The Chair

Nearly two years ago I posted on my blog ( Cosc ar bheoir ghlas) about my great great Grandfather Michael Tomas O'Sullivan. The picture shown on the left is one taken of him. He was born in 1835. He immigrated to America from County Cork, Ireland in 1851 and eventually settled in Memphis Tennessee and worked as a member of the city's fire department. In 1861 He enlisted in the Confederate army. He was a Private in Company 7, 10th Regiment of the Tennessee Infantry, CSA. He was captured at the Battle of Shiloh and spent time in a "Union" POW Prison (Camp Douglas).He eventually was involved in a prisoner exchange. He was sent to Vicksburg, Mississippi. After the war he married the sister of a fellow soldier whom he met in the war and settled in the Northern part of Mississippi. In January of 1883 he arranged for his father, and mother , his brother John and his wife Kate and his sister Ellen and her husband W.P. Condon, to sail from Ireland to New Orleans, Louisiana. From there they traveled via a river boat up the Mississippi River and then the Yazoo River to Yazoo City, Mississippi. Mike met his family in Yazoo City and then traveled with them on his wagon for nearly two days back to Coila, Mississippi where he and his young family lived. He had not seen his parents for over 34 years and both his brother John (Little John and Ellen ) were born after he had left Ireland. His parents lived less than a year before both of them passed away. He died Carroll County, Mississippi in 1891 at the age of 56. Most feel an injury incurred in the war contributed to his early death. He was a contractor most of his life. He dug wells and ditches. He was a brick mason and a carpenter. He built houses. He had seven children, five sons and two daughters. Tomas Ulliam (my great grandfather); John Walsh; William Maurice, ; Ellen Katreen; Patrick "Pad" Owen; Mary Elizabeth; and Francis Donal. His sons continued as contractors and builders. In 1899 , the sons of Mike Sullivan, John L, Sullivan and W.P. Condon using lumber from the land of John L. Sullivan, built the first Catholic Church (Sacred Heart Parish) in Northern Mississippi (Coila). The original structure stands to this day.
According to the story told to me by my father, the "boys" built the church as well as the altar and pews all within one month. From some of the left over materials William Maurice (Uncle Morris) crafted a rocking chair for his older brother Tom's second born son Thomas William (Dit).
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My grandfather began working for Humble Oil and quickly was promoted to Pipeline Superintendent. He worked in Sabine Parish near Zwolle, Louisiana for most of his tenure with The Company. In the early 1950's he transferred to the small town of Oil City. He purchased a five acre track of land which had a large Humble Oil "Superintendent's company house" located on it. The house had two screened porches. One was at the "front" of the house. I spent hours swinging on the swing on that porch and watching as trains would speed along the nearby Kansas City Southern railroad tracks. The side porch , which led into the kitchen area, was much smaller. On it was a light gray painted rocking chair. I remember playing in it. I also recall my grandfather telling me how he, his brother and sisters. my father,my aunt and even I were rocked to sleep in that very chair. It was the chair my grandmother (Bessie) would set in as she shelled peas or snapped beans. In 1970 my grandparents moved from that house and moved to a brick house near our house in Shreveport. My grandfather died a few months later.
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The gray rocking chair occupied one of the three bedrooms at my grandmother's house. In the same room was a roll top desk which I also recall playing on back in the "company house". Over the years I pretty much forgot about that old rocking chair.

In 1974 my father purchased a four bed room house in the Memorial Area of Houston, Texas. On my first visit to their new home, my father pointed out their "antique room" Inside was an old wrought iron bed and frame, an old "dresser drawer" my mother had found at a garage sale and a rocking chair. "Is that the same one that was grand daddy's?" I asked. "It sure is" my father replied. It looked so old and dirty. I told him that I remembered it as being painted gray yet it was an awful shade of green. "I painted it" he told me. "Tommy that is the same chair that rocked my father to sleep when he was a baby" he said beaming with pride.

Two years later, The Prodigy was born. Soon after, a fourth generation was rocked in that chair. My father had repainted it again. This time it was a light grey and the seat had been re padded and reupholstered. Dad had the seat covered with a nearly pure white "unborn calf hide". It really looked nice.
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My father eventually sold his house in Houston and after several years he moved near Toledo Bend Reservoir. The rocking chair once again went with him and this time it found it self outside on the covered patio adjacent to his lake house. The weather was not kind to the chair. The paint eventually chipped and discolored and the calf hide seat cover was worn and had holes in it. But...the chair still rocked. My youngest daughter was nearly two years old when my father held her and rocked her to sleep in that old chair.
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Once again my father moved, this time to New Mexico. On his last visit to my home, he told me that he had something for his granddaughter. He seemed pretty excited and he asked that I help him bring it inside my house. I walked with him to his truck and there to my surprise was that rocking chair. It had a fresh coat of white paint and the seat was covered with light gray leather. He told me that he had the chair completely restored and repainted. I took it inside our home. My Dad then told us that the chair was not ours but rather Sarah's. She was six or seven at the time. He then told us the story of the chair. I don't think my daughter paid attention. The chair sat in our living room for nearly five years. For a long time no one was allowed to even set in it. The Rock Star Mentality made sure of that. The chair served at a coat rack and a place for The Mrs The Third to hang drying clothes on.

