My Sixtieth Year / A Monumental Task

In the spring of 1981 I was facing the prospect of turning 30 years old. At the time I weighed nearly 200 pounds and my waistline was approaching 38". My mother and brother had died in an automobile accident nearly a year before. For a while I lost a few pounds but eventually I was gaining weight again. I played on a company sponsored softball team and I played in some pickup basketball games, but my weight gain persisted. I had tried various diets (including the Beverly Hills Diet) for the past several years. I would lose weight, but would eventually gain all of it back. I discovered that a co worker was selling Herbalife products. I did some investigations and decided that I would try it out. Over the next several months I lost over 50 pounds and nearly 6 inches in my waistline. My friends were worried about me and told me that I looked "bad" but I felt great. On my thirtieth birthday I purchased a pair of 32" blue jeans. They were tight but they "fit".

In the Fall of 1990 I was working and living in Bakersfield, California. My boss, Bill Bauer was around 60 years old but looked as if he was in his early forties. He was very active. He hiked in the mountains, ran marathons, played golf (never riding in the cart) and rode motorcycles. Before long I had purchased a $ 200.00 pair of Danner mountain hiking boots and was walking about 2 miles a night in them. I began playing golf with Bill and pretty soon, I was walking and carrying my own bag as well. After a few months, Bill and I began to take day hikes into the foothills near Bakersfield. Eventually I acquired a lot more camping and hiking equipment and I was accompanying Bill and a few others up in the nearby National Forests. My first "overnight" trip was into Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks to Lower Franklin Lake in the Mineral King area. We hiked from the trail head at about 6,600 feet and ended up and spent the night at over 11,500 feet. I recall that even though I was totally exhausted, I felt great. My head hurt like a son a bitch but I felt euphoric. I had an ultra light fishing rig and I would cast a small silver spoon with fake salmon eggs into the glass like water. I must have caught 50 Brown Trout each about nine inches long. I threw them all back.

Over the next year we hiked frequently. We traveled to Catalina Island and hiked there. We hiked in Kennedy Meadows as well as the Alpine Meadows of Yosemite National Park. We hiked in the White Mountains in Nevada. I logged nearly 90 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. After about 10 trips we began talking of taking a run at Mt. Whitney. It was early spring 1991 and I realized that I would be turning 40 years old at the end of August. I decided that I was going to do something "monumental" like Jack Lalanne for my fortieth birthday, a trek to the tallest peak in the continental United States.

On August 22, 1991, my boss, along with the fire chief of Bakersfield Fire Department, two fellow hikers and I, traveled to Lone Pine California.
We stopped at the ranger station and signed in, got our hiking permits, and then drove up to an area about ten miles west of town. We parked our vehicles at the parking lot of Whitney Portal (8,360'). We found a small area that we set up camp and we spent the night. I did not sleep at all. The next morning we packed up and hiked 6 miles and a 3,640 ' vertical climb. We arrived at the camp grounds of Mt. Whitney Trail Camp. In order to acclimate to the altitude, we pitched our tents and spent the night. The next morning with only a small day pack each, we set out to the summit of Mt Whitney (14,505') . When we could see without flashlights, we starting walking "up" the trail. At approximately 12:15 PM Pacific Day Light Savings Time, Saturday August 24, 1991, after hiking 11 miles with a total vertical climb of 6,145 ', I stepped inside a small rock shack and stood in a line of about 20 people to sign my name in a book. I had anticipated I may have been emotional open reaching the summit. The funny thing was that as I stood at the summit, I had a strange sensation. To be honest, I did not feel anything. There was a lot of people there actually but very few of them were talking.There were no trees and no birds. The wind was hardly blowing. It was eerily quiet. As I took the pen to write my name, I followed it with "son of Odessa" . I walked around in my own solitude for a while and then Bill informed me that we needed to start our trek "back down". We collected our tents and sleeping bags as we passed the trail camp and then proceeded on to Whitney Portal and our vehicles. We left around 6:30 PM. I arrived back at my house in Bakersfield later that night. A week later I stood in line with the Mrs The Third at Pappasito's Mexican Restaurant in Houston, Texas. I had the Mesquite Grilled Quail. I had turned 40 years old the day before.

As I have mentioned in earlier postings, we were very active in our local church back when we lived in Tomball. One of the people we became friends with was a, tall lanky man by the name of Mike. I had gone to school with his older brother back in my days at LSU. He too was from Shreveport. His daughter was in one of my confirmation classes and the Mrs The Third and I became close friends with Mike and his wife Donna. Monique, his daughter, became friends with my daughter, The Prodigal. Mike had joined a the local YMCA and became involved with a "marathon training" club. In January of 2000, Mike ran in the Houston Marathon. I was very impressed. Over the next few months while talking to Mike I decided that I too would join the marathon training club and I would run in the next Houston Marathon. I recalled my weight loss back prior to my thirtieth birthday and my trek in the High Sierras before my fortieth. I had found my next monumental task.

I absolutely hate running. On the first weekend after July 4 2000, I joined USA Fit-Houston (Northwest). I paid seventy five dollars and they gave me a red tag (indicating I was a slow runner) to place on my $ 125.00 Asics running shoes. On that very first day, our group (about 100 runners) ran (or walked in my case) a warm-up of 1 mile and then we ran 3 miles. I came in dead last. But I did finish. I was given a schedule that I was instructed to follow "to the letter". I had to run and or walk for 30-45 minutes per day and each Saturday I would run with the group. On each subsequent Saturday the distance we would run would increase. By the end of September, I was running over 8 miles each Saturday and my running time each night had been increased to over an hour. I ran in a few assorted 10K races (6.2 miles) and one 20K (12.4) race. (8th Annual TXU Energy Turkey Trot) I did not come in dead last. It was actually pretty fun. They gave me a really cool tee shirt. Mike and I visited a local Starbucks after "running" it and I ended up leaving my tee shirt there. I was beginning to believe that I not only could run in a marathon, but actually do pretty good. I ran the 20K on the day after Thanksgiving and the following week we began training at a local high school track and began 'time trials" I was well on the way. A few weeks prior to Christmas I contracted the flu. I was sick as hell. I finally recovered but I missed nearly two weeks of training and the desire to run was lost. I did not run in the 2001 Houston Marathon nor any marathon for that matter. I did sign up with Houston Fit in July of 2001 but my heart was not really in it and eventually I dropped out. In addition to the aforementioned Houston Marathon, Mike has ran several other marathons including the New Orleans Marathon, and the Marine Corp Marathon held in Washington DC. Although the plan was to run a marathon before my fiftieth birthday, I am satisfied that my preparations and subsequent lessor races still qualifies for monumental achievements.

