Mother My Pal

I had not posted on my blog for over two months and now I seem to be pouring out blog postings. The truth is, I have been saving several blogs and finally decided to either delete them or publish them. Some are pretty disjointed and for that I apologize. I am submitting them here now.

I will warn you that unlike most of my previous blogs, there is not a central theme.

I have tried to paint a good portrait in words and I agree I have certainly abused what readers I have been fortunate to attract, with my ramblings. So with that said I am venturing into uncharted waters.

I have passed my 59th birthday over two months ago. In that posting I detailed "events and happening" that mark significant anniversaries in my life. I even asked for suggestions and I even got one. So first of all let me address that suggestion.

My first father in law George (The Plaintiff's father) joined the United States Marines when he was only sixteen years of age. Although his mother and father both agreed for him to join the "service" he still had to lie about his age. He was on a transport ship less than 2 days away from Hawaii on December 7, 1941. He spent over a year on the "Islands" and was then sent to serve the remainder of the "war" on mainland China. He saw very little combat. While there, he got drunk one night and ended up at a tattoo parlor. When they asked him what he wanted tattooed on the inside portion of his lower right arm, he said "Mother my Pal". Every time I see a tattoo on anyone, I always remember George. He was really a cool guy. Next to my own father, I never loved another man any more than him. He hated that tattoo. I always thought it was funny and I used to joke with him I would get one just like it for me. His mother, Allie, thought it was stupid too.

Back when I was a teenager growing up in Shreveport, Louisiana, nearly everyone of my male friends owned at least one leisure suit and a pair of white patten shoes. I never did. I wore cowboy boots back when it was "not cool" to do so. I have "bucked" trends my entire life. I never did get a tattoo and I probably never will. The fact that I do not have any body ink is my tattoo.
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In my rantings here I have assigned "alternative" names to people in my family and friends. People who know me and know my family can readily identify who I am talking about. For some reason I had not come up with names for one of my daughters, her husband and her daughter.
Well I now am revealing their new names. ..... Jan Brady, The Big Ranch and Little Cat. There are two new members of the family so I might as well name them too. They are The New Mexican and Number 18 (note a previous posting) . The later is my newest grandson, Haise. He is one month old today actually. His real name is Hastin (which by the way, I think is cool) but I am determined to call him Haise. I think it is a cool nickname and I am confident my calling him that will probably piss his mother (The Rock Star Mentality) off. Then again, most things I do or say piss her off. I have told my children that I would prefer to be called Big Cat rather that Grand Paw (I hate that name by the way) or Pap Paw or Grand Daddy. Both The Rock Star Mentality and Jan Brady think I am being silly while at the same time they allow their mothers, step mothers, step mothers in law, biological father, fathers in law and mothers in law to pick names like Paw Paw, Nana, Mee Maw, Grand Maw and Pappy. I WILL have my grandchildren refer to me as Big Cat regardless of what my children want. Like the aforementioned tattoo topic, I tend to buck the trend. My grand kids will too.
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My father passed away in December, 1999 at the age of 74, His father was 72 when he died in September, 1972. My mother's only brother, Calvin, died in July, 1999 at the age of 77. His father, my maternal grandfather died in February, 1958 at the age of 70. On my mother's side of the family (The Boones) I had 12 cousins, Madeline, Terrell, Gloria, Gerald, Robert, Raymond, Sue, David, Linda, Gary, Dorothy, and Lola. Only Linda, David, Sue, Dorothy, Madeline, Gloria and Lola are still living. All but one of my male cousins passed away from natural causes before reaching the age of 72. My Great Grandfather (on my father's side) lived to nearly 90. Both of my grandmothers lived well into their 90's. Mother had three sisters. The two oldest, both died in their late 80's and my one surviving aunt is celebrating her 92nd birthday this month.