When we moved to Central Texas, we brought the chair with us. It spent nearly five years in storage and finally when we moved into the house we are in now, we brought the chair to our living room. Mostly the chair just sat there. It once again found itself being used for the same thing it was back when we were in Tomball.
My daughter, Jan Brady would come down from far North Texas and visit us. Her daughter, Little Cat seemed to always be fussy, She wanted little or nothing to do with me. She was constantly having problems with her ears. One night she was fussy and I picked her up and I sat in the rocking chair and began to rock her. Before long she was fast asleep. The chair did it's magic.
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Several months ago, I wrote about my grandson. I wrote how he was born premature. He only weighed one pound seven ounces when he was born. He was so tiny. The picture on the left is his footprint on an infant tongue depressor. There were countless things that could have been "wrong" with him. The odds of his survival were not very good, yet as I stated in that posting, He has the heart of a Tiger. He spent nearly month at Austin Texas' Dell Children's Hospital. His mother and father would travel to see him multiple times. I along with his grandmother visited many times as well. He had all sorts of tubes attached to him and in him, yet he continued to progress each day. Eventually he was returned to the hospital where he was born. He was still very frail and very small. We would go to the hospital and visit him. The small child was inside a plastic encased device. We could barely see him and we could not touch him. He seemed to never cry but only squeak. As time progressed he was moved to an open bed and we could actually touch him. Later we could even pick him up and hold him and even feed him. He continued to grow. He would open his eyes and gaze at me. His even cried too. But he was still in the hospital. Months passed he still remained. All of the things that could have been wrong...were not. He was growing into a healthy baby. He approached seven p0unds and we learned that it should not be too long and the boy could finally go home to his mother and father.

Please forgive me if I sound sappy or sentimental.
I realize that I am a lot like my father. I realize that sometimes I am misunderstood. Although I mean one thing, sometimes people tend to interpret what I say as something other than what I mean. It is more frustrating than most people believe. I suppose it is my cross to bear. I have spent the best part of my life trying to be the very best parent I can be. I make no boasts or excuses as to how well or how poorly I did. I have witnessed my four children as adults and I am confident that each of them carries a substantial amount of my "influence" whether they admit it and or like it or not. I do not always agree with the choices and decisions my children make, but I truly try to support their decisions regardless. I like to say that I have never intentionally given any of them bad advise. I could never hurt them. Which reminds me of a true incident with my own father.....We were driving together one afternoon when we stopped at a "roadside" BBQ stand. Both of us got a BBQ sandwich, a jalapeno pepper and a soft drink. We got back in the truck and continue our trip. My dad began eating first and at some point I asked him how hot the pepper was. He looked at me and said "Not too bad." He then took another bite of the pepper for me to see. Since my father told me the pepper was not "hot" and since I witnessed him taking a second bite from his pepper, I sunk my teeth into the pickled pepper. Almost immediately my mouth exploded from the intense heat I felt. "Holy Shit!!! Holy Shit !!! I screamed. "That is the hottest pepper I have ever tasted" "I know" my Dad said while he laughed. "And I had to take a second bite just to see you burn". "It was worth it." He was laughing so hard he actually cried. I cried too...mostly because of the hot pepper. ... but I laughed too. I tell that story because that is how much my father loved me and that is how I know that he did.