It is now late August 2010. My 59th birthday is hand. I am about to embark my sixtieth year, I want to accomplish a monumental feat prior to my sixtieth birthday. I now weigh well over 200 pounds. I admit that while carrying a backpack at over two miles above sea level or after running six miles, I got winded. Now climbing a small flight of stairs makes me winded. When I turned 30 I wore 32" pants and now 42" pants are snug on me. I have got to get a lot more fit and healthy. I need a monumental task. I have no idea what it will be and I ask you my loyal and faithful readers to give me some suggestions



Your humble servant....




The Third

TBC - Renewed, Revised, Revamped

I am close to posting my 100th posting. I am not too sure what that milestone entitles me to, or if it means much at all. At least I am no longer a "noob". I plan to pay homage to my son in law, The Jim and post pictures of a burning blue work shirt I still have from my former employer.

There have been times over the last 18 months or so when I was truly inspired and excited regarding this medium. I boasted to my friends and those who would listen, that "I had a "blog". Yes I realize a few people have taken a peek here from time to time but is not special enough to hold and keep readers. I have had to literally beg people to read it and then again I am not too sure many do. Even those who state I am a good writer rarely visit my site. I have one really good and loyal reader and that is.....me.

The concept at the "beginning" was to illustrate the various libations I drank during my travels. My in laws at the "Powerload" had given me a rare opportunity to travel extensively throughout the United States. From the time I first purchased a sixer of Alagash White in North Windham Maine, I have seized the chance to sample many beers. Many of my co workers, including "The Chief" would see me purchase multiple six packs of beer. They would see me taking my beers to my room. They concluded that I drank a hell of a lot. I did drink some of those beers but I usually brought most of them home with me. (Where I would share them with friends and of course drink as well) I would routinely smuggle many beers not available where I currently live, in my luggage, other peoples luggage, and various vehicles. I am sure a lot of the simple minded people with whom I worked with, were under the false belief that I was a lush and an incompetent. I actually was a very good worker. I took pride in my work accomplishments. While many coworkers were still up and carousing late at night, I was sound asleep and resting for the next day's work. I never drank beer and then drove any vehicle (including company vehicles) I never showed up to work under the influence of alcohol. I never missed a single day of work nor did I ever fail to arrive to work "on time". The truth of the matter was that I was generally one of the very first employees to arrive each morning. I am sure many thought that my obsession with beer would overshadow my work ethics. They were wrong. I am sure my former my in laws probably bought into it as well. They tended to always believe anything others may have whispered into their ears about me. Many of the the people I worked with would fabricate things about what I had done or said. The sad fact is what I allegedly did or said never happened. Unfortunately that did not stop my former bosses from accepting such as being factual. They still think that I bragged about my excessive pay or alleged ownership in their company. It is not true, but they sure as hell think it is. Denial on my part, only supports their misguided conviction regarding me. Oh well..."what are you gonna do?" I am far too old and stubborn to attempt to dispel such beliefs. I am disappointed but I will survive.

Moving on......but........The job gave me a wonderful opportunity to try many beers and it supplanted the seeds for The Brew Chronicles.

I worked with approximately 50 other employees from time to time. Those who drank beer (and most of them did) either drank Budweiser, Miller Lite or Michelob Ultra. I recall many instances setting around a pool in some obscure town with my portable collapsible ice chest with wheels filled with a few bottles of Great Lakes Eliot Ness Amber Lager, Odell's Cut Throat Porter, Tractor Brewery Farmer's Tan Red Ale and Long Trail Double Bags. Occasionally I might have a few bottles of "Lager". Rarely would anyone of my fellow employees ask to drink one of my "weird beers" That was ok with me.

In my previous posts, I intended to sprinkle a little of my personal history regarding my evolution with beer. I realize that those intentions were not completely fulfilled yet in a strange abstract way, they were. I began posting things completely off topic and I have strayed far from the original recipe.

Life does not follow a precise script. "Life is one huge ad lib" This blog is too. I have even changed the name and even the address of the blog. I began to rant about reality shows. I was being silly but at the same time I was truly expressing myself. During one or two of those rants I evolved to the idea of hosting a reality television show for myself and I elected to name it "The Brew Chronicles". The idea was simply a joke but as I continued my silly diatribe, I began to "buy into" my own bullshit. The idea was actually a pretty good one. Yes I did come up with it but I admit it is not that original. Others have had the same idea and frankly I am sure there are plenty of people who are more camera friendly and charismatic than yours truly. I could go on and concede that my dream/fantasy is just that and nothing more. But......

Regardless if anyone actually views my writing, I have plans to continue my blog and although I am sure I will from time to time sway far away from the precept (whatever it may actually be) I shall renew my efforts to develop the actual television version of The Brew Chronicles. I have let the momentum slow to a slow crawl.

But here goes....

