Kent Conwell's Blog, page 3
July 25, 2012
Football Fever
Football fever? I don’t have it. Not like many folks here in Southeast Texas where all levels of football are taken very seriously.
When I came to this area forty years back, I was surprised at the intensity of support football enjoyed. Having come from the Fort Worth area, I thought I knew something about football fandom, but SE Texas’ unbridled and enthusiastic support puts the northern metroplex to shame.
Now, I enjoy football, but as a benign observer rather than participant. Years back, I played, but as in most of my sporting endeavors, I never made first team. I was lucky to make the last team, and in fact, a couple times—well, I won’t go there.
In addition to my PN-G Indians, I watch the Cowboys and the Texans, but if I miss a game, I don’t lose any sleep over it.
My athletic shortcomings in no way reflect my enjoyment of the game so when all of the Penn State news exploded across the country, I was as stunned as the majority of readers, whether football fans or not.
I cannot even begin to imagine the pain and suffering of all involved so consequently, it is difficult to judge the appropriate steps to bring closure to all of the affected.
Last Sunday, I read where Paterno’s statue was taken down. I halfway expected demonstrations or sit-ins if the event took place, but fortunately, the removal was peaceful.
Now, no one can deny the guy built a great well-known that produced hundreds of solid citizens. But then no one can deny that the guy also made an error in judgment many years ago, an error worsened by years of silence.
While to some, it might seem unfair to say as much, but that mistake will always be remembered instead of the 409 wins he racked up. Correction, 298 wins since 112 were vacated. Instead on the winningest football coach in the NCAA, he is now 12th on the list; 5th on the FBS list.
One of the unpleasant facets of life is there are many decent people who have a lifetime of good work destroyed by a careless or thoughtless decision.
Should life be that way? I don’t know. All I can say is each of us has a moral compass that should always point us in the right direction. Most of us at one time or another have experienced difficulty in heeding the direction the needle points, but that’s where faith comes in.
And character.
There is not a person reading this who can honestly say the Penn State/Sandusky cover-up was legitimate. Consequently, as wrenching as the problem is to the Paterno’s family, the victims and their families are given a modicum of satisfaction although the pain will be with them forever.
In addition to vacating wins, Penn State took a four year ban on postseason play, fours of year scholarship reduction, five years probation for football, and a 60 million dollar fine.
Well, at least it wasn’t the death penalty, but it comes as close to it as the actual sanction.
The death penalty was pronounced once in NCAA football history--SMU back in eighties. Sixteen players were paid over $61,000.00 over a period of time, a payout acknowledged and approved by the SMU Board of Governors on which Bill Clements served. Clements if you remember served as Texas Governor from 1979-83 and ’86-‘91.
The fallout from that death penalty led not only to the eventual dissolution of the old Southwest Conference, but the complete destruction of what had once been one of the most storied football programs in the county.
Since then, SMU has lost around seventy-five percent of its games.
SMU deserved the punishment.
They lied to the NCAA about maintaining slush funds to pay players. Bill Clements served as chairman of the SMU board of governors between his terms as Texas Governor. It was during his tenure the payments were approved, so it is obvious the practice was wide spread and well known among the school’s administration.
As horrendous as the Penn State shame might be, I can’t see destroying a program when it was the administration not the players who perpetrated the situation. At SMU, players were involved. I’ve heard nothing of player involvement in the Penn State mess.
I think the NCAA wanted to make a statement to football, but naturally, with what little wisdom the NCAA possesses, it punishes the innocent with the guilty.
Whether you like the fact or not, college football is big business. And it will always be such.
This decision will send financial difficulties surging through the university and community like a tsunami.
I wholeheartedly agree that justice must be done. So do it. Clean house of those involved; prosecute if necessary those who kept quiet so Sandusky could continue to sate his evil lust.
But don’t persecute the players, the university students, the community, or any of the attendant businesses relying on the business of football.
We all have feet of clay. That’s why none of us can walk on water. And that is also why we must always pay attention to that little moral voice in our head. Ignore it that one time too many, and like a building imploding, our life will come tumbling down about our ears.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
When I came to this area forty years back, I was surprised at the intensity of support football enjoyed. Having come from the Fort Worth area, I thought I knew something about football fandom, but SE Texas’ unbridled and enthusiastic support puts the northern metroplex to shame.
Now, I enjoy football, but as a benign observer rather than participant. Years back, I played, but as in most of my sporting endeavors, I never made first team. I was lucky to make the last team, and in fact, a couple times—well, I won’t go there.
In addition to my PN-G Indians, I watch the Cowboys and the Texans, but if I miss a game, I don’t lose any sleep over it.
My athletic shortcomings in no way reflect my enjoyment of the game so when all of the Penn State news exploded across the country, I was as stunned as the majority of readers, whether football fans or not.
I cannot even begin to imagine the pain and suffering of all involved so consequently, it is difficult to judge the appropriate steps to bring closure to all of the affected.
Last Sunday, I read where Paterno’s statue was taken down. I halfway expected demonstrations or sit-ins if the event took place, but fortunately, the removal was peaceful.
Now, no one can deny the guy built a great well-known that produced hundreds of solid citizens. But then no one can deny that the guy also made an error in judgment many years ago, an error worsened by years of silence.
While to some, it might seem unfair to say as much, but that mistake will always be remembered instead of the 409 wins he racked up. Correction, 298 wins since 112 were vacated. Instead on the winningest football coach in the NCAA, he is now 12th on the list; 5th on the FBS list.
One of the unpleasant facets of life is there are many decent people who have a lifetime of good work destroyed by a careless or thoughtless decision.
Should life be that way? I don’t know. All I can say is each of us has a moral compass that should always point us in the right direction. Most of us at one time or another have experienced difficulty in heeding the direction the needle points, but that’s where faith comes in.
And character.
There is not a person reading this who can honestly say the Penn State/Sandusky cover-up was legitimate. Consequently, as wrenching as the problem is to the Paterno’s family, the victims and their families are given a modicum of satisfaction although the pain will be with them forever.
In addition to vacating wins, Penn State took a four year ban on postseason play, fours of year scholarship reduction, five years probation for football, and a 60 million dollar fine.
Well, at least it wasn’t the death penalty, but it comes as close to it as the actual sanction.
The death penalty was pronounced once in NCAA football history--SMU back in eighties. Sixteen players were paid over $61,000.00 over a period of time, a payout acknowledged and approved by the SMU Board of Governors on which Bill Clements served. Clements if you remember served as Texas Governor from 1979-83 and ’86-‘91.
The fallout from that death penalty led not only to the eventual dissolution of the old Southwest Conference, but the complete destruction of what had once been one of the most storied football programs in the county.
Since then, SMU has lost around seventy-five percent of its games.
SMU deserved the punishment.
They lied to the NCAA about maintaining slush funds to pay players. Bill Clements served as chairman of the SMU board of governors between his terms as Texas Governor. It was during his tenure the payments were approved, so it is obvious the practice was wide spread and well known among the school’s administration.
As horrendous as the Penn State shame might be, I can’t see destroying a program when it was the administration not the players who perpetrated the situation. At SMU, players were involved. I’ve heard nothing of player involvement in the Penn State mess.
I think the NCAA wanted to make a statement to football, but naturally, with what little wisdom the NCAA possesses, it punishes the innocent with the guilty.
Whether you like the fact or not, college football is big business. And it will always be such.
This decision will send financial difficulties surging through the university and community like a tsunami.
I wholeheartedly agree that justice must be done. So do it. Clean house of those involved; prosecute if necessary those who kept quiet so Sandusky could continue to sate his evil lust.
But don’t persecute the players, the university students, the community, or any of the attendant businesses relying on the business of football.
We all have feet of clay. That’s why none of us can walk on water. And that is also why we must always pay attention to that little moral voice in our head. Ignore it that one time too many, and like a building imploding, our life will come tumbling down about our ears.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
July 18, 2012
Old Dogs, New Tricks
Whoever says old dogs can’t learn new tricks is wrong. They can learn. It might be painful, but they can learn. Here’s how I know.
As much as we enjoy the beach, come the Fourth of July, we usually just hang around the house. Maybe barbeque under the live oak and enjoy a dip in the pool. Done it for the last twenty or so years.
This year was a little different, and upon reflection, I understand a little better the relationship between the expressions ‘growing old’ and ‘wisdom’ and ‘pain’.
You see, our younger daughter and her husband rented a cabin down around Crystal Beach for the week of the Fourth. We couldn’t decide when to go down. Bask in the sun, spend one night, then maybe visit Galveston for lunch the next day.
Now we knew the Fourth would be jammed along the beach, but we’d never been on that holiday, and remembering way back—way, way back to those halcyon days of blistering sun, sweat, cold beer, sand between the toes, we decided to give it a shot.
The day dawned bright and clear, an ideal beach day.
We arrived around ten. Our son-in-law, Jason, was there to meet us. I headed back to the car for the last of our items. As I made my way across the yard, I heard what sounded like ‘Pa, Pa.’ I looked around, but all I saw was Jason’s pickup. Then came the words again. “Pa, Pa, Pa.”
All of a sudden, a grinning face popped over the windowsill and my little granddaughter, Kenli, laughed.
Of course, grandpa had to pick her up and play with her.
Someone suggested walking to the beach. We were only in the second row back. I eyed the hot sand, the blistering sun, and opted for the pickup. Besides, someone had to hold Kenli.
My eyes popped out when we reached the beach. That sucker was jammed. There wasn’t enough room for a greased goose to squirt through.
As far as I could see up and down the beach, gaily colored canopies were sandwiched shoulder-too-shoulder with only enough space between them for one or two vehicles.
Now, Jason is one of those who guys likes to get everything in place. He’d gone down early to set up two ten-foot square canopies side by side, drop off several ice chests as well as lawn chairs and, not forgetting the little ones, a couple of canvas cots for naps.
All that was missing was a TV, and I’ve no doubt he could have probably figured out how to do that if we’d demanded one—or if LSU were playing.
The little ones played in the sand and water. Keegan and Mikey used their little boogie-boards and actually were growing somewhat adept at riding them. From time to time, Mikey or Keegan would run up and ask me to ‘boogie’. I begged off.
I was sitting in the shade sipping on a cool beer. Sand between the toes and sweat somehow had lost their appeal.
The kids’ parents enjoyed the sun, gathering at the water’s edge, laughing and telling stories. I couldn’t help remembering how I once did that, way back when. Way, way back when.
My wife, Gayle, braver than me, sat in the sun at the edge of the canopy with Susan, our older daughter. But I was content, relaxing in a lawn chair in the shade of the tent, nursing ice cold beer to combat the heat.
