Medicare Premium Increase Ahead
]
I opened up an email the other day that made my eyes pop wide open. Among other information, it detailed the increases in Medicare premiums for the next few years per person, courtesy the Obama Healthcare program now in effect. Read on. Your eyes will bug out too.
2011 96.40
2012 104.20
2013 120.20
2014 247.00
The message went on to explain that the increases were deliberately delayed so as not to affect the outcome of the 2012 Re-Election Campaign of the president, an explanation that any voter who wasn’t blind could see during the rush to push the health bill through a couple years back.
Now while I’m fairly naïve about some things, politics ain’t one of them. I’m as spooky about political moves as an old maid schoolteacher standing in the middle of a saloon.
So, I decided to find out the truth about the increases.
I did what we all need to do this election (all elections really). I looked up the truth myself.
On page 234 of the 2010 Annual Medicare Trustee Report, https://www.cms.gov/ReportsTrustFunds/downloads/tr2010.pdf, I found the following figures.
2011 120.10
2012 113.80
2013 117.20
2014 123.10
2015 128.10
And premiums continue to increase until 2019 when they will be $160.10. Look it up for yourself.
Now the report said something else that made my blood run cold. ‘These figures are just estimates that can change at any time depending on legislation.”
“Goody,” say all the Pollyannas in Lalaville. “That means premiums might go down.”
“Humbug,” growls the Scrooges. “We know better. The government never cuts taxes.”
I don’t know about you, but $160 bucks in a big increase for me. As things stand now, that will be a 57% increase, and you can bet my fixed income won’t go up that much. How about yours?
Now, I agree, $160 isn’t as much as $247., but the way things are now in Washington, just how long do you think it will take the government to go from 2019’s $160 to $247?
Now, I want you to stop and think about something. Obama jammed this healthcare through without ninety-nine percent of the Senate and House members having read it or having been briefed by their aides as is usually the case.
That’s how he plays the game of politics. Case in point. Remember sometime back when the two houses were deadlocked over extending the debt ceiling?
Remember Obama’s threat that perhaps Social Security retirees, Military retirees, Social Securty Disability recepients; and Federal retirees might not be paid?
He was trying to scare us, a common rought and tumble Chicago-Style political move.
A friend of mine pointed out just whom he did not threaten.
He did not threaten to stop payments to illegal aliens.
He did not threaten to stop internet access or the Disney channel for violent criminals.
He did not threaten to fire some of the thousands of unnecessary federal employess he’d hired.
He did not threaten to cut senators’ or representatives’ or their staffs’ salaries.
He did not try to stop his wife’s frivilous jaunts around the world.
He made no threat to stop welfare benefits, nor food stamp programs, nor foreign aid, nor anything involving his base voters.
Two months ago, pundits suddenly recognized that the president was in a full political re-election mode, and the at this very moment, propaganda spewing out of the White House is rewriting the history of the past three years.
(1984 hit it right on the nose, george)
And even as I write this, he is asking for more power so he can unilaterally make major decisions that could change the face of our country.
That’s the job of Congress, not a single individual who wants nothing more than to take hard-earned money from a working man’s pocket and give it to fourth generation welfare creeps.
And it isn’t just average schmucks like me, but now some of the misguided media are seeing what not enough of us saw three years ago.
Alan Caruba posted a very perceptive article concerning the president and the job he’s doing on the Wall Street Reader Comment Forum under the name of Eddie Sessions.
“I have this theory about Barack Obama. I think he's led a kind of make-believe life in which money was provided and doors were opened because at some point early on somebody or some group (George Soros anybody?) took a look at this tall, good looking, half-white, half-black, young man with an exotic African/Muslim name and concluded he could be guided toward a life in politics where his speaking skills could even put him in the White House.”
Caruba went on to point how Obama’s lack of political experience. “All those ‘gilded years’ leading up to the White House have left him unprepared to be President. Left to his own instincts, he has a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It swiftly,” continued Caruba, “Became a joke that he could not deliver even the briefest of statements without the ever-present tele-prompters.”
“Far worse,” wrote Caruba, “Is his capacity to want to ‘wish away’ some terrible realities, not the least of which is the Islamist intention to destroy America and enslave the west. Any student of history knows how swiftly Islam initially spread. Having gained a foothold in Spain, it began knocking on the door of Europe.”
With probably one of the most important elections in our history less than a year away, we must keep ourselves informed. Everywhere you’ll look, misleading garbage and outright lies will be flung in your face by both parties.
Take nothing at face value.
I don’t know which is worse, a president trying to turn our country into a socialistic one or an ignorant voter.
I think it is the latter. That’s how we got the former.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Voter Ignorance
If you’re like me, an ex-English teacher from the Neanderthal days when kids learned not only literature, but the dreaded grammar, then you’ll understand when I say I am bombarded daily by evidence of a growing lack of basic and practical knowledge of those around me.
Now, I said basic and practical, not technological. How well I know that twenty- and thirty-somethings on down can make an Ipad dance, a Smart Phone sing, and a Nook howl at the moon, but many are still lacking in various fundamentals. Me, I congratulate myself for being able to turn one on.
How many times have you heard about the dumb cluck behind the cash register that is stumped when a customer gives him and ten-dollar bill and eleven cents to pay for a snack that costs four eleven?
What really bothers me is that a certain percentage of these individuals actually go to the polls and elect others to lead our cities, state, and country. Maybe I’m way off base, but we’d better off if they’d just stay behind the cash register.
I take that back. We don’t need them where the money is. Brooms and mops are their forte.
Think I’m joking? In 2008, the city council of Chico, California issued a ban on setting off nuclear bombs in town. Anyone convicted of it would be fined $500.00.
Only idiot voters could elect idiot councilmen to make an idiot decision like that.
What prompted this harangue of mine was when I inquired of various veterinarians in regard to spaying a stray cat that has adopted us. Truth is, if it were left up to me, I wouldn’t spay her. I’d take her over to my brother-in-law Jim’s neighborhood and drop her off.
But if I did that, my wife wouldn’t forgive me, so I’m stuck with spaying or neutering strays that come along.
But, back to the call to the vet. I called several. Since this was just a neighborhood feline, I wasn’t interested in anything except preventing more felines, the tiny ones if you know what I mean.
Of the seven (vets, not felines) I called for prices, upon my asking if they spayed cats, four of the receptionists responded with “is it a female?”
Whoa there, partner. I’d pay a bundle to see the expression on someone’s face when they tried to spay an old ragged-ear tom cat.
Over the years, I’ve grown used to such mindless responses. They’ve become both understandable and humorous just like the story that came from a company that supplies goods for missionaries. Now, according to the article, one particular church requires all of its missionaries to carry a ministerial certificate showing they are authorized representatives of the church.