One of the reality shows that really gets under my skin is Gene Simmons' Family Jewels. I never was much of a KISS fan. I never really thought they were a real rock and roll band. Now I realize that may stir some people up. But think about it. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has passed them over several times. This past year, ABBA made it in and KISS did not. They are the WWE of the Rock and Roll World. Everyone thinks they are not the real thing yet they still have huge fans. I like the people on the show, but the idea is stupid. And God help me but I have tried to understand the Kardasian "thing". I just have a few questions and yes I have to admit that it is in the spirit of my mother calling out to me. Do any of those privileged white girls ever sleep with people of their own race? Does one have to be a professional athlete and black to get their attention? Just because they have not one, but several reality shows, make then anything less than a who are? Say that over again perhaps you will "get" what I am implying. And finally, if they are so upset about the paparazzi, perhaps they should cancel their television contract and get a job flipping burgers at In and Out or perhaps a sales associate at American Eagle.

I could go on and on about reality shows. But I will not. I want to reserve that for a later post. I must say I am looking forward to Levi Johnston's new show. ...Well not really.

I too could be considered a celebrity. That could be my new occupation..

One of my favorite reality shows is Diner Drive-ins and Dives. I love to watch Guy show up in his bad ass Camaro. I must admit my concept of The Brew Chronicles appears to mirror his show. But I feel other than the litany of "places", our shows will differ substantially. I want to be the eyes and ears and particularly taste buds of the viewing audience. I want the type of places shown to be a wide variety. One segment may find me shoveling horse shit in the barns of A-B's clydesdales which would be followed by me placing bottles from a conveyor belt into boxes at a small brewery in Michigan. I could be shown listening to a band playing at a pub in Florida and then eating wild salmon at a back yard cook-out near Carmel, California or a tail gate party at a small college in Montana. Go Grizzlies! I want to open a show showing me working at a hop harvest in Oregon and then visiting a home brewing supply store in the Finger Lake Region of New York. I want to interview people who work in the bars and pubs as well as the patrons. I want to feature music from some of the bands that play in the pubs. I want to show meetings of various home brewer clubs and I want to show the behind the scenes of beer festivals. I want the show to develop over time. I want to have "catch phrases" like "E Vee Oh Oh" or Bam! or "Off the Hook" Of course my phrases will be uniquely mine. I want to feature people who are starting new breweries. I want to visit with the brewers, and the bankers. I want to feature breweries that have closed. I want to discuss the pitfalls and the perils of craft brewing and I want viewer feed back. In all what I want to do is to debunk preconceptions of thingsbeer (which by the way is a catch phrase invented right here on The Brew Chronicles.)

Now let me be the first to say that I do not have spiked platinum hair neither do I have any piercings or tattoos. I have a Southern drawl and I am nothing to look at. I am overweight and I have graying and thinning hair. Some even say I am bald. My voice is not always understandable as it should be. I am not some young good looking piece of eye candy. I am who I am.

I do not nor shall I ever claim that I am sort sort of Beer geek. The whole concept is that me, The Third your host, will always be wide eyed and in awe.


Stay Tuned



The Third

What a Boone !

Recently my oldest daughter informed me that her husband, The Jim tends to be amused with certain genealogical claims of our family. I admit he has a claim to fame as well by virtue of once living near JYD but I felt it was time to "put up or shut up" After a substantial amount of research I am submitting the following:

___________________________________________
"I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks." - Daniel Boone

Squire Boone the fourth child of George Boone, III and Mary Milton Maudrige was born December 6, 1696 at Brandnich Devonshire England, He immigrated to American in 1713 and married Sarah Morgan in Gywnedd, Pa .in 1720. Fourteen years later their sixth child, (of eleven) a son Daniel was born in Berks County, Pa.

Both George and Mary Boone immigrated to America in 1738. Mary Boone died in 1741 and George died in 1744. they are buried at Friends Burying-Ground, Exeter, PA

In 1752, Squire and Sarah Boone and their children eventually moved near Wilkesboro (present day) North Carolina .

On August 1756, Daniel married Rebecca Bryan , daughter of Joseph and Alee Bryan, in Rowan County N.C.

Squire Boone, father of Daniel Boone, died at Mockville, N.C on January 2, 1765. He was buried at the Joppa Cementery in Rowan County NC. His wife Sarah died in 1777 and is buried next to him.

Daniel and Rebecca have a total of ten children. Their youngest child was Nathan Boone who was born on March of 1781 at Boones Station, Kentucky.

While still in Kentucky, Nathan would later marry Olive Van Bibber on September 26, 1799. Two days after their wedding they moved near St. Charles, Missouri where his mother and father had settled.

Nathan and Olive would have a total of fourteen children. (Three sons and eleven daughters) The ninth child was John Coulter Boone who was born in St. Charles, Mo in 1816.

In September 1820, Daniel Boone died at his son Nathan’s house and was buried next to his wife Rebecca (who had died in 1813) in a cemetery in Warren County, Mo. Years later people from Kentucky visited the grave site and allegedly dug up (what they believed to be) the remains of Daniel and Rebecca Boone. They then took the "remains to Kentucky for re internment. Through DNA test conducted in 1996 it was discovered that the remains thought to be of Daniel and Rebbecca were in fact those of slaves who had been buried nearby. As a result, the remains of Daniel and Rebbecca are still as they were originally buried.

John C. Boone would be married twice, Once in 1838 to Mary Wardlaw. They were divorce after only one year of marriage. Mary Wardlaw would live until 1904. His second marriage was in 1841 to Nancy Bryson McQuarry at Enterprise, Benton County, Arkansas.

John C. Boone and his second wife Nancy, would have five children. Their second child and first son was John Thomas Boone (named after his father John and Nancy’s brother Thomas) in 1845.

Nathan Boone, Son of Daniel Boone, died October 6, 1856 and was buried at Ash Grove, Mo.
His widow Olive died in 1858 and is buried next to her husband.

John T. Boone served in the "Rector Guards" Second Arkansas Regiment, C.S.A. from 1861 until 1864. He enlisted when he was only seventeen. When it was discovered that he was a descendant of Daniel Boone he was commissioned as an officer and was appointed as a scout.

John C. Boone, Grandson of Daniel Boone, died and was buried in Benton County, Arkansas in May 1870. His wife Nancy lived until 1876 and was buried near her husband.

