully learned "the box step"  This showed promise because I could count to four or eight.  I just had trouble counting to the beat.  With the Prom rapidly approaching, I continued to work on the box step.  Barbara was a great motivator and had me convinced  I could dance.  But, I was soon to find out that I was "The Great Pretender".

The big night came.  I picked up my date in my semi clean 1957 Plymouth.  After exchanging pleasantries with people I didn't know, the band started playing.  My date knew I was not a dancer. Nor, did she know about my secret dance lessons with my next door neighbor.  She was shocked when I asked her to dance.  With my confidence booming, I led her to the dance floor.  It was almost immediately I found out that she didn't know the "box step".   All my hard work and Barbara's patience came cascading down in a few short seconds or bars,notes,beats or whatever.

Years later I would marry a dancer and eventually got where I could survive on the dance floor.  I even had to dance the waltz with my daughter at some social coming out thing. 

As for Barbara, my dance teacher, she turned into a lovely swan and married one of my friends. Every time I hear an old Platters song, I remember dancing in the Alexander living room.  It was one of the first times I can ever remember asking someone for help.  A lesson that has served me well.  Barbara, this dance is for you.

Climate Change along Pine Island Bayou

I guess it just depends on what you are used to.  Along the bayou we can take a direct hit from a category III hurricane, recover from a 500 year flood or endure the hottest, humid days you can imagine.  But, when the temperature drops below freezing, it is another story.  

While Chicago is digging out from 10 feet of snow and people on the East Coast are driving to work behind the snow plow, we are shut down by a freezing rain and Artic temperatures dropping to 30.  Heck, it didn't even snow!

Schools are closed.  Businesses shut down.  Bridges and overpasses are icing over, making driving treacherous.  Our transportation department is limited in its ability to clear the roads.  One of the road crews is shown below as it prepares to spread salt.

Something ain't right!  It's not suppose to get cold along the Bayou.  Al Gore, look what you have gone and done.

Now That's Funny. I Don't Care Who You Are

"Humor is a bad experience plus time"  I believe Will Rogers once said this or at least Buddy Greig gave him credit when he related the quote to me.  I have found this to be true in most all embarrassing situations I have experienced during my life.  Being somewhat left brain I tend to use a lot of graphs and formulas to help me understand things.  Accepting Roger's hypothesis as the truth, then:

H = E + T

                                                                                                                                                           where H = Humor, E = Bad Experience and T = The time it takes to get over the embarrassing event.

Sometimes the "T" is only minutes and sometimes days or years.  But, eventually you can look back on something and laugh about it.

In my personal experiences, I can vouch for this being true.  My first application of Roger's Theory occurred in Ms. Vitterbo's second grade class at South Park Elementary School on Highland Ave.

I was an innocent kid who did not know that flatulence was not socially acceptable in public. After letting one "rip", Ms. V hollered, "JAMES HUGH".  I learned two things right there, 1) Farting should be left to the playground and 2) I preferred being called Jimmy.  The other variable in the formula also came into play, while my T  was for a duration of many years,  The T for the rest of the students in the class was only a few seconds.

Once while fiddling with a foam ear plug, I somehow unconsciously put it in my nose.  Realizing what I had done, my actions resulted in pushing it further in.  As panic struck I was confronted with the possibility of going to Medical to have it removed.  This would not have been a good idea as my good friend, Dr. Webb would not have maintained "the patient/client privilege" when it came to an event such as this.  Gaining control of the situation, I decided to check it out in the rest room mirror.  On the way, I got the brilliant idea of closing one nostril and blowing.  It worked.  It shot out like a cannonball.  Being confronted in the hall by Arlene, the secretary, I admitted what I had done.  My T was about one year, hers was only seconds.

I once dropped a touchdown pass in the end zone in high school.  I am expecting my T to be up at the 50th year reunion.

At my retirement party, My Mother even told stories on me.  My Mother for God's sake!!. 

Conversely thinking, my T was only seconds when my lifetime friend, George, tripped in the middle of the road chasing a foul ball.  It still wasn't funny to him the next day when he arrived at the park to find that we had found a piece of chalk and made a body outline on the road where he had "bit the dirt".

All of this said brings me to the inspiration for this blog.  While eating lunch in a local deli a couple of days ago a potential humor event happened to a young woman.  I was sitting at a table in the back, near the restrooms when this young lady dressed in a professional looking pant suit briskly walked by.  As she passed I noticed that she had a piece of toilet paper hanging from the top of her pants to the floor.  I mean it had to be five feet long.  She was walking so quickly that no one could get over their "gasp" quick enough to say anything.  When she got to the front and had to stop for the door someone evidently told her and she frantically removed the paper and quickly exited.  The entire restaurant started chuckling at the same time. 