So the supply salesman was stunned when a woman from the church stated that the one last item on her list of needs was a menstrual certificate.
When questioned, she explained that ‘one of their elders had lost his menstrual certificate and needed a new one’.
The salesman rolled with laughter for five minutes before he managed to stammer out “ma’am, I think you mean a ministerial certificate.”
That’s as laughable as the young couple asking for a fecal heart monitor and explaining that it was to be used to hear the baby while it was still in the womb.
What they wanted was a fetal heart monitor.
These are voters, folks. Just what kind of intelligent decision can they make at the polls? They might as well eeeny-meeny-miney-moe at the various buttons or levers.
On the other hand, perhaps it is unfair to be so critical of their decisions. We’ve all make questionable, even dubious judgment calls.
Like the director of the Charlton Public Library in Massachusetts who sent the police to collect overdue library books from a five-year-old girl.
Oh, they collected the books and left, leaving behind a five-year-old in tears.
According to her mother, sending the police was like pounding a ten-penny nail with a sledgehammer.
In all fairness to the police, the department felt uneasy about going to the home, but the library insisted. (like the idiots they are)
Most folks suppose individuals in positions of influence render wise decisions. Not so. Not at all. There was a judge in Louisville who believed the jury went too far in sentencing the defendant to 5005 years.
He would show them the right way, the humane way.
So what kind of Solomon-like decision did this wiser-than-thou jurist hand down? He lowered the sentence to 1001 years.
Wow! Now the guy can ask for parole in only 600 years.
One of my classmates on my old high school chat group sent me a story concerning a conceited judge proud of his unusual sentences.
Once when a teacher came before him, he made her write 500 times, “I will not speed through a red light.”
But then his sentencing fancies caught up with him when a sharp (real sharp) attorney defending an accused burglar stated, “My client merely inserted his arm into the window and removed a few articles. His arm is not himself, and I can’t see you punishing the whole individual for an offense committed by his limb.”
The smug judge agreed, and replied ‘Using your logic, I sentence his arm to one year in prison. He can accompany it or not, as he chooses.”
The judge leaned back and grinned, but the grin suddenly vanished when the defendant rose, smiled, rolled up his sleeve, and detached his artificial limb. He laid it on the bench and walked out.
Now, this country is a republic, which means everyone has a say in the way it is governed. That’s good on the one hand, but on the other, when those voters are not informed, not educated, or fail to think problems through, then we end up with what we have today, an administration intent on redistribution.
Vote however you wish, but do yourself and the rest of us a favor, and stay informed-or stay home.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
Now, I said basic and practical, not technological. How well I know that twenty- and thirty-somethings on down can make an Ipad dance, a Smart Phone sing, and a Nook howl at the moon, but many are still lacking in various fundamentals. Me, I congratulate myself for being able to turn one on.
How many times have you heard about the dumb cluck behind the cash register that is stumped when a customer gives him and ten-dollar bill and eleven cents to pay for a snack that costs four eleven?
What really bothers me is that a certain percentage of these individuals actually go to the polls and elect others to lead our cities, state, and country. Maybe I’m way off base, but we’d better off if they’d just stay behind the cash register.
I take that back. We don’t need them where the money is. Brooms and mops are their forte.
Think I’m joking? In 2008, the city council of Chico, California issued a ban on setting off nuclear bombs in town. Anyone convicted of it would be fined $500.00.
Only idiot voters could elect idiot councilmen to make an idiot decision like that.
What prompted this harangue of mine was when I inquired of various veterinarians in regard to spaying a stray cat that has adopted us. Truth is, if it were left up to me, I wouldn’t spay her. I’d take her over to my brother-in-law Jim’s neighborhood and drop her off.
But if I did that, my wife wouldn’t forgive me, so I’m stuck with spaying or neutering strays that come along.
But, back to the call to the vet. I called several. Since this was just a neighborhood feline, I wasn’t interested in anything except preventing more felines, the tiny ones if you know what I mean.
Of the seven (vets, not felines) I called for prices, upon my asking if they spayed cats, four of the receptionists responded with “is it a female?”
Whoa there, partner. I’d pay a bundle to see the expression on someone’s face when they tried to spay an old ragged-ear tom cat.
Over the years, I’ve grown used to such mindless responses. They’ve become both understandable and humorous just like the story that came from a company that supplies goods for missionaries. Now, according to the article, one particular church requires all of its missionaries to carry a ministerial certificate showing they are authorized representatives of the church.
So the supply salesman was stunned when a woman from the church stated that the one last item on her list of needs was a menstrual certificate.
When questioned, she explained that ‘one of their elders had lost his menstrual certificate and needed a new one’.
The salesman rolled with laughter for five minutes before he managed to stammer out “ma’am, I think you mean a ministerial certificate.”
That’s as laughable as the young couple asking for a fecal heart monitor and explaining that it was to be used to hear the baby while it was still in the womb.
What they wanted was a fetal heart monitor.
These are voters, folks. Just what kind of intelligent decision can they make at the polls? They might as well eeeny-meeny-miney-moe at the various buttons or levers.
On the other hand, perhaps it is unfair to be so critical of their decisions. We’ve all make questionable, even dubious judgment calls.
Like the director of the Charlton Public Library in Massachusetts who sent the police to collect overdue library books from a five-year-old girl.
Oh, they collected the books and left, leaving behind a five-year-old in tears.
According to her mother, sending the police was like pounding a ten-penny nail with a sledgehammer.
In all fairness to the police, the department felt uneasy about going to the home, but the library insisted. (like the idiots they are)
Most folks suppose individuals in positions of influence render wise decisions. Not so. Not at all. There was a judge in Louisville who believed the jury went too far in sentencing the defendant to 5005 years.
He would show them the right way, the humane way.
So what kind of Solomon-like decision did this wiser-than-thou jurist hand down? He lowered the sentence to 1001 years.
Wow! Now the guy can ask for parole in only 600 years.
One of my classmates on my old high school chat group sent me a story concerning a conceited judge proud of his unusual sentences.
Once when a teacher came before him, he made her write 500 times, “I will not speed through a red light.”
But then his sentencing fancies caught up with him when a sharp (real sharp) attorney defending an accused burglar stated, “My client merely inserted his arm into the window and removed a few articles. His arm is not himself, and I can’t see you punishing the whole individual for an offense committed by his limb.”
The smug judge agreed, and replied ‘Using your logic, I sentence his arm to one year in prison. He can accompany it or not, as he chooses.”
The judge leaned back and grinned, but the grin suddenly vanished when the defendant rose, smiled, rolled up his sleeve, and detached his artificial limb. He laid it on the bench and walked out.
Now, this country is a republic, which means everyone has a say in the way it is governed. That’s good on the one hand, but on the other, when those voters are not informed, not educated, or fail to think problems through, then we end up with what we have today, an administration intent on redistribution.