Based on simple statistics and actual facts, and barring me not being killed in some sort of accident, I should reasonably expect to live around another 15 years. I realize that does not seem like a long time however I intend to make the most of those years. If I were female I would think I would have had another 30 years. Oh well.
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A True Story

During the last few years of the 19th century, a huckster from Mineral Well, Texas happened upon a "natural" spring located in southern part of an area know as Dolet (doe lay) Hills located in Desoto Parish, Louisiana. The water from the spring had an large amount of sulfur and other mineral deposits as well as other bad smelling chemicals in it. The water had what is commonly known as friendly algae. It was yellowish and cloudy. Basically the water smelled bad. Even though the water smelled bad, it was drinkable and actually had no taste at all. This man had witnessed several "bath houses" and public areas back in his hometown of Mineral Wells, Texas. Over the period of ten years he cleared the land surrounding the spring, built a brick "curb" around it, created a pond (bathing area) from the water that flowed from the spring, built small cabins for people to lodge in and then promoted the area as a place to come and bath in the Miracle "Mineral" waters of Mineral Springs, Louisiana.
The idea actually "caught on" for a few years and pretty soon thousands of tourist flocked to this man's campgrounds and mineral springs. In 1899 a US Post Office (Mineral, Louisiana) was built at the site and beginning in 1900 through 1904 an annual event was held on the grounds surrounding the spring (s). This event would later be moved to nearby Shreveport Louisiana and is now know as the Louisiana State Fair. The area would host numerous "camp holiness meetings" sponsored by the Methodist Church. (National Camp Meeting Association for the Promotion of Holiness.) There was a large assembly area and multiple buildings were built which housed vendors and concessionaires. By 1907 the man's idea had run it's course and the area no longer attracted anyone. The man sold the area and the adjacent land he had acquired. My grandfather purchased the actual land the spring, pond and Post Office were located on. He dismantled the post office and several of the other structures and used the lumber to build a house my mother and all of her siblings would later be born in. It was the house that I would live from 1959 through 1961. An arsonist ( The Rambin Arsonist) burnt the house to the ground in August of 1973. He had burnt over 25 house down before he was arrested. He died at Angola State Penitentiary.

In the early seventies my friend Larry, Red Fred and I read several published articles concerning the history of Mineral, Louisiana. My mother had always told me how she recalled visiting the spring. My grandmother described it to us in detail. The area was overgrown and none of the features we read about were readily distinguishable. Over a period of several months of searching we finally located the spring. We retrieved several of the bricks that "curbed" the spring. I gave a brick to each of my mother's siblings. In addition Larry and I found several rusted pots and pans and a "dead bolt" lock that had once locked one of the buildings located in the area. I still have that lock. I had hoped one day I would build a home and place the lock on one of it's doors. I suppose I eventually will pass that lock on to one of my children. The forty acres of land which contained most of the area formerly known as Mineral, Louisiana and the actual Mineral Spring was eventually inherited by my mother and upon her death I became the owner of the land.
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Part Two

I was an eight year old boy and was in the third grade class of Mrs Thigpen. Nearly every morning I would stand outside (waiting for the school bus) with my grandmother. She had a single shot 22 caliber Sears and Roebuck rifle. She would stand by the fence surrounding her country home and drink coffee as the sun would rise. As soon as she would be able to see, she would commence shooting armadillos. The dillas would dig small holes in the ground and the cattle (which belonged to my uncle Calvin) occasionally would step in one of the holes and break their legs. Eventually Mau Maw Boone allowed me to shoot the varmints as well. I actually became a pretty good shot over time.
The school bus driver was a local man name Mr. Gregory. He was the same bus driver who delivered my mother to the same school I was attending. (Pelican School). Pelican, Louisiana was a 22 mile bus ride (each way). I was the first person picked up and the last one dropped off. The trip took nearly an hour. During my previous year at school (back when I was in the second grade at Bethany Elementary) I had the chance to play baseball. I had begun to watch baseball games on tv. My dad actually purchased for me a youth's baseball uniform. It was pinstriped and I instantly became a Yankee fan. Before long I was playing catch with my cousin Gerald (Jerry) and became a school phenom. I was allowed to play with the big kids as they played baseball during recess. Well I did until I stood too close to a boy swinging a bat and I was hit in the head. My mother drove to the school and picked me up and took me to nearby Mansfield, Louisiana to see the doctor. I ended up with a big scab and knot on my forehead. Later that evening while still in Mansfield we ate at a local cafe. They had a television set over the counter. For the first time in my life I saw "color" TV. I am not too sure the name of the show I watched. All I recall is that it was a NBC game show and Bill Cullen was the host.
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My father and his father (Dit) spend countless hours together in pursuit of quail and doves. Their hunting grounds are now deep under the water of the largest man made body of water in the deep South, Toledo Bend.