John T. Boone moved to San Saba County, Texas in 1878 and would marry Sarah Jane Duke, (a granddaughter of a defender of the Texas Alamo) in 1881.

John T. Boone and his bride Sarah had four children all born in Texas. Vivian, who died as an infant, John, Rufus and Wiley who was born in August 1886.

John T. Boone and his family moved DeSoto Parish, Louisiana in 1899.

Wiley Brown Boone married Augusta Victoria Dickerson in Desoto Parish, Louisiana in 1910. They had five children.

John T. Boone, Great Grandson of Daniel Boone, died in February 1918. He is buried next to his wife Sarah at the Wallace Community Cemetery, DeSoto, Parish, Louisiana. On his headstone are the initials C.S.A. I have seen it many times

Wiley and Augusta Boone’s youngest daughter Alfa Odessa Boone was born near Mineral, Louisiana on May 19, 1928 the same day her grandmother Sarah J. Boone died.

Wiley B. Boone, Great, Great, Grandson of Daniel Boone, died in February 1958 at Mansfield, Louisiana and is buried in the Wallace Community Cemetery between his father, John T. and his wife Augusta who died in June 1980.

Odessa Boone married T. W Sullivan, Jr. from Sabine Parish, Louisiana in November 1950 at Wallace Baptist Church, Wallace, Louisiana

T. W. Sullivan and his wife Odessa had two children. The oldest son was named Thomas William Sullivan, III (nee IV) and was born at Waskom Texas in August 1951

Thomas W. Sullivan would be married two times, once in Shreveport, Louisiana to Shelia A. Sellers in 1974 and in 1976 their only child Jennifer Renee Sullivan was born in downtown Houston, Texas and then to Ann L. Webb in Spring, Texas in 1989 and in 1990 their only child Sarah Odessa Sullivan was born in Harris County, Texas.

Odessa Sullivan, Great, Great, Great, Granddaughter of Daniel Boone, died at Zwolle, Louisiana in June 1980 and is buried in the Wallace Community Cemetery between her son, John Lane who died in June 1980, and her husband T. W. who died in December 1999.

Among many of Daniel Boone's accomplishments, he served as a Lt. Colonel in the Virgina (Kentucky) Militia in the Revolutionary War. He participated in the Battle of Blue Licks where one of his sons. Israel was mortally wounded. The story goes that Daniel Boone was holding a riderless horse for his son to mount as they prepared to retreat. At that moment Israel Boone received a musket ball into his neck where he died in front of his father. Col. Boone's militia was overwhelmed by a contingent of British regulars, Canadian mercenaries and local Indians. The militia eventually retreated and regrouped. Col. Boone and his troops conducted a raid a few days later where over 1,000 Indians were killed. Although the "War" was officially over a few weeks prior, The Battle of Blue Licks is considered the last battle of the American War of Independence. This fact, along with the above genealogy, entitles both The Prodigy and The Rock Star Mentality to be members of the Daughters of the American Revolution. (DAR). Also from the information cited in this posting, they qualify to be members of The Daughters of the Confederacy as well as The Daughters of the Republic of Texas.








"Daniel Boone was a man! Yes, a big man! With a dream of a country that'd aways forever be free! What a Boone! What a do-er! What a dream-come-er-true-er was he! "

"My father, Daniel Boone, always despised the raccoon fur caps and did not wear one himself, as he always had a hat." -- Nathan Boone, My Father, Daniel Boone, The Draper Interviews with Nathan Boone,

"All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse, and a good wife." - Daniel Boone

The Third, Great, Great, Great, Great Grandson of Daniel Boone

"Don't Touch My Hat"

Between the time I was finally divorced from The Plaintiff and when I wed The Mrs The Third, I purchased a "Bangora" straw cowboy hat. Over the years I would misplace it and eventually find it again. It has been stepped on and set on fire more than once. As the years passed, the hat continued to be lost and then found. I have "creased" it countless times. Each crease means something to me. There are several cracks and holes in it. If you look at the picture closely you will notice a slight "pinch" on the top front of the hat. That particular "crease" is sometimes called a "Fort Worth Pinch". I added that years ago in homage to The Plaintiff's Uncle Clovis. You really can not be a real Texan unless you know people with names like Clovis, Aubrey or T.W. I wore this hat while operating a D-7 clearing land for our former church in Tomball. I learned to operate bulldozers from Uncle Clovis. The pictures does not show the burn holes, dirt, bird droppings and the immense amount of sweat stains encrusted into it. I wore this hat as I have cooked countless pieces of meat on the grill. I wear this hat as I work and sweat in my yard. The bamboo stalk and rose bud are both from my yard. It hangs either on a rocking chair that was once owned by my grandmother or on one of the "points" of a deer head on our wall.

Why am I writing about on old straw hat? Who knows?

I just wanted to see if it were possible for me to write a short posting.

Then again "short" is such a relative term.

So I will stop blogging and go mow the yard.

Tootles,

The Third

Jockamo fee nané

Recently the 30th anniversary (June 24) of the death of my mother, along with my younger brother, came and went. I find that although I still miss both of them, I am far less melancholy and much more reflective. I am finally beginning to view them as more than just my brother and my mother. The anniversary has prompted me to write the following.....

I have previously noted (in my February 23, 2009 posting "The Toe Headed Boy") that we lived in a house, owned by Gentleman Jim Reeves. In that posting I mentioned that I started first grade in late summer 1957. The picture on the left is a monument in front of what used to be Bethany Elementary School. That brick fence used to appear so tall. I road a school bus driven by a man named W.S. McDaniels. He was named Ward Six because that is where he was born. Ward Six, New Orleans, Orleans Parish, Louisiana. Most people called him Ward. His wife was named Honere (pronounced Honor Ray) but everyone called her Tee or Miss Tee. She was my mother's best friend. Outside of my mother's family, Miss Tee was the only person I ever heard call my mother "Dessy". From the time I was still in diapers, Miss Tee would come by once a week and iron shirts for my dad and help my mother clean our house. Though my mother and dad paid her, she came and visited socially as well. My first sips of coffee came as a courtesy of Miss Tee. From the time I was around two years of age until I was seven, Miss Tee was a large influence (almost a "second mother") to both me and my brother. She taught us a song called Iko Iko We used to sing it for years. As the years have come and went the words of that songs has left my memory. I remember wanting to change my name to "Jack". It could have been because of the lyrics of the song perhaps. I told Miss Tee and she said I could not since she "already had a son named "Jack". My mother used to tell me that Tee actually "nursed" me when I was an infant. I am not sure if that is true. At the end of my second year of school, the McDaniels moved back to the Big Easy. We would leave East Texas as well and travel to Houma, Louisiana to spend the summer with my Dad.