Vote however you wish, but do yourself and the rest of us a favor, and stay informed-or stay home.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
An Impossible Task?
A brand new year is ahead of us. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years are past, leaving everyone, I hope, with pleasant memories and hopeful anticipation of the coming year.
I always enjoy those six weeks or so, especially when I recollect holidays past.
Often, I find myself wishing I could stay in those memories, but to do so is like the ostrich sticking its head in the sand. When he finally pulls it out and looks around, he recognizes nothing.
Life, however pleasant or unpleasant, has left him behind.
You and me, folks—we’re grown up. We’re children no longer with doting parents to solve our problems. That is up to us. And we have more than enough problems to solve.
We’re all facing a challenging year. If Big Banking isn’t turning the screws on us, then the politicians are feeding us lies. There are escalating problems in the Middle East. Genocide in Africa. Islam warns Christians in Nigeria to leave or be attacked. The job outlook is dim; money is tight; and neither Democrats or Republicans give a ‘Tinker’s damn’ about the middle class.
So we are, like the old homily says, ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’
You know as well as I there’s a whole slough of folks wanting to be president. I don’t know if a white Republican, a brown Libertarian, a red Whig, a black Democrat, or a green Martian will win.
Either way, I do not honestly believe you and me, the average Joe Sixpacks of this country, will find ourselves better off.
Washington, and I include all political parties here, has succeeded in setting up a convoluted set of connections that sheds accountability while enabling financial largesse beyond imagination. Those jokers get slaps on the wrist for behavior that would throw you and me in the deepest hole in the jail.
Perhaps, I should pause and take a step backward here and include local political entanglements also. There is more than ample evidence here in Southeast Texas as well as around the country and the world, that many elected officials are nothing more than crass barons of greed, perfectly willing to strip their constituents’ bank accounts for their own benefit.
Now, I have news for you. Maybe shocking; perhaps unbelievable; and certainly nothing new, but simply asking politicians to change won’t work.
Oh, they’ll agree that changes need to be made; they’ll assure us they’ll do all they can; and then as soon as we close the door behind us, they’ll stick another handful of greenbacks in their proverbial pockets.
Seems like to me these bloodsuckers are waiting in line for the plum political jobs; awaiting their turn at the trough of greed and wealth celebrated by the Potomac Two-Step.
Don’t believe me? Give me the name of a retired politician who lives on the median income of $50,000.00.
Like the Dodo bird, them fellers don’t exist!
What’s the answer, folks? Or is there one? Do we just simply move to the rear of the truck with the rest of the sheep?
I don’t know who coined the wry observation, but it smacks more of the truth than a lie. ‘An honest politician is one when he is bought, he stays bought.’
But there are a couple solutions, Blind Trusts or Term Limits.
Term Limits hasn’t worked. Sixteen states have term limits; nine for consecutive years, seven for lifetime. There were six other states with limits, but they were repealed, two by the state legislature; four by the state supreme courts.
I suggest term limits will not work for they must be put in place by legislators and judges, the very ones most affected by them.
That leaves Blind Trusts.
Lyndon Johnson was the first president to put his family wealth in a blind trust so there would be no question of impropriety; no question of using inside information for profit.
Why not require the same of Congress?
We send them to Washington to run the country. And we pay them well, $175,000 plus. Oh, yeah, and give them cost of living raises along with housing expenses.
Being in Washington, they are privy to financial information ahead of time, and more than one politician has made a fortune by that method.
Put their family wealth in a Blind Trust for the time they serve. They can’t touch it, so they won’t be tempted to do a little ‘insider trading’, a habit all too frequently taken advantage of by our congressional folks.
Now, most of those jokers up there currently won’t pass the necessary legislation, so we must do like the Tea Partyers and put in candidates who will carry out the wishes of America’s middle class.
An impossible task?
The realist in me says ‘yes’; the dreamer says ‘some day’.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
I always enjoy those six weeks or so, especially when I recollect holidays past.
Often, I find myself wishing I could stay in those memories, but to do so is like the ostrich sticking its head in the sand. When he finally pulls it out and looks around, he recognizes nothing.
Life, however pleasant or unpleasant, has left him behind.
You and me, folks—we’re grown up. We’re children no longer with doting parents to solve our problems. That is up to us. And we have more than enough problems to solve.
We’re all facing a challenging year. If Big Banking isn’t turning the screws on us, then the politicians are feeding us lies. There are escalating problems in the Middle East. Genocide in Africa. Islam warns Christians in Nigeria to leave or be attacked. The job outlook is dim; money is tight; and neither Democrats or Republicans give a ‘Tinker’s damn’ about the middle class.
So we are, like the old homily says, ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’
You know as well as I there’s a whole slough of folks wanting to be president. I don’t know if a white Republican, a brown Libertarian, a red Whig, a black Democrat, or a green Martian will win.
Either way, I do not honestly believe you and me, the average Joe Sixpacks of this country, will find ourselves better off.
Washington, and I include all political parties here, has succeeded in setting up a convoluted set of connections that sheds accountability while enabling financial largesse beyond imagination. Those jokers get slaps on the wrist for behavior that would throw you and me in the deepest hole in the jail.
Perhaps, I should pause and take a step backward here and include local political entanglements also. There is more than ample evidence here in Southeast Texas as well as around the country and the world, that many elected officials are nothing more than crass barons of greed, perfectly willing to strip their constituents’ bank accounts for their own benefit.
Now, I have news for you. Maybe shocking; perhaps unbelievable; and certainly nothing new, but simply asking politicians to change won’t work.
Oh, they’ll agree that changes need to be made; they’ll assure us they’ll do all they can; and then as soon as we close the door behind us, they’ll stick another handful of greenbacks in their proverbial pockets.
Seems like to me these bloodsuckers are waiting in line for the plum political jobs; awaiting their turn at the trough of greed and wealth celebrated by the Potomac Two-Step.
Don’t believe me? Give me the name of a retired politician who lives on the median income of $50,000.00.
Like the Dodo bird, them fellers don’t exist!
What’s the answer, folks? Or is there one? Do we just simply move to the rear of the truck with the rest of the sheep?
I don’t know who coined the wry observation, but it smacks more of the truth than a lie. ‘An honest politician is one when he is bought, he stays bought.’
But there are a couple solutions, Blind Trusts or Term Limits.
Term Limits hasn’t worked. Sixteen states have term limits; nine for consecutive years, seven for lifetime. There were six other states with limits, but they were repealed, two by the state legislature; four by the state supreme courts.
I suggest term limits will not work for they must be put in place by legislators and judges, the very ones most affected by them.
That leaves Blind Trusts.
Lyndon Johnson was the first president to put his family wealth in a blind trust so there would be no question of impropriety; no question of using inside information for profit.