Before I was two years of age, my father would carry me on his shoulder as he followed one of his champion "bird dogs" in the fields of East Texas. I was retrieving his "kill" along with King or Queen when I was barely able to walk. When I was nearly nine I received a Sears and Roebuck single shot 4-10 and before long I too was shooting birds with my father as he had with his.

Over the next several years I received a Browning Sweet Sixteen; a couple of Remington Wing Master 870s (20 and 12 gauge); a Browning A-5.and eventually my grandfather's gun a Remington Model 11 (circa 1930). Over the years I became an accomplished "wing" shooter. My friends would marvel at my shooting skills and there was talk that I should consider getting into competitive skeet or trap shooting.

Along with proper gun safety, my father always taught me that I should eat what I killed. He emphasized that hunting although a sport, was not complete unless the game was on the plate. That has never been a problem because I absolutely love fried quail. Doves cooked in a smothered gravy is about as good as it gets and I love dove breasts wrapped in bacon and cooked over a mesquite fire.

When I first began dating the future Mrs. The Third I once visited her brother and sister in law who lived just south of Austin, Texas. Her two daughters were around 4 and 6 years old. Frank, my future brother in law had "fired" up his grill with local mesquite and he and I would set on his back porch drinking beer and shooting doves. The two little girls would retrieve them for us and we would extract the breasts from the bird, wrap them in bacon and slap them on the grill. Yum
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One day my brother came home one day with a rusty Benjamin pump rifle. I quickly offered him $ 20.00 for it and he accepted. It was a .177 caliber and it had a wooden stock. I tore the gun apart. I striped the stock and breach of it's finish and re-stained and varnished them both. I used jeweler's rouge and removed the cheap "bluing" to reveal a barrel of solid brass. I shined and polished it as best as I could. Then I put several coats of an acrylic finish on the brass barrel. I reassembled the rifle and took it to a friend of mine who "worked" on guns. He informed me that the seals were dry and as a result I would not get much velocity or accuracy from the gun. He told me he knew a way to "jack" it up. He also advised me he could put "peep" sights on it. I quickly told him to get after it. The rifle' s muzzle velocity normally is rated at a maximum of 800 fps (feet per second). To put that in perspective, a 22 rifle is rated at between 575 to 1755 fps.

About two weeks later I received my rifle back and I learned that with only 5 pumps I could achieve the "maximum" of 800 fps and with 7-9 pumps it would be increased to nearly 2,000 fps. The "factory" rifles were designed to only hold so much pressure thus limiting the muzzle velocity. But my friend changed all of that. I had a rifle that fired a projectile faster than a 22 caliber long rifle. At 150 feet, I could shoot a pattern within a three inch circle. At that distance I could shoot a galvanized garbage can and put a pretty little .177 caliber hole in it. It was so silent you could barely hear it. Although gun laws have changed, back then because it was essentially a B B gun. It was not classified as a firearm, but it was a lethal weapon actually. I took it squirrel hunting and I shot a few rabbits and small varmints with it. Mostly I just carried around in my car. After paying my brother the $20.00 and my friend Randy for the work and additions he added, I had a little over $ 100 invested in the gun. A year of so later I was hurting for money and I sold the gun to my own mother. Although she gave me $ 50.00 I really never gave her the gun even though she always refereed to it as her gun. It was stolen from me, along with with a Gibson Hummingbird Guitar, an Amamda Radar Range, a and Panasonic TV during a robbery of my home on the night after Thanksgiving 1978.

As I set on the party patio I see hundreds of doves flying into my back yard. They feed from my bird feeder. I sure wish I had that gun. I have plenty of mesquite.

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Till We Meet Again


The Third