We had a nice breeze, and couple times, I started to take off my tee shirt and straw hat, but opted not too. Don’t misunderstand. The fact Jason and his friends’ bodies looked sculpted out of granite had nothing to do with my own physique. I was sculpted. When my chest dropped to my waistline, it left the smoothest sculpted little curve.
Gayle and Susan stayed out in the sun.
After a few hours, Kenli, the granddaughter, grew sleepy.
I’ll be honest For some inexplicable reason, I was tired. I’d had enough heat and sand for a while so I volunteered to stay with her a the cabin. Besides, I had a new mystery to read, and the idea of peace and quiet, a good book, an air-conditioned room, and a cold beer was like playing four aces on a pair of threes.
No way could I lose.
Later, we went back to the beach.
We planned on a lazy evening, and a relaxing night watching fireworks.
But age has a way of creeping up on a body.
I never realized how tired you can get sitting in a chair in the shade drinking beer. Now, I have noticed over the years, I can’t take the sun like I did when I was just a younker. I can wear shorts eight months a year, but my legs seldom tan. Oh, they might grow one or two shades darker, but a couple days out of the sun and they’re lily white once again.
So, when I say my wife had just a wee bit too much sun, you know what I mean. Remember what it was like to get a sunburn and can’t stand anything to touch your skin?
That’s how she felt., And I was exhausted. Don’t kid yourself, sitting in the shade an be tiring.
By six o’clock, we were headed back to Port Neches for baggy clothes and a handful of lysine for fever blisters.
We missed the fireworks.
Keegan said they were fantastic and he could even see the Galveston firework display across the channel.
All in all, it was a great day even though Gayle hurt for a couple days. Me, I was still tired the next day. Seems like it always takes me longer to recuperate than last time. You know what I mean?
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
As much as we enjoy the beach, come the Fourth of July, we usually just hang around the house. Maybe barbeque under the live oak and enjoy a dip in the pool. Done it for the last twenty or so years.
This year was a little different, and upon reflection, I understand a little better the relationship between the expressions ‘growing old’ and ‘wisdom’ and ‘pain’.
You see, our younger daughter and her husband rented a cabin down around Crystal Beach for the week of the Fourth. We couldn’t decide when to go down. Bask in the sun, spend one night, then maybe visit Galveston for lunch the next day.
Now we knew the Fourth would be jammed along the beach, but we’d never been on that holiday, and remembering way back—way, way back to those halcyon days of blistering sun, sweat, cold beer, sand between the toes, we decided to give it a shot.
The day dawned bright and clear, an ideal beach day.
We arrived around ten. Our son-in-law, Jason, was there to meet us. I headed back to the car for the last of our items. As I made my way across the yard, I heard what sounded like ‘Pa, Pa.’ I looked around, but all I saw was Jason’s pickup. Then came the words again. “Pa, Pa, Pa.”
All of a sudden, a grinning face popped over the windowsill and my little granddaughter, Kenli, laughed.
Of course, grandpa had to pick her up and play with her.
Someone suggested walking to the beach. We were only in the second row back. I eyed the hot sand, the blistering sun, and opted for the pickup. Besides, someone had to hold Kenli.
My eyes popped out when we reached the beach. That sucker was jammed. There wasn’t enough room for a greased goose to squirt through.
As far as I could see up and down the beach, gaily colored canopies were sandwiched shoulder-too-shoulder with only enough space between them for one or two vehicles.
Now, Jason is one of those who guys likes to get everything in place. He’d gone down early to set up two ten-foot square canopies side by side, drop off several ice chests as well as lawn chairs and, not forgetting the little ones, a couple of canvas cots for naps.
All that was missing was a TV, and I’ve no doubt he could have probably figured out how to do that if we’d demanded one—or if LSU were playing.
The little ones played in the sand and water. Keegan and Mikey used their little boogie-boards and actually were growing somewhat adept at riding them. From time to time, Mikey or Keegan would run up and ask me to ‘boogie’. I begged off.
I was sitting in the shade sipping on a cool beer. Sand between the toes and sweat somehow had lost their appeal.
The kids’ parents enjoyed the sun, gathering at the water’s edge, laughing and telling stories. I couldn’t help remembering how I once did that, way back when. Way, way back when.
My wife, Gayle, braver than me, sat in the sun at the edge of the canopy with Susan, our older daughter. But I was content, relaxing in a lawn chair in the shade of the tent, nursing ice cold beer to combat the heat.
We had a nice breeze, and couple times, I started to take off my tee shirt and straw hat, but opted not too. Don’t misunderstand. The fact Jason and his friends’ bodies looked sculpted out of granite had nothing to do with my own physique. I was sculpted. When my chest dropped to my waistline, it left the smoothest sculpted little curve.
Gayle and Susan stayed out in the sun.
After a few hours, Kenli, the granddaughter, grew sleepy.
I’ll be honest For some inexplicable reason, I was tired. I’d had enough heat and sand for a while so I volunteered to stay with her a the cabin. Besides, I had a new mystery to read, and the idea of peace and quiet, a good book, an air-conditioned room, and a cold beer was like playing four aces on a pair of threes.
No way could I lose.
Later, we went back to the beach.
We planned on a lazy evening, and a relaxing night watching fireworks.
But age has a way of creeping up on a body.
I never realized how tired you can get sitting in a chair in the shade drinking beer. Now, I have noticed over the years, I can’t take the sun like I did when I was just a younker. I can wear shorts eight months a year, but my legs seldom tan. Oh, they might grow one or two shades darker, but a couple days out of the sun and they’re lily white once again.
So, when I say my wife had just a wee bit too much sun, you know what I mean. Remember what it was like to get a sunburn and can’t stand anything to touch your skin?
That’s how she felt., And I was exhausted. Don’t kid yourself, sitting in the shade an be tiring.
By six o’clock, we were headed back to Port Neches for baggy clothes and a handful of lysine for fever blisters.
We missed the fireworks.
Keegan said they were fantastic and he could even see the Galveston firework display across the channel.
All in all, it was a great day even though Gayle hurt for a couple days. Me, I was still tired the next day. Seems like it always takes me longer to recuperate than last time. You know what I mean?
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
July 11, 2012
The Day the Lights Went OUt in America
Most of you who are reading this are intelligent enough to realize just how severe the consequences for our country to be so deeply in debt.
Unfortunately, you’re in the minority. Such a small percentage of knowledgeable readers sometimes makes me wonder what’s the use to constantly point out the draconian future that lies ahead of us if we maintain our present course.
But that in itself, is the reason to keep trying. There are dreary times ahead unless you don’t mind paying seventy or eighty percent of your income as taxes.
As you know by now, the Supreme Court ruled that Obamacare will be funded by taxes—taxes—IRS—that sort of thing to the tune of 16,000 plus new IRS hires to make sure we pay up. Got it?
I ran across a little explanation the other day that rips all the flowery rhetoric from the political ‘rose-covered-glasses’ discourses and gives a simple account of just where America is today financially.
You know, and if you don’t you should, that recently, the United States credit rating was downgraded by Standard & Poors from AAA to AA, a first in our history.
And that isn’t the kind of first of which we can brag.
Why did this happen?
Simple. Too much debt.
If you have lousy credit, you pay more to borrow.
And that’s where we’re heading, No, that’s where we are.
Look at the following figures.
U.S. Tax Revenue $2,170.000,000,000
Federal Budget $3,820,000,000,000
New Debt $1,650,000,000,000
National Debt $14,271,000,000,000
Recent Budget Cuts $38,500,000,000
If you’re like me, all those zeroes are confusing. The author of this little matrix made it simple by removing eight zeroes from each line to approximate an average family’s budget.
Annual income $21,700.
Family budget $38,200.
New credit card debt $16,500.
Balance on credit cards$142,170.
Total Budget Cuts $385.
Now that’s sobering, and the figures are constantly changing, and not downward—except maybe budget cuts.
Right now, I can hear folks nodding and saying, “Yep. That blasted Bush. He done it all.”
Well, maybe we need to look at it from a little different perspective.
Before you grunt and figure I’m making excuses for him, figure again. There were events in his administration of which I didn’t approve; there were events that gave him no choice unless some of you think he should have asked the radical Muslins to forgive us for putting heavily populated buildings in front of airplanes they had stolen.
The last quarter of 2006, the country under the Bush administration had a quarterly GDP of 3.2 right on the heels of another 3.2 and 4.4. From 2001 to 2007 (his administration), the Gross Domestic Products grew from 2.45 to 4.4 then dropped to 3.2. This last GDP was with both chambers run by Democrats.
The Bush economic policies set a record straight 52 months of job growth according to Meet the Press.
The Dow closed at 12,600.
In December, 2006, the unemployment rate stood at 4.6%
Then came January, 2007- the day the lights went out in the United States.
That’s when Democrats took over. For the first time since 1995, the Democrats controlled both chambers, although under a Republican president. That was the 110th Congress.
In January, 2007, Barney Frank, Democrat, took over the House Financial Services Committee and Chris Dodd took over the Senate Banking Committee, Nancy Pelosi the House, Harry Reid the Senate.
Take a look at the political makeup in Washington at that point.
Democrats controlled both chambers; Democrats headed up Financial Services and Senate Banking.
Bush faced a hostile Congress the next three years
Now you tell me.
Whose fault was the economic meltdown that came 15 months later, the lame duck president or the two chambers controlled by a hostile party that opposed Bush until they could get their own president? Remember, Congress controls the budget.
Then there was Fannie and Freddie, and the blame was placed on Bush. But look again at what Congressman Artur Davis, D-Al had to say on September 30, 2008. “Like a lot of my Democratic colleagues I was too slow to appreciate the recklessness of Fannie and Freddie. I defended their efforts to encourage affordable homeownership when in retrospect I should have heeded the concerns raised by their regulator in 2004. Frankly, I wish my Democratic colleagues would admit when it comes to Fannie and Freddie, we were wrong.”
In 2003, Bush urged Congress to tighten regulations on Fannie and Freddie, but Congress did nothing. In fact, Barney Frank suggested the administration had a ‘sky is falling’ wish.
Congress and Obama as a young senator fought against reform of Freddie and Fannie.
That doesn’t surprise me nor would it you if you knew that Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae paid off politicians for their support. John Kerry was given $165,000; Barack Obama $126,000. and Chris Dodd, $120,000.
Congress is responsible for budgets, not the president. Using continuing resolutions, Reid and Pelosi bypassed Bush those last years while waiting for Obama to take over.
From 2008 on, Democrats in both chambers had complete control of budget and the spending.