Why not require the same of Congress?
We send them to Washington to run the country. And we pay them well, $175,000 plus. Oh, yeah, and give them cost of living raises along with housing expenses.
Being in Washington, they are privy to financial information ahead of time, and more than one politician has made a fortune by that method.
Put their family wealth in a Blind Trust for the time they serve. They can’t touch it, so they won’t be tempted to do a little ‘insider trading’, a habit all too frequently taken advantage of by our congressional folks.
Now, most of those jokers up there currently won’t pass the necessary legislation, so we must do like the Tea Partyers and put in candidates who will carry out the wishes of America’s middle class.
An impossible task?
The realist in me says ‘yes’; the dreamer says ‘some day’.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
An Epic Snowball Battle
Happy New Year!
Here we are once again, staring at the one-time-a-year opportunity for another ‘do over’ or to use a golfers’ favorite word, a ‘mulligan.’
Even way back in Mesopotamia two thousand years ago, folks like you and me celebrated the chance to make amends for past behavior with new resolutions.(their new year wasn’t our new year, but that’s another story)
Down through the centuries, many life-altering events have occurred on January one. In 1660, Samuel Pepys made his first entry in his famed diary. Another was that in 1897, Brooklyn merged with New York to form the city, New York, and the next year, the Lightship replaced the Whistling Buoy on San Francisco Bay.
Earth-shaking events all, however, they all pale in comparison to that the momentous event that took place on the outskirts of Wheeler, Texas on January 1, 1944.
The Great Snowball Battle for Chapman’s Lake!
There had been several heavy snowfalls that year and ongoing snowball battles were common around our small town. Sneak attacks raged across the courthouse square, on the sidewalks, around the corners of the five and dime.
East of town, Chapman’s Dairy overlooked a ten-acre lake. To us boys, however, it was the Pacific Ocean. The pasture rose gently from the water’s shores to the milking barn about a quarter of a mile distant—a perfect sled run.
Now, Mister Chapman never minded us wild-haired boys traipsing across this pastures as long as we didn’t disturb his milk cows. We always gave the herd a wide birth, one of the no small reasons being there were three or four bovines with short tempers. One was especially temperamental. For some reason, her horns had grown down instead of up, and had to be cut to stay out of her eyes.
We called her ‘Crosseye” as well as a few other names when she chased us.
When the snowfall was extra heavy, the cows seldom strayed down to the pastures. Cows don’t paw at snow to remove it from forage like a horse. They push the snow aside with their noses, and if the snow is extra heavy or icy, their noses become tender and the dumbbells just stand there and starve.
Consequently, ranchers and farmers put out feed around the barn in covered troughs if possible.
That meant we usually had the whole snow-covered pasture to ourselves.
That year after Christmas, Jerry, Tony, Donald, and I were building a snow house when several older kids from the other side of town (six blocks away) showed up to challenge us to a snowball fight at Chapman’s Lake where they had built a fort.
We readily accepted the challenge and agreed to the winner-take-all-prize, next Saturday’s popcorn money, a whole nickel. All we had to do was take their flag down from the fort.
Nothing to it. Or so we thought.
When we arrived, we spotted a red flag waving over the small fort. One of the kids had cut it from his Pa’s discarded longjohns. They said it meant ‘no quarter’. That made no sense to me, but a flag was flag.
Leaving our sleds at the top of the hill, the four of us attacked the fort, but were quickly beaten back. Our leader, Jerry, decided we would attack with our tanks, meaning sleds.
We’d fly past the fort, loose a few snowballs, regroup for another pass. His plan sounded good in theory, but we soon discovered it was full of holes. Sitting on a whizzing sled and throwing snowballs called for a delicate balance none of us had mastered.
I fell off more than I rode; Tony crashed into the fort; Donald caromed off one side of the fort into the lake. Jerry was the only one who managed to ride and throw at the same time.
The battle surged back and forth. Each surge took us closer to the flag. Snowballs zipped through air. I guess all the whooping and hollering reached the herd of milk cows.
That’s the only explanation I have for the garbled bellow that rolled down the hill, jerking all of us around. Our eyes bugged out like stepped-on toad frogs when we spotted Crosseye shaking her head back and forth and charging down the hill in a bovine’s stumbling lope.
Pelting her with snowballs, wee took refuge behind what was left of the fort, but she didn’t hesitate. She went over the top, scattering us and taking down the flag.
When the last piece of snow had settled to the ground, Crosseye stood there in triumph, glaring at eight kids sprinting across the pasture in every direction like frightened prairie hens.
They claimed they won because we didn’t get their flag. We claimed Crosseye was our secret agent and since she took down the flag, we won.
They wouldn’t buy that. In the end, we decided upon another battle at another time, but it never came about.
Crosseye?
Well, we moved to Fort Worth five years later. She was still in the herd and still as ornery as ever.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Here we are once again, staring at the one-time-a-year opportunity for another ‘do over’ or to use a golfers’ favorite word, a ‘mulligan.’
Even way back in Mesopotamia two thousand years ago, folks like you and me celebrated the chance to make amends for past behavior with new resolutions.(their new year wasn’t our new year, but that’s another story)
Down through the centuries, many life-altering events have occurred on January one. In 1660, Samuel Pepys made his first entry in his famed diary. Another was that in 1897, Brooklyn merged with New York to form the city, New York, and the next year, the Lightship replaced the Whistling Buoy on San Francisco Bay.
Earth-shaking events all, however, they all pale in comparison to that the momentous event that took place on the outskirts of Wheeler, Texas on January 1, 1944.
The Great Snowball Battle for Chapman’s Lake!
There had been several heavy snowfalls that year and ongoing snowball battles were common around our small town. Sneak attacks raged across the courthouse square, on the sidewalks, around the corners of the five and dime.
East of town, Chapman’s Dairy overlooked a ten-acre lake. To us boys, however, it was the Pacific Ocean. The pasture rose gently from the water’s shores to the milking barn about a quarter of a mile distant—a perfect sled run.
Now, Mister Chapman never minded us wild-haired boys traipsing across this pastures as long as we didn’t disturb his milk cows. We always gave the herd a wide birth, one of the no small reasons being there were three or four bovines with short tempers. One was especially temperamental. For some reason, her horns had grown down instead of up, and had to be cut to stay out of her eyes.
We called her ‘Crosseye” as well as a few other names when she chased us.
When the snowfall was extra heavy, the cows seldom strayed down to the pastures. Cows don’t paw at snow to remove it from forage like a horse. They push the snow aside with their noses, and if the snow is extra heavy or icy, their noses become tender and the dumbbells just stand there and starve.
Consequently, ranchers and farmers put out feed around the barn in covered troughs if possible.