That is how much I love my children too. Hopefully one day they will realize the same thing I realized about my Dad.
Perhaps they already do.
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My father in law, George was absolutely obsessed with his first grandchild. The love he had for The Prodigy was so intense that those around him could actually feel it. Although he would have other grandchildren, there was something truly special about his feelings for his "Little Sister". My own mother was pretty much the same. I never believed that I could love anyone as strongly and intensely as they did. Looking back I think maybe I always have but I assure you that the mere thought of my grandson (previously referred to as Number 18 but now and in the future, to be known as "Hayseed") stirs a feeling inside of me that I cannot truly describe. He is still a small infant but to me he is my hero. He gives me inspiration and hope. I hope one day he and I can share a pepper one day too.
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So RSM has moved to an apartment with The New Mexican, an American Hero. Yesterday, after over three and a half months in hospitals, my grandson has finally gone to his own home. No strings and no tubes attached. He is a healthy baby boy. The Mrs The Third, Jan Brady, Little Cat and I went to visit him and his parents. Upon entering their apartment, I noticed the rocking chair setting in the corner. Once again it seemed to be a coat rack. I even placed my coat on it. I eventually got my "turn" to hold the baby. I held him and went over to the corner and sat down. There was a lot of commotion and no one noticed the tears in my eyes. I felt the love that George and Odessa felt. I am sure those tears were partially for those who came before me but also tears of joy of those who will follow. A fifth generation was experiencing what his great great great Uncle Morris built over one hundred and ten years ago. My grandfather was the "first" and now his grandson was holding his grandson. It was The Big Cat and Hayseed as it has always been destined to be....rocking in The Chair.


Geaux Haise !! Rock On !!!!



The Third

I would do it for You

I have been posting to this blog for over two years now. In many ways it certainly is not what I thought it would be ......and on the other hand it is. I have tried to take a lighthearted look at many things and have muddled my way through never really thinking too much as to how it played out. In a strange way, I feel that it is becoming a quasi autobiographical introspect. From the very beginning I have attempted to avoid using actual names of people I write about. I have assigned nicknames to many of them. Most people who know me, can readily identify to whom I am writing.

This is my blog and no one else contributes to it, I have never intentionally written anything that I felt would truly be harmful to anyone, living or dead. From time to time, I express my opinion and I sprinkle in some wry sarcasm. What I write I do so with tongue in cheek. I would never lie on purpose. If someone believes anything I have written is a lie, I guess there is nothing I could write here that would undo that opinion. If one does not care to believe what I write.... that is his or her prerogative. Although I sometimes use a bit of hyperbole, everything I have written is truthful. Sometimes you have to read what is written "between the lines". If you feel offended, betrayed or insulted..... then read it over again. Perhaps you did not truly understand what I was trying to say. Or perhaps, your cerebral limitations (or mine) or your predetermined beliefs, interfere with your ability to truly understand what I am attempting to say.

I have always striven to give each of my postings a positive and affirming spin. I would never want anything I write here to be construed as spiteful, malicious or vengeful. In a bizarre way I write my postings with a positive light.

With all of the above said, I am one who is not with out sin. I do not live in a glass house therefore I tend to not throw stones. Those who know me know I am talk way too much and that if you give me enough time I will eventually put my foot in my mouth. Although I usually try to keep a watchful eye on what other think, I also admit that other peoples "petty feeling" matter very little to me. I am confounded that they "simply do not get it."

I think most people consider me a "good guy". I feel that my good nature does not garner me the respect of others. I feel I am perceived as one who sort of goes with the flow. I do not like to be confrontational but trust me I can and will take a "stand" when I need to. I am capable to admit I am wrong and I will constantly remind you when I am right.

As I have written before, I played baseball for the Mighty Lakeshore Baptist Bees. One of the teams we would play twice a year was the team sponsored by one of the local Catholic churches, St. John's. At each of our contests, the announcers would state who was at bat as well as who was"on deck". As a small boy child, it was sort of special to hear your name announced. One of players on St. John's had the same last name as me. Of all of the teams that we played each year, St. John's actually had a person who I was actually related to. The two were not the same person. My mother's cousin had a son who played for St. John's. After each game with the cheating bastards , my mother would drag me over to introduce me to her cousin and her son Bucky Boone, my third cousin. It was on one of those occasions that Bucky introduced me to his friend and teammate Bill Sullivan. I think we were either nine or ten at the time.

Several years later while attending Louisiana State University, I was assigned a new roommate. His name was Steve. Steve was from the same home town as I was and had graduated from the local Catholic High School (Jesuit). Steve and I became fast friends. He knew many of the guys I used to play football against back in high school and yes he was friends with both the aforementioned Bucky and Bill. Bucky ended up joining the Army and died in Viet Nam. Bill began attending LSU and he ad I hung out a lot. He was the second youngest out of 11 children. He did not have a car and I found myself driving him around in Baton Rouge. He would show up at my room and ask me to take him somewhere. Usually I would tell him I did not want to go or I did not have time or some other excuse. He would say " Ahhh Come On Man, I'd do it for you." Most of the time I relented. Back in Shreveport we actually had several people convinced we were actual brothers. We even won a trophy as the best Foos Ball team in town. It seemed that no matter where I went, I tended to cross paths with Bill. Eventually I began to see less and less of Bill . In 1974, The Plaintiff and I were married on August 17 at 4:00 PM in the afternoon. I learned the next day that my friend Bill Sullivan had been married at 7:00 PM later that night at the same church......St John's Catholic. On a week day in 1981 I along with my Aunt Mary Nell were have a winning day at the local race track. I was standing in line to redeem a winning ticket when someone directly behind me spoke into my ear. "Come on Man..I'd do it for you.". It was my friend Bill. He was drunk as a skunk and he proceeded to tell me how much money he had lost that day. I bought him a beer and we spoke for about five minutes and made plans to get together soon. I had not seen or heard from him up until this past year. It seems he works at an accounting firm of which I have conducted some personal business recently.