Whatever Obama inherited from 2007 came from two Democrat chambers. Whatever he’s inherited since came from him.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
Unfortunately, you’re in the minority. Such a small percentage of knowledgeable readers sometimes makes me wonder what’s the use to constantly point out the draconian future that lies ahead of us if we maintain our present course.
But that in itself, is the reason to keep trying. There are dreary times ahead unless you don’t mind paying seventy or eighty percent of your income as taxes.
As you know by now, the Supreme Court ruled that Obamacare will be funded by taxes—taxes—IRS—that sort of thing to the tune of 16,000 plus new IRS hires to make sure we pay up. Got it?
I ran across a little explanation the other day that rips all the flowery rhetoric from the political ‘rose-covered-glasses’ discourses and gives a simple account of just where America is today financially.
You know, and if you don’t you should, that recently, the United States credit rating was downgraded by Standard & Poors from AAA to AA, a first in our history.
And that isn’t the kind of first of which we can brag.
Why did this happen?
Simple. Too much debt.
If you have lousy credit, you pay more to borrow.
And that’s where we’re heading, No, that’s where we are.
Look at the following figures.
U.S. Tax Revenue $2,170.000,000,000
Federal Budget $3,820,000,000,000
New Debt $1,650,000,000,000
National Debt $14,271,000,000,000
Recent Budget Cuts $38,500,000,000
If you’re like me, all those zeroes are confusing. The author of this little matrix made it simple by removing eight zeroes from each line to approximate an average family’s budget.
Annual income $21,700.
Family budget $38,200.
New credit card debt $16,500.
Balance on credit cards$142,170.
Total Budget Cuts $385.
Now that’s sobering, and the figures are constantly changing, and not downward—except maybe budget cuts.
Right now, I can hear folks nodding and saying, “Yep. That blasted Bush. He done it all.”
Well, maybe we need to look at it from a little different perspective.
Before you grunt and figure I’m making excuses for him, figure again. There were events in his administration of which I didn’t approve; there were events that gave him no choice unless some of you think he should have asked the radical Muslins to forgive us for putting heavily populated buildings in front of airplanes they had stolen.
The last quarter of 2006, the country under the Bush administration had a quarterly GDP of 3.2 right on the heels of another 3.2 and 4.4. From 2001 to 2007 (his administration), the Gross Domestic Products grew from 2.45 to 4.4 then dropped to 3.2. This last GDP was with both chambers run by Democrats.
The Bush economic policies set a record straight 52 months of job growth according to Meet the Press.
The Dow closed at 12,600.
In December, 2006, the unemployment rate stood at 4.6%
Then came January, 2007- the day the lights went out in the United States.
That’s when Democrats took over. For the first time since 1995, the Democrats controlled both chambers, although under a Republican president. That was the 110th Congress.
In January, 2007, Barney Frank, Democrat, took over the House Financial Services Committee and Chris Dodd took over the Senate Banking Committee, Nancy Pelosi the House, Harry Reid the Senate.
Take a look at the political makeup in Washington at that point.
Democrats controlled both chambers; Democrats headed up Financial Services and Senate Banking.
Bush faced a hostile Congress the next three years
Now you tell me.
Whose fault was the economic meltdown that came 15 months later, the lame duck president or the two chambers controlled by a hostile party that opposed Bush until they could get their own president? Remember, Congress controls the budget.
Then there was Fannie and Freddie, and the blame was placed on Bush. But look again at what Congressman Artur Davis, D-Al had to say on September 30, 2008. “Like a lot of my Democratic colleagues I was too slow to appreciate the recklessness of Fannie and Freddie. I defended their efforts to encourage affordable homeownership when in retrospect I should have heeded the concerns raised by their regulator in 2004. Frankly, I wish my Democratic colleagues would admit when it comes to Fannie and Freddie, we were wrong.”
In 2003, Bush urged Congress to tighten regulations on Fannie and Freddie, but Congress did nothing. In fact, Barney Frank suggested the administration had a ‘sky is falling’ wish.
Congress and Obama as a young senator fought against reform of Freddie and Fannie.
That doesn’t surprise me nor would it you if you knew that Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae paid off politicians for their support. John Kerry was given $165,000; Barack Obama $126,000. and Chris Dodd, $120,000.
Congress is responsible for budgets, not the president. Using continuing resolutions, Reid and Pelosi bypassed Bush those last years while waiting for Obama to take over.
From 2008 on, Democrats in both chambers had complete control of budget and the spending.
Whatever Obama inherited from 2007 came from two Democrat chambers. Whatever he’s inherited since came from him.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
July 5, 2012
The Great Horned Toad Escapade
A couple weeks we attended the closing session of our two grandsons’ Vacation Bible School at Proctor Street Baptist Church.
It’s a fine church, led by a dedicated minister, supported by committed staff members, sustained by tireless volunteers, and blessed with faithful parishioners.
Now, VBS today isn’t a whole lot different than when I was in vacation bible school back in the Middle Ages. I guess the big difference is in the music today. It’s sort of what I’d call hip-hop. For all I know it might be ‘rip rap’ or ‘slip-slap’, but whatever it is, the little ones really get with it, and the message remains the same. And I have no doubt Jesus is tapping His toes right along with them.
Sitting out there in the sanctuary, I looked on as grade by grade sang their little songs they’d worked so hard on throughout the week.
I have to say, the youngsters put on a good show, and to a single one, they were all well behaved, not like some of us when we were in the spotlight.
And that brings me around to one of the worst, but most deserved spankings I ever got. Vacation bible school was right in the middle of it.
That’s right.
Now Dad was not a church-goer. Mom dutifully pulled my brother and me out of bed every Sunday and out of the mud holes on Wednesday and headed out for church.
Now up in the Texas Panhandle, horned toads abounded.
For those who have no idea what a horned toad (we called they horny toads) looked like, they were miniature creatures from Jurassic Park. Sort of light brown in color, they sported two spiked horns protruding from their heads and several smaller spikes covering their backs.
They were gentle creatures. You could turn them on their backs and rub their tummies and they’d go to sleep. There was rumor that they would spit blood in your eyes and blind you, but I never saw any evidence of it. At the same time, even when I was rubbing their bellies, I was mighty cautious to keep the little guys at arm’s length.
Biggest one I ever laid eyes on was about five or six inches long and four wide. Real old timers. Come spring, tiny horny toads were everywhere, little one-inchers, and those are the ones that caused Jerry and me all the trouble.
No, truth is Jerry and me caused Jerry and me all the trouble. For seventy years I’ve put the blame on those little horny toads, but the truth is, we two mischievous boys were the blame.
Now at our vacation bible school, we sang traditional hymns, never venturing into different types of music. For two eleven-year-old boys, standing before a congregation and singing half-a-dozen hymns gets sort of boring.
Now I had an uncle who smoked Bull Durham cigarettes. He always had empty tobacco bags around, so Jerry and I stashed a dozen or so horny toads in a bag, and he slipped it in his pocket.
We figured on turning them loose among the girls when we kids all gathered for refreshments after the service, but to our horror, the little toads slipped out of the bag while we were singing. Jerry later claimed some of the horns were sticking him through the thin cloth and he was trying to move them around. Whatever the reason, twelve or thirteen little horny toads shot out of his pocket and scattered like a covey of quail right under the feet of the choir.
Best I can recollect, we were in the middle of “Jesus Loves Me” when the screaming broke out. The word ‘loves’ turned into shrieks.
The girls in the choir clambered over the chairs, Two or three of the smaller boys shouted with glee and scrambled to catch a toad, the preacher’s face grew red, the congregation roared, and Mom fainted.
A couple little fellers must have made it into the congregation for half-a dozen or so little old white-haired ladies all around the sanctuary popped to their feet and screamed.
If today’s Child Protective Services had seen my rear and legs after my spanking, they’d probably have tried to arrest Dad, which would have been s dreadful mistake on their part.
Things were a heck of a lot different back then.
Strange isn’t it. There I was in Proctor Street Church, listening to the little ones I cherish so much and at the same time, remembering the past with sweet nostalgia.
The only thing the VBS kids turned loose at Proctor Street was the Spirit of the Lord and a lot of fun.
My younger grandson, Mikey, is shy. The first couple songs, he sort of laid back, but when the third came along, the kids were swinging their arms and bouncing around like rubber balls, the little squirt jumped feet first into the singing and dancing. I was proud as punch of that boy.
Keegan, the older of the two knows no stranger. He stood out in front of all of them, although I don’t think he was supposed to. He swung his arms and danced to all three of the songs.
But the little guy who stole the show looked to be about four or so. He bounced back and forth across the stage in time to the beat of the music, fell to the carpet, twirled on his back, leaped to his feet, did some break dancing, and dropped to the floor again.
If any of us had done that as a kid, all of our moms would have fainted and our fathers would have reached for belts.
Afterward we visited their rooms, saw their work, then drifted over to the gym for ice cream.
And there’s no doubt in my mind the Good Lord was looking down with a big smile on his face just like He did that time when a four-year-old, dressed in a black western outfit, stepped through the back doors of the sanctuary of the Wheeler Methodist Church during offering with two cap pistols in hand and told everyone ‘this is a hold-up’.
But that’s another memory for another time..
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
It’s a fine church, led by a dedicated minister, supported by committed staff members, sustained by tireless volunteers, and blessed with faithful parishioners.
Now, VBS today isn’t a whole lot different than when I was in vacation bible school back in the Middle Ages. I guess the big difference is in the music today. It’s sort of what I’d call hip-hop. For all I know it might be ‘rip rap’ or ‘slip-slap’, but whatever it is, the little ones really get with it, and the message remains the same. And I have no doubt Jesus is tapping His toes right along with them.
Sitting out there in the sanctuary, I looked on as grade by grade sang their little songs they’d worked so hard on throughout the week.
I have to say, the youngsters put on a good show, and to a single one, they were all well behaved, not like some of us when we were in the spotlight.
And that brings me around to one of the worst, but most deserved spankings I ever got. Vacation bible school was right in the middle of it.
That’s right.
Now Dad was not a church-goer. Mom dutifully pulled my brother and me out of bed every Sunday and out of the mud holes on Wednesday and headed out for church.
Now up in the Texas Panhandle, horned toads abounded.
For those who have no idea what a horned toad (we called they horny toads) looked like, they were miniature creatures from Jurassic Park. Sort of light brown in color, they sported two spiked horns protruding from their heads and several smaller spikes covering their backs.