That meant we usually had the whole snow-covered pasture to ourselves.
That year after Christmas, Jerry, Tony, Donald, and I were building a snow house when several older kids from the other side of town (six blocks away) showed up to challenge us to a snowball fight at Chapman’s Lake where they had built a fort.
We readily accepted the challenge and agreed to the winner-take-all-prize, next Saturday’s popcorn money, a whole nickel. All we had to do was take their flag down from the fort.
Nothing to it. Or so we thought.
When we arrived, we spotted a red flag waving over the small fort. One of the kids had cut it from his Pa’s discarded longjohns. They said it meant ‘no quarter’. That made no sense to me, but a flag was flag.
Leaving our sleds at the top of the hill, the four of us attacked the fort, but were quickly beaten back. Our leader, Jerry, decided we would attack with our tanks, meaning sleds.
We’d fly past the fort, loose a few snowballs, regroup for another pass. His plan sounded good in theory, but we soon discovered it was full of holes. Sitting on a whizzing sled and throwing snowballs called for a delicate balance none of us had mastered.
I fell off more than I rode; Tony crashed into the fort; Donald caromed off one side of the fort into the lake. Jerry was the only one who managed to ride and throw at the same time.
The battle surged back and forth. Each surge took us closer to the flag. Snowballs zipped through air. I guess all the whooping and hollering reached the herd of milk cows.
That’s the only explanation I have for the garbled bellow that rolled down the hill, jerking all of us around. Our eyes bugged out like stepped-on toad frogs when we spotted Crosseye shaking her head back and forth and charging down the hill in a bovine’s stumbling lope.
Pelting her with snowballs, wee took refuge behind what was left of the fort, but she didn’t hesitate. She went over the top, scattering us and taking down the flag.
When the last piece of snow had settled to the ground, Crosseye stood there in triumph, glaring at eight kids sprinting across the pasture in every direction like frightened prairie hens.
They claimed they won because we didn’t get their flag. We claimed Crosseye was our secret agent and since she took down the flag, we won.
They wouldn’t buy that. In the end, we decided upon another battle at another time, but it never came about.
Crosseye?
Well, we moved to Fort Worth five years later. She was still in the herd and still as ornery as ever.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas Magic
If you’ve been out and around much at all the last few weeks, you’ve noticed it. It puts a smile on your face, a lilt in your voice, and a bounce to your step. It usually appears around Thanksgiving and unfortunately, lingers only a few weeks.
It is as warm as the smiling sun overhead, as solid as the ground at our feet, and as satisfying as a warm fire on a frigid night.
I call it the Christmas Magic.
Okay, so that’s corny, as in lame, but you can’t deny that in the last few weeks, most folks seem to be just a tad bit more jolly, a tiny bit more patient, and a teeny bit more cheerful.
That magic is intangible, beyond one’s touch, but, mysteriously, still as palpable as Aunt May’s homemade rum and bourbon fruitcake.
Caught up in the joyful ambiance of Christmas, I, as many, wish that intangible wisp of enchantment could last year around.
The pragmatic side of our psyches insist it’s only natural that after the first of the year to wake up with the disturbing feeling that something is missing. And no, I’m not talking about the hole in our bank accounts.
We’ve just spent days and weeks in anticipation of Christmas Day and then New Years. And because we were so anticipating the gaiety and cheerfulness of the holidays, once they are behind us, there comes a natural let down.
But there is no reason for that Christmas magic that fills the Season of Giving to fade away just because the calendar changes.
As I crept up the ladder of age, I came to realize why my father and mother always replied ‘I don’t need a thing,’ when asked what they wanted for Christmas.
Sound familiar.
At my age, I don’t need anything thing. I get a kick out of seeing the delight sparkle in the eyes of those to whom I’ve given what I could afford.
If you’ll look around, you’ll see that despite the problems we face, usually our blessings outweigh them. Might not seem like it at the moment, but Santa Claus is with us year around, or can be if we make the effort.
Don’t think so?
Recently, I read a delightful article in Newsweek Online of a mother’s concern that her seven-year-old would learn there was no Santa Claus.
Over the years, being the loving parent she obviously is, she had enhanced the magic of Christmas for her son by encouraging him to help with the decorations, add to the crèche, bake cookies, and yes, even spread reindeer food in the snow to light the way for Santa.
Can’t you just imagine the excitement coursing through that little guy’s veins? At the end of the article, she expressed relief that he had managed this Christmas still believing in old Saint Nick, but she had the feeling that sometime before next year, he would learn the truth.
She ended the article with the observation that despite what he might learn, as long as he believes, he will enjoy that special magic year around.
Perhaps that is where so many of us go wrong. Somewhere along the way we stop believing in Santa Claus just because those beliefs fly in the face of logic. I have a couple good friends who have reached the four score and ten mark who believe in Santa Claus, and I kid you not, nowhere will you find a couple jollier or more cheerful gentlemen. They brim with the anticipation of life and the excitement of each passing day.
F.P. Church said it much better than I in his response to Virginia O’Hanlon when she queried the New York Sun on the existence of Santa Claus. ‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”
There was not a soul in the world who could say that Santa did not exist if they witnessed the sparkle in the eyes and the broad grin on the faces of my two youngest grandsons, Keegan and Mikey, as they hop on their scooters or fire up their space rockets on Christmas morning.
That same excitement is no different in homes around the world. It’s just that during the Christmas holidays the love for one’s fellow man is even more pronounced.
But if you look, if you pay attention, you’ll see proof of Santa’s existence throughout the year. Perhaps it isn’t as noticeable among the stories of mayhem and murder, but it exists.
You’ll never convince that single mother there’s no Santa Claus after her son was given a new wheelchair by the Shriner’s to replace his dilapidated one. And what about the little girl who won a raffle at school and put aside her own wish for a beautiful little doll so she could instead select a hand-sewn blanket she knew her invalid mother admired?
No Santa Claus?
In Minneapolis, a parent was hit with unexpected car repair bills just before the holidays, wiping out the family’s Christmas budget. When she went to pick up the vehicle, a stranger had paid the bill. You think that family doubts the existence of Santa Claus?
And who is it that drops a $1700. gold Kruggerrand in the Salvation Army’s pot every year? Who is it paying off Wal Mart and K Mart layaways around the country?
No one can tell me that the spirit of Christmas is not alive throughout the year. It’s just that in the midst of our hustle and bustle, it sometimes takes a back seat, but it is always there, waiting to be dusted off.
As long as the human heart is filled with understanding and compassion, there will always be a Santa Claus, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
It is as warm as the smiling sun overhead, as solid as the ground at our feet, and as satisfying as a warm fire on a frigid night.
I call it the Christmas Magic.
Okay, so that’s corny, as in lame, but you can’t deny that in the last few weeks, most folks seem to be just a tad bit more jolly, a tiny bit more patient, and a teeny bit more cheerful.