By the time I made it to Baton Rouge to attend college, my "step" cousin Donny had already graduated LSU Law School specializing in Navigation and Maritime Law. Donny and his family had moved from Baton Rouge to a house on Prytania located in the Garden District. He had become a partner in an old established New Orleans law firm. His wife was attending medical school. His firm owned a two bedroom "flat" on Pirate Alley in the Vieux Carre or Quarter as the locals call it. It was a second floor flat and overlooked the side of Saint Louis Cathedral. It was nothing fancy but it was nice. It had a refrigerator, a bathtub ,two beds (one was a fold out couch) air conditioning and a small balcony. He allowed us to stay in the flat as long as we did not "trash" it out; leave in better condition than what we found it; and as long as his clients was not using it. From the fall of 1969 and going through to the spring of 1971 I visited the Big Easy many times. I witnessed many Mardi Gras parades during those years. I even spotted a few Indians. Most of those times found me at Donny's flat. I learned a great deal of the "real New Awlins".

New Orleans, Louisiana is by far, the most diverse city in the United States. Although it is located in South Louisiana, it actually is a world of it's own. It has a rich history. Of course it has French and Spanish influences but also Caribbean/African, German, Irish, Italian, English, Chinese and even Swiss. It is the only city in the deep South to have had a battle of the War of 1812. It was occupied by the Union forces during the American Civil War and to this day the people of the city still drink coffee with chicory as a remembrance of that time. It is one of the largest ports in the world. The music stirs your soul and the food nourishes you in so many wonderful ways. It is a city with a "multitude" of cultures and cuisines. It is sometimes referred to as the City that Care Forgot. The air is thick with humidity, smells and history. The locals call the town Nu awe Lens or Nawlins yet when referring to the name of the parish it is is pronounced Are Leans. Only tourists pronounce the city's name as New Are Lee Anns. If I had to summarize the social economic diversity of the city I would say the typical resident is a very poor black person or a very rich white person. Like Mexico, there really is not a middle class in Orleans Parish. The middle class all live in Covington, Mandaville, Slidell, Meterie Kenner and the West Bank. The city is divided in to multiple neighborhoods which themselves are divided as well. Corruption is a way of life in the Crescent City. I will not go into much detail but I can assure you that the Katrina disaster was caused not by George Bush, but rather the politicians who had earlier lined their pockets with money that should have been spent to on flood control and levee repair. Then again, political graft is an accepted principle.The New Orleans Police Department is considered just another street gang to some people. Remember the U Tube videos of the NOPD at a Wal-Mart post Katrina? Tourism is a huge part of the city's economic lifeline. Most people know of the French Quarter. Tourist seem to simply refer to it as Bourbon Street. Since Hurricane Katrina, some people may be familiar with the Lower Ninth Ward. I suppose the Garden District or the "Isle of Denial " is pretty well known as well. The Archdiocese of New Orleans is one of the oldest Catholic diocese in America. In it's entire history, no Bishop has ever been appointed to head the Archdiocese who was an actual native of New Orleans. That is until last year when the Bishop of the Diocese of Austin Texas was moved and appointed. Archbishop Gregory Aymond was born and raised in the Gentilly neighborhood. The buskers playing for change around Jackson Square are probably some of the most accomplished musicians you will ever hear, but a visit to Frenchman Street, The Warehouse District or The Quarter will be rewarded with sounds you can not hear anywhere else on the planet. A trip to Mother's for a Ferdy, Rocky and Carlos' for a oyster poboy and a cold Barq's , Central Grocery for a Muffeleta or a plate of red beans and rice at The Napoleon House is a absolute must. Or there was Kolb's which offered amazing German food.Then you also have to visit Felix's Oyster House (where my father purchased my first 'dozen" when I was only 10). There are so many that I can not list all of them and do them justice.

Beginning in the Summer of 1959, my father would take my mother, brother, and I to visit Nawlin several times. We would drive up US Highway 90 from Houma and cross the H.P Long Bridge into the Crescent City. The day would always start with a trip to the farmers market and fish market followed by cafe au lait and biegnets at Cafe De Monde. We would all then walk across Decatur and stand around on the black and white checkerboard floor at the bar at Tujagues while my dad downed a cold beer. We would walk the streets of the Vieux Carre and visit several museums and shops. Most of our trips included a sit down lunch or dinner at some of NOLA's wonderful eateries and we would visit Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, and The Cabildo. As we strolled passed the Jackson Brewery and strolled into the Quarter. We would watch as delivery trucks made their Saturday deliveries to the many nightlife spots. We would purchase Mardi Gras masks at the many gift stores and of course would would visit, Preservation Hall, Lafite's Blacksmith Shop, and Pat O'Brien's. We would travel all the way past Rampart and visit the St Louis Cemeteries and Congo Park. We usually visited my former school bus driver and his wife Tee at their home in the Fauberg (French for Suburb) Tremé . My mother used to tell us that was where Jazz was originated. I really did not know what jazz was. It was there I had my first real food. It was there that I received my lifelong love of music. Both continue to nourish my very soul. On our trips we visited Audubon Park, Tulane Stadium, The St Charles cable car, Dixie Brewery (located on Tulane Avenue), Carrolton, and Lee Circle. We rode several of the ferrys that crossed the Big Muddy and of course we would always end up at the amusement park on the shores of nearby Lake Pontchartrain. The first roller coasters I remember riding was the Wild Maus and the Zephyr. I can still here my brother singing the theme song from the amusement park as we traveled to it. "At the beach, at the beach, at Pontchartrain Beach". We would go swimming in the lake and eventually we would leave and drive down Highway 90 dodging nutria on the way back to Houma. Dad found a small place on the West Bank where he would stop and purchase a few dozen tamales. Those summer visits created my lifelong affinity for New Orleans. In the Summer of 1960 we returned to Houma and our trips to New Orleans resumed. One time Johnny and I spent the night with the McDaniels at them home on Lafitte Street while our parents had a night on the town. We even helped Mr. McDaniels work on his "Indian" costume. although I never got to see him "dressed" I bet he was "pretty".