They were gentle creatures. You could turn them on their backs and rub their tummies and they’d go to sleep. There was rumor that they would spit blood in your eyes and blind you, but I never saw any evidence of it. At the same time, even when I was rubbing their bellies, I was mighty cautious to keep the little guys at arm’s length.
Biggest one I ever laid eyes on was about five or six inches long and four wide. Real old timers. Come spring, tiny horny toads were everywhere, little one-inchers, and those are the ones that caused Jerry and me all the trouble.
No, truth is Jerry and me caused Jerry and me all the trouble. For seventy years I’ve put the blame on those little horny toads, but the truth is, we two mischievous boys were the blame.
Now at our vacation bible school, we sang traditional hymns, never venturing into different types of music. For two eleven-year-old boys, standing before a congregation and singing half-a-dozen hymns gets sort of boring.
Now I had an uncle who smoked Bull Durham cigarettes. He always had empty tobacco bags around, so Jerry and I stashed a dozen or so horny toads in a bag, and he slipped it in his pocket.
We figured on turning them loose among the girls when we kids all gathered for refreshments after the service, but to our horror, the little toads slipped out of the bag while we were singing. Jerry later claimed some of the horns were sticking him through the thin cloth and he was trying to move them around. Whatever the reason, twelve or thirteen little horny toads shot out of his pocket and scattered like a covey of quail right under the feet of the choir.
Best I can recollect, we were in the middle of “Jesus Loves Me” when the screaming broke out. The word ‘loves’ turned into shrieks.
The girls in the choir clambered over the chairs, Two or three of the smaller boys shouted with glee and scrambled to catch a toad, the preacher’s face grew red, the congregation roared, and Mom fainted.
A couple little fellers must have made it into the congregation for half-a dozen or so little old white-haired ladies all around the sanctuary popped to their feet and screamed.
If today’s Child Protective Services had seen my rear and legs after my spanking, they’d probably have tried to arrest Dad, which would have been s dreadful mistake on their part.
Things were a heck of a lot different back then.
Strange isn’t it. There I was in Proctor Street Church, listening to the little ones I cherish so much and at the same time, remembering the past with sweet nostalgia.
The only thing the VBS kids turned loose at Proctor Street was the Spirit of the Lord and a lot of fun.
My younger grandson, Mikey, is shy. The first couple songs, he sort of laid back, but when the third came along, the kids were swinging their arms and bouncing around like rubber balls, the little squirt jumped feet first into the singing and dancing. I was proud as punch of that boy.
Keegan, the older of the two knows no stranger. He stood out in front of all of them, although I don’t think he was supposed to. He swung his arms and danced to all three of the songs.
But the little guy who stole the show looked to be about four or so. He bounced back and forth across the stage in time to the beat of the music, fell to the carpet, twirled on his back, leaped to his feet, did some break dancing, and dropped to the floor again.
If any of us had done that as a kid, all of our moms would have fainted and our fathers would have reached for belts.
Afterward we visited their rooms, saw their work, then drifted over to the gym for ice cream.
And there’s no doubt in my mind the Good Lord was looking down with a big smile on his face just like He did that time when a four-year-old, dressed in a black western outfit, stepped through the back doors of the sanctuary of the Wheeler Methodist Church during offering with two cap pistols in hand and told everyone ‘this is a hold-up’.
But that’s another memory for another time..
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
June 27, 2012
Old Fashioned Fourth
The Fourth of July!
The very words conjure up rockets blazing across a black sky; fiery explosions lighting the night; and racketing firecrackers shattering the air.
To a youngster up in the Texas Panhandle, the Fourth was second only to Christmas.
Independence Day!
The one day for which we’d hoard our pennies for strings of Black Cat firecrackers, rockets, Roman candles, torpedoes, cherry bombs, baby giants, and sparklers.
I’ve always figured myself lucky to have both a town parent and a country parent.
Let me explain.
Dad grew up in town. Although there were only around 800 folks who lived there, their way of life was different than Mom’s, who lived on a farm ten or twelve miles out of town with her folks and seven siblings.
One of the older sisters, Elva, had earned a beautician’s license, married, and lived in town with her carpenter husband, Jake Green, whose folks owned one of the town’s two hardware stores.
On some holidays, the Fourth included, Mom’s family gathered at Elva’s for the two or three days of family reunion.
Back then, most families were never too far apart that they couldn’t spend four or five hours getting to a central spot.
And always, the women would sit in the house and bring each other up to date on family and neighbors, and the men would squat in the shade of the old oak out back, sipping beer or whatever other beverage was handy.
Out-of-town families came early, and usually there were so many that mattresses were spread on the floors and even in the yard to accommodate sleepers.
That was something I noticed early on. Town families seldom spread pallets or mattresses; country families spread them everywhere. If you had to pay the bathroom a visit at night, you had to clamber over half-a-dozen snoozing folks.
The Fourth was the one day the adults just about ignored us youngsters, knowing as long as they could hear firecrackers popping and kids screaming in glee, no one had drowned in the creek or had been run over by a passing car.
Those holidays in the years right after the war were the ones I remember most vividly for all the men had fought overseas. Some had been wounded, but they all returned.
Now, me and my cousins were typical boys, full of vim and vigor with a heaping tablespoon of mischievousness tossed in for good measure. We were boisterous, loud, prying, and daring. Nothing could hurt us. Of that we were certain. I admit, we could get carried away at times, but instead of Ritalin, our folks used a much more effective medicine. And you didn’t need a prescription for it although it was mighty good for what ailed us. It was called, Leather Belt. Believe me, it cured whatever was bothering us at the time.
Too bad parents today have forgotten it.
Even before sun up, we cousins were all out popping firecrackers. One of our favorite contests was to see how high we could blow a can into the air.
Now, this is was way back before lighter punks, so our older cousin stole a pack of Camel cigarettes from his old man. We lit up. Usually one Camel would take us through a whole string of Black Cats if we popped them one at a time.
There isn’t a boy alive who, given firecrackers and a can, soon doesn’t grow tired of sending the can flying. He looks for further adventure, and one of my cousins found it with rocks stuffed down a pipe.
We huddled around him out between the garage and my uncle’s glassed-in chicken brooder(with a lot of glass) so we’d be out of sight for the grownups. My cousin dropped a handful of rocks in a two-inch pipe about a foot long and stuck a firecracker at the other end. When he lit it, he jammed the firecracker end against the garage wall. Well, in that position, the only way the pipe could point was at the brooder.
I’ll say this. The experiment worked beautifully. Of course, it shattered the brooder. His dad gave him a blistering dose of Leather Belt, made him sit with the men for a few minutes, then turned him loose again. Retribution back then was quick and painful.
We coveted baby giants and cherry bombs. Their fuses were coated with something so they would burn underwater.
We’d tie a baby giant to a rock and toss them in the water. When the firecracker exploded, it was like one of the depth charges you saw at the picture show. Once, Jerry came up with several boxes of Rit Dye. Those were neat, for we’d sink a box with a cherry bomb and when we blew it up, the stain would float to the surface just like in the movies.
More than once, Roman candle fights would erupt with our chasing each other around the yard, ignoring the men cussing us when random balls fell into their midst, sending them scrambling.
At night we set off the rockets, mesmerized by their graceful flaming arcs into a black sky filled with glittering diamonds. In the back of every one of our hooligan heads as we watched the rocket was the wonder of what travel through space was like.
And that night, even before our heads hit the pillow on our pallet, we were asleep. Half-a-dozen, grimy, sweaty little cousins who had put in one busy day.
Yep, all was right with the world.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
The very words conjure up rockets blazing across a black sky; fiery explosions lighting the night; and racketing firecrackers shattering the air.
To a youngster up in the Texas Panhandle, the Fourth was second only to Christmas.
Independence Day!
The one day for which we’d hoard our pennies for strings of Black Cat firecrackers, rockets, Roman candles, torpedoes, cherry bombs, baby giants, and sparklers.
I’ve always figured myself lucky to have both a town parent and a country parent.
Let me explain.
Dad grew up in town. Although there were only around 800 folks who lived there, their way of life was different than Mom’s, who lived on a farm ten or twelve miles out of town with her folks and seven siblings.
One of the older sisters, Elva, had earned a beautician’s license, married, and lived in town with her carpenter husband, Jake Green, whose folks owned one of the town’s two hardware stores.
On some holidays, the Fourth included, Mom’s family gathered at Elva’s for the two or three days of family reunion.
Back then, most families were never too far apart that they couldn’t spend four or five hours getting to a central spot.
And always, the women would sit in the house and bring each other up to date on family and neighbors, and the men would squat in the shade of the old oak out back, sipping beer or whatever other beverage was handy.
Out-of-town families came early, and usually there were so many that mattresses were spread on the floors and even in the yard to accommodate sleepers.
That was something I noticed early on. Town families seldom spread pallets or mattresses; country families spread them everywhere. If you had to pay the bathroom a visit at night, you had to clamber over half-a-dozen snoozing folks.
The Fourth was the one day the adults just about ignored us youngsters, knowing as long as they could hear firecrackers popping and kids screaming in glee, no one had drowned in the creek or had been run over by a passing car.
Those holidays in the years right after the war were the ones I remember most vividly for all the men had fought overseas. Some had been wounded, but they all returned.
Now, me and my cousins were typical boys, full of vim and vigor with a heaping tablespoon of mischievousness tossed in for good measure. We were boisterous, loud, prying, and daring. Nothing could hurt us. Of that we were certain. I admit, we could get carried away at times, but instead of Ritalin, our folks used a much more effective medicine. And you didn’t need a prescription for it although it was mighty good for what ailed us. It was called, Leather Belt. Believe me, it cured whatever was bothering us at the time.
Too bad parents today have forgotten it.
Even before sun up, we cousins were all out popping firecrackers. One of our favorite contests was to see how high we could blow a can into the air.
Now, this is was way back before lighter punks, so our older cousin stole a pack of Camel cigarettes from his old man. We lit up. Usually one Camel would take us through a whole string of Black Cats if we popped them one at a time.
There isn’t a boy alive who, given firecrackers and a can, soon doesn’t grow tired of sending the can flying. He looks for further adventure, and one of my cousins found it with rocks stuffed down a pipe.
We huddled around him out between the garage and my uncle’s glassed-in chicken brooder(with a lot of glass) so we’d be out of sight for the grownups. My cousin dropped a handful of rocks in a two-inch pipe about a foot long and stuck a firecracker at the other end. When he lit it, he jammed the firecracker end against the garage wall. Well, in that position, the only way the pipe could point was at the brooder.
I’ll say this. The experiment worked beautifully. Of course, it shattered the brooder. His dad gave him a blistering dose of Leather Belt, made him sit with the men for a few minutes, then turned him loose again. Retribution back then was quick and painful.