That magic is intangible, beyond one’s touch, but, mysteriously, still as palpable as Aunt May’s homemade rum and bourbon fruitcake.
Caught up in the joyful ambiance of Christmas, I, as many, wish that intangible wisp of enchantment could last year around.
The pragmatic side of our psyches insist it’s only natural that after the first of the year to wake up with the disturbing feeling that something is missing. And no, I’m not talking about the hole in our bank accounts.
We’ve just spent days and weeks in anticipation of Christmas Day and then New Years. And because we were so anticipating the gaiety and cheerfulness of the holidays, once they are behind us, there comes a natural let down.
But there is no reason for that Christmas magic that fills the Season of Giving to fade away just because the calendar changes.
As I crept up the ladder of age, I came to realize why my father and mother always replied ‘I don’t need a thing,’ when asked what they wanted for Christmas.
Sound familiar.
At my age, I don’t need anything thing. I get a kick out of seeing the delight sparkle in the eyes of those to whom I’ve given what I could afford.
If you’ll look around, you’ll see that despite the problems we face, usually our blessings outweigh them. Might not seem like it at the moment, but Santa Claus is with us year around, or can be if we make the effort.
Don’t think so?
Recently, I read a delightful article in Newsweek Online of a mother’s concern that her seven-year-old would learn there was no Santa Claus.
Over the years, being the loving parent she obviously is, she had enhanced the magic of Christmas for her son by encouraging him to help with the decorations, add to the crèche, bake cookies, and yes, even spread reindeer food in the snow to light the way for Santa.
Can’t you just imagine the excitement coursing through that little guy’s veins? At the end of the article, she expressed relief that he had managed this Christmas still believing in old Saint Nick, but she had the feeling that sometime before next year, he would learn the truth.
She ended the article with the observation that despite what he might learn, as long as he believes, he will enjoy that special magic year around.
Perhaps that is where so many of us go wrong. Somewhere along the way we stop believing in Santa Claus just because those beliefs fly in the face of logic. I have a couple good friends who have reached the four score and ten mark who believe in Santa Claus, and I kid you not, nowhere will you find a couple jollier or more cheerful gentlemen. They brim with the anticipation of life and the excitement of each passing day.
F.P. Church said it much better than I in his response to Virginia O’Hanlon when she queried the New York Sun on the existence of Santa Claus. ‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”
There was not a soul in the world who could say that Santa did not exist if they witnessed the sparkle in the eyes and the broad grin on the faces of my two youngest grandsons, Keegan and Mikey, as they hop on their scooters or fire up their space rockets on Christmas morning.
That same excitement is no different in homes around the world. It’s just that during the Christmas holidays the love for one’s fellow man is even more pronounced.
But if you look, if you pay attention, you’ll see proof of Santa’s existence throughout the year. Perhaps it isn’t as noticeable among the stories of mayhem and murder, but it exists.
You’ll never convince that single mother there’s no Santa Claus after her son was given a new wheelchair by the Shriner’s to replace his dilapidated one. And what about the little girl who won a raffle at school and put aside her own wish for a beautiful little doll so she could instead select a hand-sewn blanket she knew her invalid mother admired?
No Santa Claus?
In Minneapolis, a parent was hit with unexpected car repair bills just before the holidays, wiping out the family’s Christmas budget. When she went to pick up the vehicle, a stranger had paid the bill. You think that family doubts the existence of Santa Claus?
And who is it that drops a $1700. gold Kruggerrand in the Salvation Army’s pot every year? Who is it paying off Wal Mart and K Mart layaways around the country?
No one can tell me that the spirit of Christmas is not alive throughout the year. It’s just that in the midst of our hustle and bustle, it sometimes takes a back seat, but it is always there, waiting to be dusted off.
As long as the human heart is filled with understanding and compassion, there will always be a Santa Claus, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Christmas on the Farm
If you’ve ever passed through or spent time up in the Texas Panhandle during the winter, you know just how cold the weather can be.
The eastern Panhandle is rolling sand hills; the west is prairie land flat as a wet leaf. And I’m here to tell you that neither conformation does in now way inhibit the wind howling down from Santa Claus at the North Pole.
Of course, we kids always looked forward to the first snow, but the initial thrill quickly wore off. Slugging through ankle deep mud to feed the animals and milk the cows has a way of throwing and ice-covered blanket over any degree of excitement.
Growing up, we lived next door to my aunt and her husband. He had a couple cows. He milked them in the morning, and with Dad overseas, my job was to milk them in the evening. It was a tedious enough task when the weather was nice, but during the winter, the snow and rain and mud put a quick end to a fifth grade boy’s delight over a fresh snowfall.
I was never one to complain when one of the cows started drying up. Now, I don’t remember actually muttering the words, but I probably added a footnote to my prayers at night to assist the old cows in drying up.
Even spraying cats with warm milk couldn’t detract from the cold slithering up my coat or pant legs as I squatted at the old bovine’s side.
About the only thing colder than milking cows in the middle of the winter was utilizing the two-holer out back. That’s a cold beyond description. Even the spiders and snakes left.
Fortunately, baths were taken in a washtub in the kitchen in front of the stove with the oven door open and the burners going full blast.
Come February or March, I was ready for Mister Winter to move on back north.
Luckily for us, our relationship with the two-holer only lasted during of the war for upon Dad’s return, he built us a house with all the facilities a couple lots over.
Usually, we spent Christmas on my maternal grandparents’ farm out by Lubbock. That part of Texas was sometimes given the moniker ‘Great Plains’ or ‘Staked Plains’, because it was so flat.
Those Christmases have always held a special spot in my memory. We’d spend a week or so at Mama’s for Mom’s family was fairly large, three sisters and four brothers. Not all could make it the same time, instead trickling in over a few days.
You get eight couples and their kids together, and very soon bodies are poking out every window of a three-room clapboard house.
We usually made the trip with my aunt and her husband. Both self-employed, they could take off when they wanted. Dad always had to work, so he’d drive on out the night before Christmas Eve
Since the adults took up most of the space inside, we boys played outside despite the cold. From time to time, we’d scoot inside to warm up and dry out.
Naturally fireworks, then as now, were part of the Christmas celebration, and we cousins would save up for an ample supply. Now, firecrackers on a farm were a big no-no because of the animals, so we had to wander off down to the local creek some half-mile away to set them off.
Roman candles were another matter for they weren’t as noisy as a string of Black Cats. Other than a hissing whoosh and a low decibel pop, the Roman candle served as an ideal weapon when we waged battle with each other.
Now, cousins in our family were sort of stratified, I suppose you could say. Each strata was about four or five years older than the next group, which meant the younger ones were prime objects for unabashed bullying.