The summer of 1969 would be the last summer that we would spend with Dad on the road. I would be going away to college. Dad eventually was promoted and spent most of his time behind a desk in the "General Office". It found us in Lafayette, Louisiana. My mother were setting around the table after boiling several dozen crabs. Dad liked to eat crab but was too lazy to take the time and pick the meat out. My brother did not like seafood so my mother and I had plenty to eat. She and I had eaten as much as we could and were picking the meat off of the remaining crabs. We were waiting to watch Neil and Buzz walk on the moon (scheduled for later that evening). The phone rang and a few minutes later my mother returned to the table. Because she was a red head, her face would turn red when she was upset or had been crying. She informed us Honere "Tee" McDaniels had passed away. A day or so later I learned that we would be attending her funeral in New Orleans.

That trip to New Orleans was epic. It was during the drive to and from New Orleans that my parents finally relented to my planned trip to Woodstock later that summer. We also stopped and visited LSU and I tried out for the GBFTL (Golden Band From Tiger Land) . I actually tried out in front of Dr. William Swor, the Director of Bands. He informed me I was probably the worst clarinet player to have ever auditioned for his band. He told me I make the "cut" but that I would probably be on the drum line instead of woodwinds. We drove up to Opelousas and then through Krotz Springs on into Baton Rouge. We then followed the Airline Highway into New Orleans. It had been several years since I had been to New Orleans but as we drove down US 61 and then onto Interstate 10 across the diversion canal. I began to get the same feeling I remembered from our earlier visits. The visit was a somber one but I was still excited.

Other than attending my two cousin's first communions, and a tour of St. Louis Cathedral on one of our summer trips back in 1959-60, I had never stepped foot inside of a Catholic Church. I had only been to a few funerals up until then. I really was not too much on viewing dead bodies. I was pretty naive too. I had no idea that negroes could be Catholics. Yes I said "negro". I always thought the word "colored" was pretty stupid.

We parked on the street and walked a few blocks to St. Augustine Catholic Church .(The church is considered the oldest "African American"Catholic Church in America.) We arrived early but before long the church began to fill up. I was not looking forward to seeing a dead body. I was relieved when the casket was brought in and it remained closed.
I really do not recall much about the service except here were four New Orleans police officers there and of them three of them were white. There were two priests and one of them was white. Other than that, all of the other people attending were black. We proceeded outside and Tee's casket was placed on a small wagon pulled by an old mule. A small brass band in attired in black was assembling and before long the wagon and the band began take a slow walk towards St.Louis No. 2 cemetery. It was very hot and humid and I was wearing a suit and tie. The band was playing "Just a Closer Walk to Thee." We, along with everyone else, followed behind and formed what I learned later to be a "Second Line" Before long we assembled by an old tomb. The priests said a few prayers and two very old black women sang a few songs that seemed to never end. It was so damn hot. My mother was crying and my dad left to go sit in our car because he had no idea how much longer the ceremony would last and he was dying for a smoke. The women finally stopped singing. The priests said a few words more and before long, the band started playing and marching out of the cemetery. Everyone once again followed behind the band. The music was a lot livelier. I do not recall what song (s) they played but it was pretty cool. As we joined in the Second Line, my mother and I began to truly 'feel" the music. My mother's tears were still on her face as we felt a certain "gait" in our step, but she had a slight smile. We ended up back at St. Augustine's and then everyone pretty much went their own way. One of the policemen (the black one) approached my mother and spoke to her. She hugged him and she spoke to him for a while. Mother introduced him to me. His name was Jack McDaniels. As I shook his hand and I laughed and told him that I remembered his mother teaching me that song so long ago. I told him about her telling me she "already" had a son named Jack. I offered him my condolences and he told me us was so proud that we would drive all the way down to Nu Awlins for his mother. But what I remember the most was what my mother said to him. "Of course we would come, she was my best friend"

That statement of my mothers has actually has stayed with me a long time. Miss Tee was different from us. I guess I always knew that mother considered Miss Tee as her friend but the fact of who Tee was what confirmed what my mother always taught me and my brother. It has made me far less melancholy and much more reflective. She taught us to respect everyone. I mean true respect and not something "just on the surface". She preached that all people, regardless of race or age or religion were equal in the eyes of God. "Therefore they should be equal in our eyes too." Although my mother believed in segregation, she advocated true equality. She never claimed that one race was superior or inferior to others. Separate, yes but also equal. Some people would consider that attitude racist. I guess you just had to know Dessy. She was far from it. Mother was always nice and polite to people but she did not claim to have many friends. I think that was because she was brutally honest. You always knew where you stood with Dessy. She never "minced" words and she either liked you or not . She was strongly opinionated. She was passionalte about the things she beleived in and she was not afraid to show her emotions. She taught me so many things and some of those have been passed on to my children. Had she lived, I am sure she would have done a far better job than me.

When June 24 rolls around now a days, I have more of the "gait" in my step than tears in my eyes.