We coveted baby giants and cherry bombs. Their fuses were coated with something so they would burn underwater.
We’d tie a baby giant to a rock and toss them in the water. When the firecracker exploded, it was like one of the depth charges you saw at the picture show. Once, Jerry came up with several boxes of Rit Dye. Those were neat, for we’d sink a box with a cherry bomb and when we blew it up, the stain would float to the surface just like in the movies.
More than once, Roman candle fights would erupt with our chasing each other around the yard, ignoring the men cussing us when random balls fell into their midst, sending them scrambling.
At night we set off the rockets, mesmerized by their graceful flaming arcs into a black sky filled with glittering diamonds. In the back of every one of our hooligan heads as we watched the rocket was the wonder of what travel through space was like.
And that night, even before our heads hit the pillow on our pallet, we were asleep. Half-a-dozen, grimy, sweaty little cousins who had put in one busy day.
Yep, all was right with the world.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
June 20, 2012
Orphaned at Seventy-Six
No, I’m not referring to the trauma of losing family. I can think of nothing as frightening, as distressing, as tragic as children being left without loving parents.
The orphaning of which I speak is part of the sometimes confusing lexicon employed by the writing community, whether fiction or non-fiction. Everyday I learn words I never knew existed. Dystopian! You ever hear of it? A dystopia is the idea of a society in a repressive and controlled state, often under the guise of being utopian.
Break the word into syllables, and you can see how the meaning evolved.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about literary orphaning.
Basically, what it means is that the editor with whom a writer has been working and selling has moved on either to another imprint or employment, leaving the author high and dry. The unfortunate writer must start all over in meeting the perceptions of the new editor.
Well maybe not all over. The author is known within the house, so any new editor will pick up from his and her coworkers various details about each particular author.
After fifteen years with Avalon Books, I broke into the western paperback with Leisure Books, an imprint of Dorchester. I felt okay. I had two publishers. Life was good.
At Leisure, I was the new kid on the block, I managed one book a year with them, but after a few years, I started working on two novels a year.
And then it happened. Leisure cut staff including several editors, mine among them. Overnight, I was all alone. I sat like a dummy staring at two completed westerns and a third within three weeks of completion.
Some of the better known writers were able to jump to other houses, but many of us were left searching for an editor in another house who would read our manuscripts. Unlike romantic westerns, historical western fiction is hard to sell for the demand for that genre has declined precipitously in the last few decades. The houses shy away from unknowns, content for the most part to stay with the well known, Zane Grey, Max Brand, and others as such who have fans who come back and back and back.
I hadn’t been in traditional westerns long enough to garner such a following.
Now, there are other westerns in demand, the adult western, for example, which is a racy story set in the west. Unlike traditional westerns where just about the only kiss our hero gets is from his horse, the adult western is more erotic within the storyline. (and when I say more, I mean more)
Erotic romance is a sizzling seller. Of course, romance itself is a great seller. The magnificent ladies in my Avalon group can testify to that.
Leisure going under was shock enough, but then just recently we learned that Avalon Books had been sold to Amazon, all of us, who probably number in the hundreds, are working to make the transition.
Avalon has been a fine publisher. I’ve been with them twenty-one years. They offered my kind of family type hardbacks, and their primary customers were libraries, some 3,500 around the country I’ve been told.
I don’t know any details, but I guess they got caught up in the change sweeping through publishing today. I’d been with them since 1991.
From what we Avalon authors have heard, we can submit new manuscripts to Amazon. It might work out; it might not. My colleagues of romance have a much better shot than my traditional westerns or cozy mysteries, the two types of novels I’ve published.
So here I am, having been published for the last twenty-one years, and now I find myself standing on a precipice. Do I step off or grow wings and fly?
I’m growing wings. I’m not ready to quit. I’ve submitted a horror to one of my ex-editors who had moved to another house. I did the same with a western to another ex-editor, and a cozy mystery to an ex-editor who is now an agent.
It’s like starting over except now I have an idea how to play the game. And with the explosion of ebooks, there seems to be a new game in town.
Besides most of my writer colleagues write because they can’t ‘not write’. I’m the same. There comes a satisfaction in finding the right word, forming the exact expression, describing the perfect picture. Real writers understand what I’m saying.
That little piece of philosophy having been said, the pay sure helps too.
The only way you discover what lies beyond the hill is keep walking. One of my goals in life is to reach a 100. That gives me 24 years to get back into the game.
Wish me luck.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
The orphaning of which I speak is part of the sometimes confusing lexicon employed by the writing community, whether fiction or non-fiction. Everyday I learn words I never knew existed. Dystopian! You ever hear of it? A dystopia is the idea of a society in a repressive and controlled state, often under the guise of being utopian.
Break the word into syllables, and you can see how the meaning evolved.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about literary orphaning.
Basically, what it means is that the editor with whom a writer has been working and selling has moved on either to another imprint or employment, leaving the author high and dry. The unfortunate writer must start all over in meeting the perceptions of the new editor.
Well maybe not all over. The author is known within the house, so any new editor will pick up from his and her coworkers various details about each particular author.
After fifteen years with Avalon Books, I broke into the western paperback with Leisure Books, an imprint of Dorchester. I felt okay. I had two publishers. Life was good.
At Leisure, I was the new kid on the block, I managed one book a year with them, but after a few years, I started working on two novels a year.
And then it happened. Leisure cut staff including several editors, mine among them. Overnight, I was all alone. I sat like a dummy staring at two completed westerns and a third within three weeks of completion.
Some of the better known writers were able to jump to other houses, but many of us were left searching for an editor in another house who would read our manuscripts. Unlike romantic westerns, historical western fiction is hard to sell for the demand for that genre has declined precipitously in the last few decades. The houses shy away from unknowns, content for the most part to stay with the well known, Zane Grey, Max Brand, and others as such who have fans who come back and back and back.
I hadn’t been in traditional westerns long enough to garner such a following.
Now, there are other westerns in demand, the adult western, for example, which is a racy story set in the west. Unlike traditional westerns where just about the only kiss our hero gets is from his horse, the adult western is more erotic within the storyline. (and when I say more, I mean more)
Erotic romance is a sizzling seller. Of course, romance itself is a great seller. The magnificent ladies in my Avalon group can testify to that.
Leisure going under was shock enough, but then just recently we learned that Avalon Books had been sold to Amazon, all of us, who probably number in the hundreds, are working to make the transition.
Avalon has been a fine publisher. I’ve been with them twenty-one years. They offered my kind of family type hardbacks, and their primary customers were libraries, some 3,500 around the country I’ve been told.
I don’t know any details, but I guess they got caught up in the change sweeping through publishing today. I’d been with them since 1991.
From what we Avalon authors have heard, we can submit new manuscripts to Amazon. It might work out; it might not. My colleagues of romance have a much better shot than my traditional westerns or cozy mysteries, the two types of novels I’ve published.
So here I am, having been published for the last twenty-one years, and now I find myself standing on a precipice. Do I step off or grow wings and fly?
I’m growing wings. I’m not ready to quit. I’ve submitted a horror to one of my ex-editors who had moved to another house. I did the same with a western to another ex-editor, and a cozy mystery to an ex-editor who is now an agent.
It’s like starting over except now I have an idea how to play the game. And with the explosion of ebooks, there seems to be a new game in town.
Besides most of my writer colleagues write because they can’t ‘not write’. I’m the same. There comes a satisfaction in finding the right word, forming the exact expression, describing the perfect picture. Real writers understand what I’m saying.
That little piece of philosophy having been said, the pay sure helps too.
The only way you discover what lies beyond the hill is keep walking. One of my goals in life is to reach a 100. That gives me 24 years to get back into the game.
Wish me luck.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
June 13, 2012
Dogs and Fleas
When I was one of those know-it-all teenagers, my Dad constantly reminded me to pick my friends carefully. “You sleep with dogs, you get fleas,” he always told me. In other words, you’re known and influenced by the crowd with which you run.
I was fourteen. We’d lived in Fort Worth for two years, and I was fast becoming a city boy, leaving behind the backward ways of the little hick town up in the Texas Panhandle. I was worldly. I knew it all. And my old man was dumb as a stick.
In Wheeler, there were only ten or twelve boys in each grade, so naturally, that was the pool from which we garnered our pals and buddies. Everyone in town knew everyone, and if we decided to pull some stunt, Dad or one of my relatives knew about it before we even finished.
Not so in the big city. It was sprawling, filled with people, and offered blessed anonymity. Back then, ducktail haircuts, low hanging Levis, and wingtip shoes with taps on the heels were the colors.
Dad would have killed me if he’d seen me like that so I always waited until he caught the bus to work, then quickly combed in my ducktails, yanked down my jeans, and polished my taps.
It was a big thing back then swaggering the sidewalks of downtown Fort Worth, acting tough and drawing stares.
Close to the end of school, I learned exactly what Dad meant. The principal called me to the office. Several windows had been broken throughout the school the night before, and the suspects were ducktailers.
Now, I was a typical boy, mischievous, but I was too scared of my dumb-as-a-stick father to tear up anything.
Naturally, the principal did not believe me until he contacted Dad who informed him I was in bed at ten and never left the house. When questioned as to how Dad could be so certain, he responded “Kent knows I would break his neck if he sneaked out of the house.”
The principal apologized to me, then added with a gesture to my hair. “That hairdo is what the gangs wear. Maybe you should think about it.”
On the way back to class, I hastily combed out my ducktail, and that afternoon, got a hair cut.
We’re all like that. Even our president.
You know, as much as I disagree with him, I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. He’s so far in over his head, he doesn’t know which way to turn. After his inauguration, he made hundreds of appointments, surrounding himself with his people. I understand that.
He has several advisors. I have no idea how many, but from the innumerable faux pas and gaffes, counting the cabinet and his personal staff, he must be getting ideas from all sides.
His problem is he can’t winnow through their suggestions ore recommendation for their true value. In a way, it isn’t his fault for he jumped into a job he can’t handle.
It’s kinda like an old boy charming a foreman into a job, and when the foreman tells him to grab a hammer, the old boy responds ‘what’s a hammer?’
All you have to do is look around at the tangled shreds of poor judgment.
Who doesn’t remember his ‘the private sector is doing fine,’ remark. When you-know-what hit the fan, he crawfished. It is absolutely not doing fine, he proclaimed a couple days later.
Why was he so far off base?
His advisors, and the fact he’s really wandering around out there in Lala Land.
The only way he could have gotten that little gem of BS is from his top advisor, David Axelrod, who clamed the private sector was doing better than the public sector in spending.