I have been wondering what is the duration of that young lady's T. 

Shift Work in Tennessee

Unless you have worked in a 24 hr shift operations that requires overtime to keep the work flowing, you may not understand this.  But, before I can tell the story, I must explain a few things.

Most operations keep up with the actual overtime hours a person works and the first one on the list is the one with the fewest hours. Then the next lowest, etc.  Each time they work those hours are added and they go back in order.

This was not the  case in the textile fiber operation I worked in the late 60s.  Although similar in principle, our system just charged opportunities not hours.  If you needed a person to fill a crew, you got the overtime list and went to the man with the lowest opportunities and contacted him.  If he worked he was marked with a "W", refused a "R" or was unavailable for any reason he was given an "O".  Each carried the same weight.  So the list for each particular group would have eligible employees listed with a series of Ws, Rs or Os by their name.

Fibers operations required a lot of manpower and the particular area in this ante dote had about 70 people on each shift.  Each shift had three first line supervisors and a second line supervisor.  In this event, Shorty Sizemore was the first line and Tom Bernard the second line.

It was about 4 in the morning when Shorty came up to the office with the Overtime Board. When Tom questioned him, Shorty said someone had gone home sick and he need to get someone from the day shift to come in early and finish up the "hoot owl" shift.

The first person on the list was Hiram.  Shorty dialed the number and when he asked to speak to Hiram, he began stuttering and apologizing and hung up the phone.  Hiram, a process operator in his 40s, had worked days the previous day.  After going home he had a heart attack and died instantly.
When Tom asked Shorty what was the matter, Shorty explained Hiram's recent passing.  Tom, pushed his glasses up his nose, asked Shorty,  "Well, are you going to give him and "O" or a "R".

One Man's Junk is Another Man's Treasure

I look forward to junk mail.  Yep, you heard it right.  Before, most of it went straight to the trash.   I got to analyzing what I was getting in the mail.  Most of it was credit card applications. I have been a member of American Express since 1984 and don't need another creditor.  While discussing this problem with my friend, Jay O'Neal, he suggested how to handle this issue.  If the junk contains a prepaid, self addressed envelope, he simply mails the empty envelope back.

I thought about that and since I am a retiree with a part time job, I certainly have time to open all of this junk mail.  Now, I have added to my morning coffee, paper and Suduko the task of handling the junk mail from the day before.  I usually write them a nice little note, thanking them for their interest and put it in the mail. 

In so doing  I am providing the US Postal service revenue and more job security for the postal workers as well as the clerks that have to process the envelopes at their final destination.  Since most are mailed to destinations in the US (Today's batch was returned to DE, NY and UT), I am boosting the US economy.
Unless, of course, they are just loaded on a boat and shipped to Mumbai.  But,  I am a "glass half-full" guy!

By the way, have you ever noticed the interest rates on some of those credit cards? 



I'm talking baseball....Mickey and the Duke...

Back to the Day Care Centerat "The Backstop.

In addition to playing sandlot baseball every day of the summer, The Boys of Highland Avenue also collected baseball cards.  Yep, these are the same cards that our Mothers threw away when they cleaned the attic/closet, etc when we went off to school.   The same ones we attached to our bicycles to make noise.  The same ones that would be worth a lot of money today if we would have kept them.

In the 50's baseball cards could be bought for a penny and each one included a piece of bubble gum.

With a nickle you could get five cards and five pieces of pink bubble gum.  Today cards cost a lot more and there is no gum.  The bubble gum was not of good bubble blowing quality and after getting the taste from it you would normally throw it away.  In the hot, humid Texas summers it could make a big mess on your shoes if it didn't hit the trash can.  Not everyone threw their gum away.  My little brother had begun a collection with his purchases. Somehow, he had managed to chew 25 or 50 pieces of gum into one large ball.  He kept it in the refrigerator at home and on game day he would retrieve it and put it in his mouth.  It gave the appearance he had a wad of tobacco much like Nellie Fox.

On one of those hot days my brother, Chub, and his bubble gum "wad" were at the back stop for our daily game.  Since he was about three years younger than the rest of us and could catch the ball, he got to play first base.  The game progressed with Chub on my team and George Fortune on the other.  George batted left handed.  When he came to bat, the outfielders (2) moved to center and right as left field was now out of play for him.   Chub was day dreaming when George hit a screaming line drive down the base line.  The ball caught Chub above the left eye.  He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.  With blood gushing from the wound over his eye, he looked up and said,  "Where's My Gum".    Bobby Kinnear retrieved the "wad" and when Chub got home from the doctor with about ten stitches in his head, the "wad" was waiting for him in the refrigerator. 

If we had a museum at "The Backstop", the gum would be on display