My dad drove me to New Orleans in late May of 1972. It would be the last time he and I would visit the Cresenct City together. I had to visit the offices of an offshore construction company over in Harvey in order to get the summer job (working offshore). I had it for the next three years. Once again, we traced many of the steps that our family had taken years earlier. We had a few cold ones at Tujagues, as well as a dozen or so at Felix's. We visited the New Orleans office of my dad's company. We ate a wonderful po boy at Mother's and dinner at Kolbs's. We spent a whole afternoon drinking at a few of the bars on Bourbon Street. It was wonderful.

Over the past 38 years I have vistited New Orleans many more times. My most recent trip was in December of last year. I ate an Oyster Po Boy and drank a cold Barq's at Rocky and Carlo's. One year ago when I was still working for The Power Load, we had a job on the West Bank. One evening I, and one of my co workers, from West Virginia, took a stroll in the Quarter. We had a muffelleta at The Napolean House. I gave him the "nickel tour" of the quarter.I took him Pat O'Brien's, Felix's, Cafe DuMonde past Donny's flat and finally to the checkerboard floor of the bar at Tujagues. We each drank a Blakened Vodoo (Dixie) while there.

So there.......I did mention beer in this blog.

I realize that I have started a continueing series about my favorite bars. I also realize this posting is a reflection about my mother. New Orleans is famous for it's "nightlife". It is very difficult to pick only one to be on my list as my favorite bars. Hell they are all good. I suppose the "first bar you ever went inside of" would qualify as the best.

As I write this I realize it never was my mother who cared much for New Orleans. The love of the city was instilled into me by my father actually. But of all of the memories I retain of my sojourns to the Cresent City, it is my mother's arguing with a tour guide inside of St. Louis Catheral and that simple statement to Honere's son while standing at the corner of St. Claude and Gov Nicholls. I am so glad she was my mother and yes, I still miss her...

Iko Iko

My spy boy told your spy boy
Sitting on the Bayou
My spy boy told your spy boy
I'm gonna set your tail on fire

Talking bout hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now)
Iko iko, iko iko unday
Jockomo feeno ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

My Marie told your Marie
Sitting on the Bayou
My Marie told your Marie
I'm gonna set your flag on fire

We going down to
Iko iko unday
We gonna catch a little?
With jockomo feena nay, now

Talking bout hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now)
Iko iko, iko iko unday
Jockomo feeno ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

All right

See Marie down the railroad track
Iko iko unday
Said put it here in the chicken sack
With jockomo feena nay

My little boy told your little boy
Get your head on my-o
My little girl told your little boy
We gonna get your chicken wire

Talking bout hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now)
Iko iko, iko iko unday
Jockomo feeno ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

We going down to Bedford town
Iko iko unday
We gonna dance
Bout to mess around
Jockomo feena nay

Watch all what you tell them to
Iko iko unday
Cause we ain't do what you tell us to
Now you can jockomo feena nay

Talking bout hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now)
Iko iko, iko iko unday
Jockomo feeno ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

Jockomo feena nay
What I say, unday
Jockomo feena nay
What I say, unday...

Iko iko unday
Jockomo feena nay
Iko iko unday
Jockomo feena nay...

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Ever so often I go back and look at some of my previous postings. Yes I suffer from lack of brevity and I tend to ramble on in my postings. It is an affliction that I freely admit to have and one that I really try to work on it. I also try not to repeat myself too much but once again I fail at that too. In this blog I mentioned the corruption of the politicians in New Orleans. I stated I would not "go into it". Feel free to read my previous blog entitled "Gris Gris" dated July 3, 2009. I actually wrote it while I was in the New Orleans area last year. In that blog I detail some of the corruption I elluded to herein.


______________________________________
Till next time


Jack

"I Love This Bar"

My "Amish" friend calls nearly everyone "Bub" . Although he is known as Buddy by his family, most of the people I worked with called him Bub. I just call him Roger. He loves bars. Actually he calls them pubs. In my years of travelling and working with him, we have sat at more than a couple of pubs and did a multitude of twelve once curls. One of his favorite places is Applebee's. where he prefers to set at the bar. Usually we will have 2-3 large beers (called Brutuses) on tap and then we order our meal. I have been in "Neighborhood Grills" with him from Maine to California and many places in between.

Roger continues his travels throughout the United States with Betsy, his 2004 silver Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS. He tells me if he sees an Applebees and Motel 6 at the same exit then that is where he will spend the night.

This is still a beer blog so I have decided to write about my favorite pubs./taverns/lounges/bars/beer joints/ice houses/dives/clubs/honky tonks/etc.

Comparing types of beer is like comparing apples to oranges. The same principle applies to bars as well. Some of the places I will be writing about are "true shit holes" while others are pretty nice and upscale. At first I had planned to write about only ten but as I began to make the list I realized the list would be larger. In my past scribblings I have written about a few of my favorite watering holes. Pardon me if I repeat.

Coon Ridge Lounge -Located on Louisiana Highway 191 two miles South of Zwolle, Louisiana.