You bet. Private business is doing better than government entities?
Axelrod needs to do his homework for according to the National Association of State Budget Officers, states spending from their general funds climbed in 2011 by 14% over 2008, yet Axelrod says just the opposite.
It’s the blind leading the blind up there, and we’re being carried along with them against our will.
Dana Milbank gave a microcosm of Obama’s years in office from incidents of just the last few weeks.
Job growth stalled, 69,000; sane fiscal thinking ruled in Wisconsin; the attorney general is facing Congressional contempt charges; Commerce Secretary Bryson faces felony hit and run charges; war talks surface with Pakistan; Bill Clinton contradicts Obama; Romney raises more money; both parties complain about the ‘cascade’ of national security leaks from Obama’s administration; and, says Milbank with tongue firmly in cheek, ‘he claims the private sector is doing fine.’
Don’t forget the U.S. attempt to plant viruses in the computers at the nuclear facilities in Iran or the ‘fast and furious’ gun-running project that resulted in the death of U.S. agents.
If Dad were alive, he’d simply nod and say ‘Mister Obama surrounded himself with the wrong people. Academic ignoramuses who teach because they can’t do! What other results can you expect? Remember what I told you, Kent. Sleep with dogs and you get fleas.”
I haven’t worn ducktails for over sixty-two years, and I still wonder how Dad got so smart.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
I was fourteen. We’d lived in Fort Worth for two years, and I was fast becoming a city boy, leaving behind the backward ways of the little hick town up in the Texas Panhandle. I was worldly. I knew it all. And my old man was dumb as a stick.
In Wheeler, there were only ten or twelve boys in each grade, so naturally, that was the pool from which we garnered our pals and buddies. Everyone in town knew everyone, and if we decided to pull some stunt, Dad or one of my relatives knew about it before we even finished.
Not so in the big city. It was sprawling, filled with people, and offered blessed anonymity. Back then, ducktail haircuts, low hanging Levis, and wingtip shoes with taps on the heels were the colors.
Dad would have killed me if he’d seen me like that so I always waited until he caught the bus to work, then quickly combed in my ducktails, yanked down my jeans, and polished my taps.
It was a big thing back then swaggering the sidewalks of downtown Fort Worth, acting tough and drawing stares.
Close to the end of school, I learned exactly what Dad meant. The principal called me to the office. Several windows had been broken throughout the school the night before, and the suspects were ducktailers.
Now, I was a typical boy, mischievous, but I was too scared of my dumb-as-a-stick father to tear up anything.
Naturally, the principal did not believe me until he contacted Dad who informed him I was in bed at ten and never left the house. When questioned as to how Dad could be so certain, he responded “Kent knows I would break his neck if he sneaked out of the house.”
The principal apologized to me, then added with a gesture to my hair. “That hairdo is what the gangs wear. Maybe you should think about it.”
On the way back to class, I hastily combed out my ducktail, and that afternoon, got a hair cut.
We’re all like that. Even our president.
You know, as much as I disagree with him, I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. He’s so far in over his head, he doesn’t know which way to turn. After his inauguration, he made hundreds of appointments, surrounding himself with his people. I understand that.
He has several advisors. I have no idea how many, but from the innumerable faux pas and gaffes, counting the cabinet and his personal staff, he must be getting ideas from all sides.
His problem is he can’t winnow through their suggestions ore recommendation for their true value. In a way, it isn’t his fault for he jumped into a job he can’t handle.
It’s kinda like an old boy charming a foreman into a job, and when the foreman tells him to grab a hammer, the old boy responds ‘what’s a hammer?’
All you have to do is look around at the tangled shreds of poor judgment.
Who doesn’t remember his ‘the private sector is doing fine,’ remark. When you-know-what hit the fan, he crawfished. It is absolutely not doing fine, he proclaimed a couple days later.
Why was he so far off base?
His advisors, and the fact he’s really wandering around out there in Lala Land.
The only way he could have gotten that little gem of BS is from his top advisor, David Axelrod, who clamed the private sector was doing better than the public sector in spending.
You bet. Private business is doing better than government entities?
Axelrod needs to do his homework for according to the National Association of State Budget Officers, states spending from their general funds climbed in 2011 by 14% over 2008, yet Axelrod says just the opposite.
It’s the blind leading the blind up there, and we’re being carried along with them against our will.
Dana Milbank gave a microcosm of Obama’s years in office from incidents of just the last few weeks.
Job growth stalled, 69,000; sane fiscal thinking ruled in Wisconsin; the attorney general is facing Congressional contempt charges; Commerce Secretary Bryson faces felony hit and run charges; war talks surface with Pakistan; Bill Clinton contradicts Obama; Romney raises more money; both parties complain about the ‘cascade’ of national security leaks from Obama’s administration; and, says Milbank with tongue firmly in cheek, ‘he claims the private sector is doing fine.’
Don’t forget the U.S. attempt to plant viruses in the computers at the nuclear facilities in Iran or the ‘fast and furious’ gun-running project that resulted in the death of U.S. agents.
If Dad were alive, he’d simply nod and say ‘Mister Obama surrounded himself with the wrong people. Academic ignoramuses who teach because they can’t do! What other results can you expect? Remember what I told you, Kent. Sleep with dogs and you get fleas.”
I haven’t worn ducktails for over sixty-two years, and I still wonder how Dad got so smart.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
June 4, 2012
D-Day in a Small Texas Town
I’ve always been a chump for memories of my childhood up in the Texas Panhandle. Probably just like many of you have of your own youth.
We didn’t have much, but then neither did anyone else except for a few business owners and big ranchers. None of us were really poor. We always had our three meals a day, occasional movies (we called them picture shows—and even today, that euphemism still slips out)
A few days back, I ran across a column I had written a few years back regarding D-Day in an effort to capture a small country town’s reaction to such a momentous event in history.
I thought my readers might enjoy it once again.
June 6, 1944 was the first Tuesday after school was turned out for the summer in Wheeler, Texas. It meant nothing to any of us. We had never heard the term ‘D-Day.’
You see, D-Day was just a common name routinely given to the date of every planned offensive during World War II. It was coined in World War I before the massive U.S. attack at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in France. And so naturally, it was applied to the Invasion of Normandy as it was all major offensives.
As I mentioned, we kids in that little Texas town far up in the Panhandle knew nothing of D-Day. For us, it was summer, free, joyous summer. As every summer, the first couple weeks, we’d ride our bikes along the hard-packed roads, through the forest the community called a park, jump the creek, rumble over ancient, wood-plank bridges, and lie in the shade after dinner (our noon meal) staring at the fluffy clouds drifting by in the sky as blue as robin’s egg. If you used your imagination, you could spot every animal on Noah’s ark plus a bunch that had missed it.
After all these years, my memory’s sort of shaky, but it was either Tuesday or Wednesday of that week that to my chagrin, I learned had had to chop cotton instead of a carefree ride around town on my trusty New Departure bicycle.
Dad was overseas, and Mom had planted five acres of corn that she planned on us selling in nearby Pampa and Shamrock to earn some extra money.
So I wasn’t in a good mood, and I probably chopped more cornstalks than I did weeds until she caught me. The third time she yelled at me, she started looking around for something to switch my legs.
To my relief, Papa Conwell drove up about then. My brother, Sammy, was just a toddler, so Mom picked him up and we hurried to the end of the row to see what Papa wanted. I was hoping he wanted to take me out to his lake, but that wasn’t why he was there.
Wartime in a small town back then was much different than it would be today. Everyone was caught up in it. Radios were always turned to the news. Of course most of the news was weeks old, but for the last month or so, rumors had been thick and heavy that something big was going to happen. All the grown-ups speculated as to what might take place.
From the old boys down at the pool hall to the local preachers, everyone thought he knew what the Allied Forces had up their sleeve. Now, let me point out here that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that America would win the war. No matter how long it took, we would prevail. I can’t help wondering what some of those old-timers back then would think of us today.
Anyway, back to my story.
When we reached Papa’s car, he didn’t even say ‘hi’. All he said was ‘We invaded Normandy.”
The only word I understood in his statement was we. I wasn’t really sure what ‘invaded’ meant, and I certainly had no idea what a ‘Normandy’ was.
Mom was excited, and a bit frightened.
For the next few days, our little town didn’t come to a standstill, but it came as close as it could and still keep functioning. Crops had to be looked after, animals tended, mail delivered, and such. Everything else was just about shut down. Folks were glued to the radio while others frequented the newspaper office where breaking news was posted on the front window.
Over the next few days, we learned more. There was happiness and joy in our little town, and unfortunately as the news came in, it also brought some grief.
The Invasion of Normandy was epic, a savage battle that lasted for eleven months until May 1945 when Germany capitulated.
And then we turned the Lions of War loose on Japan.
Within a few months, it was over.
Back in the Panhandle, the nearest train station was in Shamrock, sixteen miles to the south of us. I’ll never forget that day we drove over and waited on the platform for Dad to step off the train.
The Greatest Generation had brought peace back to America and pulled a common name, D-Day, from obscurity and held it up for the world to forever recognize.
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
We didn’t have much, but then neither did anyone else except for a few business owners and big ranchers. None of us were really poor. We always had our three meals a day, occasional movies (we called them picture shows—and even today, that euphemism still slips out)
A few days back, I ran across a column I had written a few years back regarding D-Day in an effort to capture a small country town’s reaction to such a momentous event in history.
I thought my readers might enjoy it once again.
June 6, 1944 was the first Tuesday after school was turned out for the summer in Wheeler, Texas. It meant nothing to any of us. We had never heard the term ‘D-Day.’
You see, D-Day was just a common name routinely given to the date of every planned offensive during World War II. It was coined in World War I before the massive U.S. attack at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in France. And so naturally, it was applied to the Invasion of Normandy as it was all major offensives.
As I mentioned, we kids in that little Texas town far up in the Panhandle knew nothing of D-Day. For us, it was summer, free, joyous summer. As every summer, the first couple weeks, we’d ride our bikes along the hard-packed roads, through the forest the community called a park, jump the creek, rumble over ancient, wood-plank bridges, and lie in the shade after dinner (our noon meal) staring at the fluffy clouds drifting by in the sky as blue as robin’s egg. If you used your imagination, you could spot every animal on Noah’s ark plus a bunch that had missed it.
After all these years, my memory’s sort of shaky, but it was either Tuesday or Wednesday of that week that to my chagrin, I learned had had to chop cotton instead of a carefree ride around town on my trusty New Departure bicycle.