The one who gave Ed and me the most trouble was Dooley. His name was Henry, Henry Shoop, but he had been stuck with the nickname Dooley as long as I could remember.
Anyway, one winter, Dooley cornered me and Ed out in the barn, which was a cavernous structure with a dozen or more stalls, two or three lofts, and no telling how many tack rooms and feed rooms.
And oh yes, in the winter, the floor turned to squishy mud from not only the weather but the afterthoughts of the bovines loitering about out of the frigid cold.
That day, Dooley was chasing us with a shovel full of afterthoughts he had scooped up with the intent of dumping it on us.
Even though he was five years our senior, the cumbersome load plus the slippery footing sent him sliding into a pile of afterthoughts himself.
That gave us time to scamper across the farmyard to the well house where we’d cached our supply of fireworks in a milk can.
Just as we pulled out our Roman candles, Dooley yanked the door open. Before he could move, we touched matches to the candles.
He stumbled back, fell over his own feet, then jumped up, but not before we sizzled his rear end with a couple balls. Laughing like lunatics, we chased him all the way to the house.
Retribution?
You bet. He finally caught us without our equalizers, carrying out his initial intent, to toss us in the afterthoughts.
The women made us strip down to our longjohns on the porch in the cold so we wouldn’t smell up the house. I swore to get even with Dooley, even though I knew I would pay for any revenge.
That night, Dad handed me the answer. He had to go back to Wheeler and I was to go with him. We’d leave early, before everyone got up. Mom and my brother would come the next day.
That night while Dooley slept on the pallet next to mine, I dumped a cup of afterthoughts in his boot.
Sometime later, Dad awakened me, and we left. I giggled all the way home.
According to Mom, Dooley pulled his boot on, then jerked his foot out and tracked the stuff all over the house before the women ran him outside.
I pleaded innocent. Mom and Dad knew I was lying, but when I saw them grin at each other, I realized they knew the truth. I kept expecting some kind of punishment, but it never came.
Until that summer. That’s when I ran into Dooley once again.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
The eastern Panhandle is rolling sand hills; the west is prairie land flat as a wet leaf. And I’m here to tell you that neither conformation does in now way inhibit the wind howling down from Santa Claus at the North Pole.
Of course, we kids always looked forward to the first snow, but the initial thrill quickly wore off. Slugging through ankle deep mud to feed the animals and milk the cows has a way of throwing and ice-covered blanket over any degree of excitement.
Growing up, we lived next door to my aunt and her husband. He had a couple cows. He milked them in the morning, and with Dad overseas, my job was to milk them in the evening. It was a tedious enough task when the weather was nice, but during the winter, the snow and rain and mud put a quick end to a fifth grade boy’s delight over a fresh snowfall.
I was never one to complain when one of the cows started drying up. Now, I don’t remember actually muttering the words, but I probably added a footnote to my prayers at night to assist the old cows in drying up.
Even spraying cats with warm milk couldn’t detract from the cold slithering up my coat or pant legs as I squatted at the old bovine’s side.
About the only thing colder than milking cows in the middle of the winter was utilizing the two-holer out back. That’s a cold beyond description. Even the spiders and snakes left.
Fortunately, baths were taken in a washtub in the kitchen in front of the stove with the oven door open and the burners going full blast.
Come February or March, I was ready for Mister Winter to move on back north.
Luckily for us, our relationship with the two-holer only lasted during of the war for upon Dad’s return, he built us a house with all the facilities a couple lots over.
Usually, we spent Christmas on my maternal grandparents’ farm out by Lubbock. That part of Texas was sometimes given the moniker ‘Great Plains’ or ‘Staked Plains’, because it was so flat.
Those Christmases have always held a special spot in my memory. We’d spend a week or so at Mama’s for Mom’s family was fairly large, three sisters and four brothers. Not all could make it the same time, instead trickling in over a few days.
You get eight couples and their kids together, and very soon bodies are poking out every window of a three-room clapboard house.
We usually made the trip with my aunt and her husband. Both self-employed, they could take off when they wanted. Dad always had to work, so he’d drive on out the night before Christmas Eve
Since the adults took up most of the space inside, we boys played outside despite the cold. From time to time, we’d scoot inside to warm up and dry out.
Naturally fireworks, then as now, were part of the Christmas celebration, and we cousins would save up for an ample supply. Now, firecrackers on a farm were a big no-no because of the animals, so we had to wander off down to the local creek some half-mile away to set them off.
Roman candles were another matter for they weren’t as noisy as a string of Black Cats. Other than a hissing whoosh and a low decibel pop, the Roman candle served as an ideal weapon when we waged battle with each other.
Now, cousins in our family were sort of stratified, I suppose you could say. Each strata was about four or five years older than the next group, which meant the younger ones were prime objects for unabashed bullying.
The one who gave Ed and me the most trouble was Dooley. His name was Henry, Henry Shoop, but he had been stuck with the nickname Dooley as long as I could remember.
Anyway, one winter, Dooley cornered me and Ed out in the barn, which was a cavernous structure with a dozen or more stalls, two or three lofts, and no telling how many tack rooms and feed rooms.
And oh yes, in the winter, the floor turned to squishy mud from not only the weather but the afterthoughts of the bovines loitering about out of the frigid cold.
That day, Dooley was chasing us with a shovel full of afterthoughts he had scooped up with the intent of dumping it on us.
Even though he was five years our senior, the cumbersome load plus the slippery footing sent him sliding into a pile of afterthoughts himself.
That gave us time to scamper across the farmyard to the well house where we’d cached our supply of fireworks in a milk can.
Just as we pulled out our Roman candles, Dooley yanked the door open. Before he could move, we touched matches to the candles.
He stumbled back, fell over his own feet, then jumped up, but not before we sizzled his rear end with a couple balls. Laughing like lunatics, we chased him all the way to the house.
Retribution?
You bet. He finally caught us without our equalizers, carrying out his initial intent, to toss us in the afterthoughts.
The women made us strip down to our longjohns on the porch in the cold so we wouldn’t smell up the house. I swore to get even with Dooley, even though I knew I would pay for any revenge.
That night, Dad handed me the answer. He had to go back to Wheeler and I was to go with him. We’d leave early, before everyone got up. Mom and my brother would come the next day.
That night while Dooley slept on the pallet next to mine, I dumped a cup of afterthoughts in his boot.
Sometime later, Dad awakened me, and we left. I giggled all the way home.
According to Mom, Dooley pulled his boot on, then jerked his foot out and tracked the stuff all over the house before the women ran him outside.
I pleaded innocent. Mom and Dad knew I was lying, but when I saw them grin at each other, I realized they knew the truth. I kept expecting some kind of punishment, but it never came.