My dad and I had been fishing all day long. I recall that I caught a seven pound bass on my very first "cast". It would be the only bass I would catch all day. We had filled up two large Igloo ice chests with white perch and the "one" bass. We had just landed our boat when it began to rain "cats and dogs". Because my father had drank more than enough beers, he allowed me (15 years old with only a learners permit) to drive the car (while pulling our boat). As it was getting dark I pulled out onto the Scenic Highway and headed towards our home in Shreveport. I had only been driving for about ten minutes when it began to rain even harder. I was entering into a curve in the road, when Dad began to shout, "Pull Over!" I pulled into the parking lot of what I later realized was a beer joint. My dad flew out of the car and ran up to the front door of the place. He began shouting "Tommy" " Tommy' and I followed after him saying "I am here Dad" But he kept shouting "Tommy". when he reached the front door I saw him charge a large "Mexican" looking man who was standing underneath the ledge to protect himself and the blonde he was with, from the rain. Once again he shouted "Tommy" and then ..... POW ! He hit the man. The man fell down and Dad just stood over the dazed man. I had never seen my father behave that way before. I was terrified. The blonde looked at me and said "Please mister, I am not his wife". About that time the man, Tommy Sepulvado, looked up at my Dad and said "T.W. ?" It seems that the two of them were best friends when they played basketball for the Zwolle High School Hawks. We sat at that bar for over an hour and I drank two or three beers as we waited for the rain to subside. It was the first bar that I ever actually ordered a beer at. They served it too. Looking back I realize that night in that bar is when I crossed over from boyhood to manhood. Twenty years later, my Dad and his new wife had a small "place" located on nearby Toledo Bend. I and the Prodigy had been visiting during the Christmas holidays. My step brother Russell was visiting as well. On Christmas night, he and I decided that we was going to do a Sabine Parish "Pub Crawl" . The first place that we visited was the same bar that my father and I had visited that rainy night so many years earlier. Nothing had changed. We walked in and stood at the bar. There was large woman with even larger blonde hair asking us what we wanted to drink. we both ordered a Bud. Since it was Christmas Day, Russell began making small talk with the bartender..."so...did you have a good Christmas?" "No" she replied. "We buried my son yesterday" I looked at her and said "Oh I am so sorry". ""How did he die" Russell inquired. Then she paused and said. "He was killed in a hunting accident, or so they say.....he was shot three times". I looked at Russell and whispered, "Let's get the fuck out of here". As we walked outside it was raining and I recalled my first time at that little beer joint.so many things had happened to me in the years between visits.

I would pass the Coon Ridge Lounge many times over the next several years but I never again went inside. The last I heard, It was finally abandoned and now it is a run down shack on the side of a two lane road lined with run down shacks.

Next Goodfellas, Laconia, New Hampshire

Wanna leave a tip for the band?

The Third

Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane

The summer of 1959 found us in Houma, Louisiana. I wrote about it in my very first blog "And So It Began". At the end of the summer, my mother, brother and I moved in with my grandmother, Augusta Victoria Boone. Up until that time my years had been spent in East Texas. My new school mates at Pelican School (the same one my mother attended) would call me Tex. My new teacher, Mrs. Thigpen would teach that Louisiana received it's name from King Louis and Queen Anna. My father stayed in South Louisiana and "worked on the road" only coming to Desoto Parish to be with the family on weekends. Gussie's house had this great wrap around porch with a swing . Nearby was a mature Red Bud tree. I would climb that tree and read books and actually fall asleep at times. Between that tree and the swing, I spent countless hours dreaming. I don't recall what I was dreaming about. Perhaps I wasn't dreaming but rather, living. The wonderful fragrances of hot afternoons kissed by cool nights, and layered with the red dust from the nearby gravel road, embedded memories deeply into my young but eternal soul. Black Eyed Susans, Sweet Gums and Loblollies. were embraced with the sounds of bob whites, cicadas, wolves, crickets, cattle, owls and my dog Buster treeing squirrels. As the setting sun would slowly drain the daylight, the sky would be illuminated with the moon, stars and fire flies. I recall peering into the infinite black sky and watching as the Russian satellite "Sputnik" slowly crept across the horizon. You really could see it move. It seemed as if you could pick up a nearby iron ore rock and strike it down. I would lay on the samll back porch next to the "handcrank" Maytag with my little brother and point out to him the various constellations in the dark heavens. I made up most of the names. I did know the North Star, The Evening Star and Morning Star. I could identify The Big and Little Dippers. I marveled at the Milky Way. I remember how difficult it was to describe "infinity" to a four year old.

An arsonist burned that house along with the nearby tree in the early 70's. My grandmother, mother, and brother all died within three days of each other in June, 1980. Dad passed away a few weeks before the new millennium. Only I remain. Those days, though long past, seem as only yesterday to me. It was a peaceful , idyllic, and wonderful time. I would not have traded it for anything. I was so blessed. If I had to describe what I though heaven was, I am sure it that little country house, the swing and fire flies would be included.

Earlier tonight The Mrs The Third and I were forgoing the NCIS weekly offerings and were setting on the Party Patio enjoying a few cold adult beverages. "What's that?" "Did you see that?" she exclaimed. As her words still echoed, I saw brief flashes of light in the low sky of my yard. For a long while, we sat and felt the cool evening breezes caress us as we gazed into our back yard garden and let the fire flies stir our souls. As we sat I felt tears stinging my eyes. Those days living with Mao Maw Boone seemed so vivid in my heart. For a brief moment I was swinging sideways in that porch swing. The last time I recall seeing fire flies was in the spring of 1998 when I was visiting Bucks County, Pa. near the banks of the Delaware River (back in 1999). I remember reading that the insects were all but extinct as a result of the use of dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, also known as DDT.

A few days ago on the same Party Patio I slew a snake that had slithered near the entrance of my house. I thought I knew how to identify snakes and to be honest, I was beginning to think that the snake was a poisonous copperhead. I took a picture of it an sent it to a few "snake experts" I located on the internet. I received two replies. The head of the College of Veterinary Science at nearby Texas A & M replied ..."It looks like you killed a corn snake, undoubtedly an escaped/released pet. They are harmless and widely kept as pets, and they are native to the eastern U.S. The "corn snakes" found in Texas are not found in Temple and would not have that much orange. This species of corn snake is commonly misidentified as the venomous copperhead" Clint The Snake Man Pustejovsky replied "This was, most likely someone's pet, nonvenomous corn snake". This species of corn snake is not native to Texas. Corn snakes eat mostly mice and rats for their diet" I showed both of the emails to the Mrs The Third. Hopefully, I convinced her that there probably are no more of these snakes in our yard. Maybe, one day, she will return to the Party Patio. I named the departed snake non the less. His name was Damien.

The presence of lighting bugs and Damien the snake, in my back yard brought back vivid memories of my youth yet gave me a renewed hope in the future. I have been in a self imposed funk lately and I accept these sightings as a sign of good things to come. I am sure the cold adult beverages helped too.

Bring It On

The Third, The Viper Slayer