Dad was overseas, and Mom had planted five acres of corn that she planned on us selling in nearby Pampa and Shamrock to earn some extra money.
So I wasn’t in a good mood, and I probably chopped more cornstalks than I did weeds until she caught me. The third time she yelled at me, she started looking around for something to switch my legs.
To my relief, Papa Conwell drove up about then. My brother, Sammy, was just a toddler, so Mom picked him up and we hurried to the end of the row to see what Papa wanted. I was hoping he wanted to take me out to his lake, but that wasn’t why he was there.
Wartime in a small town back then was much different than it would be today. Everyone was caught up in it. Radios were always turned to the news. Of course most of the news was weeks old, but for the last month or so, rumors had been thick and heavy that something big was going to happen. All the grown-ups speculated as to what might take place.
From the old boys down at the pool hall to the local preachers, everyone thought he knew what the Allied Forces had up their sleeve. Now, let me point out here that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that America would win the war. No matter how long it took, we would prevail. I can’t help wondering what some of those old-timers back then would think of us today.
Anyway, back to my story.
When we reached Papa’s car, he didn’t even say ‘hi’. All he said was ‘We invaded Normandy.”
The only word I understood in his statement was we. I wasn’t really sure what ‘invaded’ meant, and I certainly had no idea what a ‘Normandy’ was.
Mom was excited, and a bit frightened.
For the next few days, our little town didn’t come to a standstill, but it came as close as it could and still keep functioning. Crops had to be looked after, animals tended, mail delivered, and such. Everything else was just about shut down. Folks were glued to the radio while others frequented the newspaper office where breaking news was posted on the front window.
Over the next few days, we learned more. There was happiness and joy in our little town, and unfortunately as the news came in, it also brought some grief.
The Invasion of Normandy was epic, a savage battle that lasted for eleven months until May 1945 when Germany capitulated.
And then we turned the Lions of War loose on Japan.
Within a few months, it was over.
Back in the Panhandle, the nearest train station was in Shamrock, sixteen miles to the south of us. I’ll never forget that day we drove over and waited on the platform for Dad to step off the train.
The Greatest Generation had brought peace back to America and pulled a common name, D-Day, from obscurity and held it up for the world to forever recognize.
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
May 30, 2012
Part II: A Cruise to Remember
We pulled out of Galveston on our maiden cruise at 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday. The liner, Carnival Triumph, a venue we were later to discover was akin to a small city, one neighborhood stacked on another twelve stories high.
That first day out, Gayle and I were like the proverbial mice in a maze. The only problem was, we had no scent of cheese to follow, only our instinct, and when we passed the same spot three times in thirty minutes, we realized even our instincts were numbed by such a vastly different environment.
Let me insert the observation here that everyone we encountered was very friendly. Why wouldn’t they be? We were all lost or turned around, searching for a destination that invariably would turn out to be at the other end of the ship.
On our third effort to get somewhere we hadn’t been, we ended up at the entrance to Club Monaco, Glory be! Finally we found something familiar. We could relax. In fact, we relaxed there until midnight before venturing into twelve decks of hostile territory once again to seek out our stateroom.
Eventually we found it despite getting turned around three times and passing the Vienna Café twice.
The second day, things started to look up. We found our breakfast dining room on the first try.
Later that morning, we learned the Ninth Deck was the Lido Deck. Lido is Italian for beach, a logical expression for according to my count, it housed four swimming pools, about five or six food areas, three bars, a hundred-yard twistee water-slide that only covered around a hundred linear feet, and seating for about five hundred people. The other twenty-five hundred passengers were elsewhere on the mammoth cruiser attending an eclectic assortment of activities including a dignified hairy chest contest, which I would have won except at my age, my chest has sunk too low.
Since we were in a sight-seeing mode, we made our way to the Tenth Deck where the elevators stopped. The remaining two decks were accessed by stairs of which I’d had my fill the day before when we were stumbling around like lost sheep. My left knee is slightly arthritic, but from the previous day’s climbing, it had swollen somewhat
The top deck held a kids’ playground, a basketball court, a mini-golf course, a jogging track, all of which were surrounded with chaise lounges for sunning. I have no idea how anyone managed any kind of game up there for the wind was ferocious.
And yes, there were actually people exercising. Can you believe that? All that money for a five-day cruise, and all they want to do is exercise? I don’t know, maybe my priorities are out of whack. I didn’t spend any money for the cruise, and I still wasn’t about to waste it jogging. If they wanted to jog, they could job to the Club Monaco.
But, looking out over the sea, I couldn’t help thinking of Coleridge’s words from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”
Now, there wasn’t really much to see up there except a heap of sea, but never having been out like that, we were both struck by the beauty of the blue water. I’ve seen clear water at the Florida beaches, but I had never personally seen water so blue as that surrounding us. “Almost black,” my physician commented during my last visit. And he was right, a deep blue-black.
And the foamy white wake trailing out behind us provided a sharp contrast with the deep colors.
The next morning, we docked at Cozumel, upon first glance a sleepy little village, but once you entered town, the one-time sleepy folks morphed into persistent pursuers of your money, and I mean persistent.
Our first introduction to their enduring determination to separate us from as much of our funds as possible came before we even reached shore.
You see, the concrete pier extended west of the island about three hundred yards, then cut northwest for another three or four hundred. This last dogleg is where we tied up, and hiked to shore.
Connecting the pier to the shore was a hundred yard long Customs Building packed with alcohol, perfume, jewelry, clothing, and at least a hundred hawking salespeople. Our own personal gauntlet, every last one of us had to pass through it.
Anyway, we made town, which was three steps beyond the Customs Building. We shopped; we took pictures; we oohed and ahhed at white garbed guitarists who serenaded us; we laughed at the lady who deftly twisted balloons into hats and animals; and – well you get the idea.
And then the rain fell, and fell, and fell.
Our last resort was refuge in Fat Tuesday’s, a thatched roof harbor from the weather. Now, observing that ages-old caution in Mexico, ‘don’t drink the water,’ we were forced to resort to Bud Light beer. It was unfortunate that our favorite beverage, coffee, was made out of water. And although we spotted a dozen corked water jugs in racks behind the bar, we opted to take no chances on the source of that water. Just be on the safe side, you know.
So there we were, eight hundred miles from home, sitting in a thatched-roof beer joint with three sides open, some rain spray gusting in; forced to guzzle Bud Light to quench our thirst; and unable to continue shopping to spend money.
I tell you folks. Life doesn’t get much better than that.
The weather lasted a couple hours. I felt sorta, kinda sorry for those who’d spent a chunk of change for a six-hour tour of Mayan ruins. One of the explorers was a new friend who insisted they made the best of the trek that was partially rained out by huddling under the flimsy top of a golf cart and fortifying themselves with the old standby, Bud Light.
By four-thirty, everyone had poured themselves back on board and we eased away from the pier, heading home.
The next day and half was much like the first. Relax, enjoy uninterrupted time with each other, meet new folks, discover a new dead end.
Looking back, some of my major concerns were without merit. Case in point. I couldn’t figure how they would unload—whoops, I mean, ‘disembark’ three thousand people without mass confusion.
They managed. As long as you followed their system, things moved quickly. Their methods worked so well, we walked down the gangway twenty minutes ahead of schedule. And thank the good Lord we got our passports, you know the ones I fussed over last week about the expense.
Those with only birth certificates and driver’s license were in one line, passports in another. We zipped through customs, grabbed a shuttle, hopped in the car, and waved at some new friends still in the big line as we swept past the pier.
Would we go again? Yeah. Now that we know the ropes.
And as long as the cruise line had an ample supply of Bud Light.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
That first day out, Gayle and I were like the proverbial mice in a maze. The only problem was, we had no scent of cheese to follow, only our instinct, and when we passed the same spot three times in thirty minutes, we realized even our instincts were numbed by such a vastly different environment.
Let me insert the observation here that everyone we encountered was very friendly. Why wouldn’t they be? We were all lost or turned around, searching for a destination that invariably would turn out to be at the other end of the ship.
On our third effort to get somewhere we hadn’t been, we ended up at the entrance to Club Monaco, Glory be! Finally we found something familiar. We could relax. In fact, we relaxed there until midnight before venturing into twelve decks of hostile territory once again to seek out our stateroom.
Eventually we found it despite getting turned around three times and passing the Vienna Café twice.
The second day, things started to look up. We found our breakfast dining room on the first try.
Later that morning, we learned the Ninth Deck was the Lido Deck. Lido is Italian for beach, a logical expression for according to my count, it housed four swimming pools, about five or six food areas, three bars, a hundred-yard twistee water-slide that only covered around a hundred linear feet, and seating for about five hundred people. The other twenty-five hundred passengers were elsewhere on the mammoth cruiser attending an eclectic assortment of activities including a dignified hairy chest contest, which I would have won except at my age, my chest has sunk too low.
Since we were in a sight-seeing mode, we made our way to the Tenth Deck where the elevators stopped. The remaining two decks were accessed by stairs of which I’d had my fill the day before when we were stumbling around like lost sheep. My left knee is slightly arthritic, but from the previous day’s climbing, it had swollen somewhat
The top deck held a kids’ playground, a basketball court, a mini-golf course, a jogging track, all of which were surrounded with chaise lounges for sunning. I have no idea how anyone managed any kind of game up there for the wind was ferocious.
And yes, there were actually people exercising. Can you believe that? All that money for a five-day cruise, and all they want to do is exercise? I don’t know, maybe my priorities are out of whack. I didn’t spend any money for the cruise, and I still wasn’t about to waste it jogging. If they wanted to jog, they could job to the Club Monaco.
But, looking out over the sea, I couldn’t help thinking of Coleridge’s words from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”
Now, there wasn’t really much to see up there except a heap of sea, but never having been out like that, we were both struck by the beauty of the blue water. I’ve seen clear water at the Florida beaches, but I had never personally seen water so blue as that surrounding us. “Almost black,” my physician commented during my last visit. And he was right, a deep blue-black.
And the foamy white wake trailing out behind us provided a sharp contrast with the deep colors.
The next morning, we docked at Cozumel, upon first glance a sleepy little village, but once you entered town, the one-time sleepy folks morphed into persistent pursuers of your money, and I mean persistent.
Our first introduction to their enduring determination to separate us from as much of our funds as possible came before we even reached shore.
You see, the concrete pier extended west of the island about three hundred yards, then cut northwest for another three or four hundred. This last dogleg is where we tied up, and hiked to shore.
Connecting the pier to the shore was a hundred yard long Customs Building packed with alcohol, perfume, jewelry, clothing, and at least a hundred hawking salespeople. Our own personal gauntlet, every last one of us had to pass through it.