Until that summer. That’s when I ran into Dooley once again.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Panhandle Winters
Last few days, we’ve had some nippy weather, at least to my way of thinking. Now, I know if you’re from Minnesota, North Dakota, or any of the northern most states, these past few days were probably short sleeve and flip-flop weather.
When I came down the gulf coast forty years ago, it would have been short sleeve for me also. Weather is quite a bit nippier up in Fort Worth, and a heck of a lot colder up in the Texas Panhandle.
How well I remember those Panhandle winters. And how glad I am they’re just memories.
Seems like beginning in October and lasting through March or April, it was bitter cold with the wind howling and blowing snow or rain or both with chunks of ice tossed in just to keep you on your toes.
In our little town, only the courthouse square and the two main highways crossing at one corner of the square were paved. All the other streets were dirt, which mean come the first really wet weather, Mister Mud showed up, gouging ruts in the road almost a foot deep.
One good thing about the ruts was that they kept you from slipping and sliding off the road. The bad thing about them was it was next to impossible to pull out of them to get into your driveway.
For us youngsters who walked everywhere, the water-filled ruts were a no win situation. If you waded them, water poured down your galoshes. If you jumped them, you buried up to your knees in mud.
And speaking of galoshes, which are rubber boots over shoes, they were an exercise in futility for seldom a day passed that we didn’t inadvertently yank a stocking foot from both shoe and boot and plant it squarely in the mud.
That was sure a sloppy mess to cram back into your shoe, but you had no choice. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to run around barefoot.
Early in the year, like idiots, all we school kids looked forward to the first snow, watching it stick against the school windows and slowly cover the ground.
Sometimes if it appeared to be thickening, the school sent the buses home earlier for the majority of the routes were over—you guessed it, dirt roads.
The rest of us, the walkers, were usually released some minutes later, and we tore screaming and shouting into the falling snow like wild heathens.
Sometimes, if the show was really heavy, I went over to Mama and Papa Conwell just across the street. Papa would take me home. Other times, a handful of us boys would carry on a running snowball fight the whole mile back to our neighborhood.
Like all kids, we build snowmen, forts, and stockpiled snowballs.
Such battles were common at recess in our small school, which sat next door to the high school. Usually sixth graders and we fifth graders stayed away from the high school crowd.
One particular day, however, the opportunity for sweet revenge came my way.
The high school boys were locked in a snowball battle with the school superintendent, who had paddled me once or twice (with more delight than I figured he should gain from administering my punishment). I was far off to one side, but I hatched a devious little plan to get back at him. I put together a solid snowball and sneaked around behind him. He was so occupied with the high school boys, he never saw me.
Stealthily, I crept closer and closer. Finally, all I could see was his broad back. Now I had him. I savored my revenge! I drew back, and at that moment, he jumped aside, dodging a well-thrown snowball.
Guess who didn’t dodge?
It caught me right between the eyes.
I bawled and squalled. He laughed and led me to his office where he turned be over to his secretary who dried my tears.
When the kids in my class heard about my misfortune, they laughed. It went on for a week. That was how long it took my black eye to finally go away.
Often we had snow on the ground for several days.
To be honest, snowball fights are entertaining for just so long, and after a few days, boredom takes over.
One winter, Jerry, Donald, and I set out to build us a small cabin where we boys could gather and while away the days.
Finding no material for a cabin, we decided to build it out of the bales of hay my uncle had under tarp. Don’t laugh. A small cave under a stay of hay can be pretty snug especially if you build a small fire for warmth like we did.
What we didn’t realize was—well, that’s another long story, better saved until we have more space.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
When I came down the gulf coast forty years ago, it would have been short sleeve for me also. Weather is quite a bit nippier up in Fort Worth, and a heck of a lot colder up in the Texas Panhandle.
How well I remember those Panhandle winters. And how glad I am they’re just memories.
Seems like beginning in October and lasting through March or April, it was bitter cold with the wind howling and blowing snow or rain or both with chunks of ice tossed in just to keep you on your toes.
In our little town, only the courthouse square and the two main highways crossing at one corner of the square were paved. All the other streets were dirt, which mean come the first really wet weather, Mister Mud showed up, gouging ruts in the road almost a foot deep.
One good thing about the ruts was that they kept you from slipping and sliding off the road. The bad thing about them was it was next to impossible to pull out of them to get into your driveway.
For us youngsters who walked everywhere, the water-filled ruts were a no win situation. If you waded them, water poured down your galoshes. If you jumped them, you buried up to your knees in mud.
And speaking of galoshes, which are rubber boots over shoes, they were an exercise in futility for seldom a day passed that we didn’t inadvertently yank a stocking foot from both shoe and boot and plant it squarely in the mud.
That was sure a sloppy mess to cram back into your shoe, but you had no choice. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to run around barefoot.
Early in the year, like idiots, all we school kids looked forward to the first snow, watching it stick against the school windows and slowly cover the ground.
Sometimes if it appeared to be thickening, the school sent the buses home earlier for the majority of the routes were over—you guessed it, dirt roads.
The rest of us, the walkers, were usually released some minutes later, and we tore screaming and shouting into the falling snow like wild heathens.
Sometimes, if the show was really heavy, I went over to Mama and Papa Conwell just across the street. Papa would take me home. Other times, a handful of us boys would carry on a running snowball fight the whole mile back to our neighborhood.
Like all kids, we build snowmen, forts, and stockpiled snowballs.
Such battles were common at recess in our small school, which sat next door to the high school. Usually sixth graders and we fifth graders stayed away from the high school crowd.
One particular day, however, the opportunity for sweet revenge came my way.
The high school boys were locked in a snowball battle with the school superintendent, who had paddled me once or twice (with more delight than I figured he should gain from administering my punishment). I was far off to one side, but I hatched a devious little plan to get back at him. I put together a solid snowball and sneaked around behind him. He was so occupied with the high school boys, he never saw me.
Stealthily, I crept closer and closer. Finally, all I could see was his broad back. Now I had him. I savored my revenge! I drew back, and at that moment, he jumped aside, dodging a well-thrown snowball.
Guess who didn’t dodge?
It caught me right between the eyes.
I bawled and squalled. He laughed and led me to his office where he turned be over to his secretary who dried my tears.
When the kids in my class heard about my misfortune, they laughed. It went on for a week. That was how long it took my black eye to finally go away.
Often we had snow on the ground for several days.
To be honest, snowball fights are entertaining for just so long, and after a few days, boredom takes over.
One winter, Jerry, Donald, and I set out to build us a small cabin where we boys could gather and while away the days.
Finding no material for a cabin, we decided to build it out of the bales of hay my uncle had under tarp. Don’t laugh. A small cave under a stay of hay can be pretty snug especially if you build a small fire for warmth like we did.
What we didn’t realize was—well, that’s another long story, better saved until we have more space.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
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