Anyway, we made town, which was three steps beyond the Customs Building. We shopped; we took pictures; we oohed and ahhed at white garbed guitarists who serenaded us; we laughed at the lady who deftly twisted balloons into hats and animals; and – well you get the idea.
And then the rain fell, and fell, and fell.
Our last resort was refuge in Fat Tuesday’s, a thatched roof harbor from the weather. Now, observing that ages-old caution in Mexico, ‘don’t drink the water,’ we were forced to resort to Bud Light beer. It was unfortunate that our favorite beverage, coffee, was made out of water. And although we spotted a dozen corked water jugs in racks behind the bar, we opted to take no chances on the source of that water. Just be on the safe side, you know.
So there we were, eight hundred miles from home, sitting in a thatched-roof beer joint with three sides open, some rain spray gusting in; forced to guzzle Bud Light to quench our thirst; and unable to continue shopping to spend money.
I tell you folks. Life doesn’t get much better than that.
The weather lasted a couple hours. I felt sorta, kinda sorry for those who’d spent a chunk of change for a six-hour tour of Mayan ruins. One of the explorers was a new friend who insisted they made the best of the trek that was partially rained out by huddling under the flimsy top of a golf cart and fortifying themselves with the old standby, Bud Light.
By four-thirty, everyone had poured themselves back on board and we eased away from the pier, heading home.
The next day and half was much like the first. Relax, enjoy uninterrupted time with each other, meet new folks, discover a new dead end.
Looking back, some of my major concerns were without merit. Case in point. I couldn’t figure how they would unload—whoops, I mean, ‘disembark’ three thousand people without mass confusion.
They managed. As long as you followed their system, things moved quickly. Their methods worked so well, we walked down the gangway twenty minutes ahead of schedule. And thank the good Lord we got our passports, you know the ones I fussed over last week about the expense.
Those with only birth certificates and driver’s license were in one line, passports in another. We zipped through customs, grabbed a shuttle, hopped in the car, and waved at some new friends still in the big line as we swept past the pier.
Would we go again? Yeah. Now that we know the ropes.
And as long as the cruise line had an ample supply of Bud Light.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
May 23, 2012
A Cruise to Remember
A couple months back, our daughter and her husband gave Gayle and me a Cozumel cruise our fortieth anniversary. To say we were surprised is as much an understatement as suggesting Noah’s flood was a passing summer shower.
We’d never been on one. I don’t know why. Maybe perhaps we’re pretty much homebodies with a cluster of families and mass of cats that keep us on a predictable and comfortable routine of our own.
This was something new, precipitating tasks beyond with which we were familiar. In other words, our little daily routine, plebian in nature, was blown to smithereens. From that day on, our lives had been altered. Warily, we barged ahead.
Most of the details of the cruise were done online. Technology savvy, I do not possess. Why, I have ‘missed alerts’ on my cell phone that are two years old and don’t know how to get them off.
Fortunately, Susan’s husband, Mike, came to my rescue and got us registered and accounts set up for the cruise. We even printed up the luggage tags. After that, it was left up to me to take care of passports. Both Mike and Amy’s husband, Jason, are handy with computers. Me? I can turn them own and go to Word, and that’s about it.
Securing passports is not hard unless you don’t have all the information on the birth certificate. And naturally, one of ours was missing a couple pieces. In the blank for father’s name on Gayle’s, the hospital put in his line of work, Farmer. That meant we had to drive to Lake Charles and spend the day to pick up a complete certificate for Gayle. Then we came back. At the post office, we raised our hand and swore to just about everything, then forked over about $250 bucks for two passports and attendant fees.
I griped and complained all the way home.
If only I had known what lay ahead!
Then came clothes. Jeez, more time and money, but the adventure that lay ahead served as Sirens calling out to Odysseus and his sailors. Irresistible. So we plunged ahead, telling ourselves this was a once-in-a-lifetime venture. “Damn the torpedoes. Full speed head,” cried Admiral David Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay in the Civil War.
So it was with the Conwells. ‘Damn the hassle, full speed ahead.”
And we barged forward. It was a sort of blind-leading-the-blind project.
With our daughters and grandkids, we made a run to Galveston to find Pier 21 where the ship was moored and set up a tentative, very tentative, plan of action.
On the fateful day, we left early. I had nightmares that we’d break down on the road or the ferries would be sinking and we’d end up on the side of the road watching the Carnival Triumph chug out of port.
I shouldn’t have worried. We had time to spare. After dropping our luggage at the pier, we parked and caught a shuttle back, and got swept up in a maelstrom of passengers going through customs. It was organized chaos, and before we had a chance to stop and look around, we were onboard and sitting at the bar in the mail lobby.
Then the fun—well, if being lost, turned around, and constantly confused is your idea of fun, we were having fun. Not to offend anyone, but after two or three Bud Lights at $5.95 a whack, we didn’t care if we were lost or turned around or not.
The rooms were nice, really nice. We were on the First Deck. Gayle laughingly referred to it as Third Class, but I tell you, if it were Third Class, I’d take Third Class any day.
We got to our room about two o’clock. No luggage, so we toured as many of the twelve decks as we could. Sailing time was four o’clock.
I’ve never seen so many elevators and stairs. A couple times, we got off an elevator only to find stairs on either side. It reminded us of the Great Maze of Crete that housed the Minotaur. Every time we turned around, there was another damned elevator or set of stairs, but like Farragut, we persevered. We finally found our dining room at the stern (notice the nautical slang? who says I'm slow?) on the Third Deck and our assigned table with a couple from Freeport.
They were wonderful folks, but the food was lousy. The grilled chicken breast was dry; the golf-ball-size Imperial Red Potato was cut in quarters; and the green beans numbered four. Oh, and no rolls. The tea—well, it was tea in name only.
I would have preferred staying at one of the numerous bars drinking Bud Light. Still the meals were part of the deal. We discovered there were several dining areas around the big liner, and all were free. You just stepped into line at the buffet or waited to be seated to order as much of whatever was on the menu.
To be fair, only dinner at that specific dining room was not tasty. Breakfast and lunch were delicious, as were the entrees at all the other dining areas and grills. And it was all you could eat. We sat across from one gentleman who devoured a grapefruit, waffles, and two servings of bacon. They did not skimp on portions either. What was left over would have been a Dumpster diver’s dream come true.
Twenty-four hours a day there was someplace open to quench your thirst or satisfy your hunger.
After dinner that first night, we headed for the bright lights of the casino.
What happened there will have to wait until next time.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
We’d never been on one. I don’t know why. Maybe perhaps we’re pretty much homebodies with a cluster of families and mass of cats that keep us on a predictable and comfortable routine of our own.
This was something new, precipitating tasks beyond with which we were familiar. In other words, our little daily routine, plebian in nature, was blown to smithereens. From that day on, our lives had been altered. Warily, we barged ahead.
Most of the details of the cruise were done online. Technology savvy, I do not possess. Why, I have ‘missed alerts’ on my cell phone that are two years old and don’t know how to get them off.
Fortunately, Susan’s husband, Mike, came to my rescue and got us registered and accounts set up for the cruise. We even printed up the luggage tags. After that, it was left up to me to take care of passports. Both Mike and Amy’s husband, Jason, are handy with computers. Me? I can turn them own and go to Word, and that’s about it.
Securing passports is not hard unless you don’t have all the information on the birth certificate. And naturally, one of ours was missing a couple pieces. In the blank for father’s name on Gayle’s, the hospital put in his line of work, Farmer. That meant we had to drive to Lake Charles and spend the day to pick up a complete certificate for Gayle. Then we came back. At the post office, we raised our hand and swore to just about everything, then forked over about $250 bucks for two passports and attendant fees.
I griped and complained all the way home.
If only I had known what lay ahead!
Then came clothes. Jeez, more time and money, but the adventure that lay ahead served as Sirens calling out to Odysseus and his sailors. Irresistible. So we plunged ahead, telling ourselves this was a once-in-a-lifetime venture. “Damn the torpedoes. Full speed head,” cried Admiral David Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay in the Civil War.
So it was with the Conwells. ‘Damn the hassle, full speed ahead.”
And we barged forward. It was a sort of blind-leading-the-blind project.
With our daughters and grandkids, we made a run to Galveston to find Pier 21 where the ship was moored and set up a tentative, very tentative, plan of action.
On the fateful day, we left early. I had nightmares that we’d break down on the road or the ferries would be sinking and we’d end up on the side of the road watching the Carnival Triumph chug out of port.
I shouldn’t have worried. We had time to spare. After dropping our luggage at the pier, we parked and caught a shuttle back, and got swept up in a maelstrom of passengers going through customs. It was organized chaos, and before we had a chance to stop and look around, we were onboard and sitting at the bar in the mail lobby.
Then the fun—well, if being lost, turned around, and constantly confused is your idea of fun, we were having fun. Not to offend anyone, but after two or three Bud Lights at $5.95 a whack, we didn’t care if we were lost or turned around or not.
The rooms were nice, really nice. We were on the First Deck. Gayle laughingly referred to it as Third Class, but I tell you, if it were Third Class, I’d take Third Class any day.
We got to our room about two o’clock. No luggage, so we toured as many of the twelve decks as we could. Sailing time was four o’clock.
I’ve never seen so many elevators and stairs. A couple times, we got off an elevator only to find stairs on either side. It reminded us of the Great Maze of Crete that housed the Minotaur. Every time we turned around, there was another damned elevator or set of stairs, but like Farragut, we persevered. We finally found our dining room at the stern (notice the nautical slang? who says I'm slow?) on the Third Deck and our assigned table with a couple from Freeport.
They were wonderful folks, but the food was lousy. The grilled chicken breast was dry; the golf-ball-size Imperial Red Potato was cut in quarters; and the green beans numbered four. Oh, and no rolls. The tea—well, it was tea in name only.
I would have preferred staying at one of the numerous bars drinking Bud Light. Still the meals were part of the deal. We discovered there were several dining areas around the big liner, and all were free. You just stepped into line at the buffet or waited to be seated to order as much of whatever was on the menu.
To be fair, only dinner at that specific dining room was not tasty. Breakfast and lunch were delicious, as were the entrees at all the other dining areas and grills. And it was all you could eat. We sat across from one gentleman who devoured a grapefruit, waffles, and two servings of bacon. They did not skimp on portions either. What was left over would have been a Dumpster diver’s dream come true.
Twenty-four hours a day there was someplace open to quench your thirst or satisfy your hunger.
After dinner that first night, we headed for the bright lights of the casino.
What happened there will have to wait until next time.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.K...
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