I do not recall Bill doing one single favor for me. But I truly believe it is because I never asked him. I am confident that he would have. He taught me that if you are truly willing to do a favor for someone, you can truly ask them to do a favor for you.

Recently I submitted a posting concerning my son in law bringing some beer back to me. I wrote it to point out the various beers I was hoping that he would retrieve for me. (which he did by the way) I detailed how I took the steps that I took to make his "favor" for me to be as painless as possible. Upon his return home he informed me that the whole process took less than ten minutes of his time; that he only drove a mile or so out of his way; and the the sales rep even carried the seven six packs outside and placed them in his truck.

In the same posting I referred to an instance a year earlier wherein I had requested a former coworker to retrieve some beer from me. I implied that he "owed me". I pointed out that he was "too tired" to "hook me up" even though I believed it would have been very easy and convenient. I supposed it could be construed that I betrayed my "friend" as someone who was a loaf or someone who would not honor a debt and even steal money from me. I mentioned a vehicle I sold to him and I inadvertently misrepresented the actual selling price. The fact is that he did indeed pay for the vehicle (over the course of several months). I even provided him a written affidavit to attest that he had paid me in full. I did not directly give to him forty dollars. I had actually given the money to another employee with instructions to give the forty dollars to him along with directions to the local beer store. I never consulted with my friend and coworker concerning his willingness to acquire the beers for me. I suppose my history with the aforementioned Bill Sullivan led me to believe that my "friend" and former coworker would "hook me up". The beer he was supposed to have acquired for me was actually going to be a present to one of my new local friends. Finally I want to state that the person to whom I actually gave the forty dollars, informed me , after the fact, that he, not the "proposed beer mule" had my money. It was he that never gave my money back to me.

The mention in my posting was never intended to disrespect my former coworker. It was written as filler and in passing. I have since edited the posting to insure that little or any reference is made to him.

I realize that very few people actually read my blogs. One of the few that do (or did), is the person who I had hoped would bring the beers back to me back in 2009. He now feels as if I insulted him or as he states "I placed a shank in his back". he purports that I use my blog to lie. I differ with him that I lied. He in entitled to his misguided opinion. Regardless, I hereby apologize to him for anything I said either expressed or implied that would have caused him such consternation.

I sincerely hope that I have sufficiently addressed that matter. I do not intend to concern myself with it further.


On with the show



The Third

First, Second and Sixtieth

Last night The Mrs The Third and i visited our grandson in the hospital. Number 18 is really doing well and I look forward to the day when he can go home to his mom and dad and none of the tubes and sensor wires are attached to him. I have a feeling it will not be too long actually. We took a red and white stocking cap(saying Baby's First Christmas) with us. We placed it on his head and took several pictures of him.

Today, I took my annual pilgrimage to Austin and Honey Baked Hams. On the way back I stopped at Spec's and picked up a sixer of Abita's Christmas Ale (it is remarkable), A sixer of Harpoon UFO (Blue) for the wife and to my surprise I found a six pack of Moose Drool. I also purchased a twelve pack of Pearl (in cans).

Although it will be Number 18's first, I realize that tomorrow will be my sixtieth Christmas. Each one of them special. I don't recall any of them before I was 4 or 5. My grandchildren who will be celebrating their first or second Christmases probably will not recall tomorrow at all.

We are having a meager holiday and very few if any gifts will be exchanged. But in many ways this is going to be my favorite Christmas of all.

I have the glorious honor to have three beautiful grandchildren. They are my gifts. The very best kind.

Merry Christmas to everyone but especially to Kyleigh Marie, Levi Rafe and Hastin Duane. Big Cat loves each of you more than mere words could ever say




Cheers (Christmas)



The Third

New England Beer Run

If you ever get a chance to visit the Detroit airport, I strongly suggest you take a side trip on the underground conveyor that leads from one terminal to another. It is a really cool light show and the music is pretty futuristic. It reminds me of one of the things you may find at a World's Fair or at a Disney park. It was during one of my lay overs at that airport that my journey for "craft beers" actually began. I had over an hour between flights so I decided that I would set at one of the over priced pubs/lounges. I ordered a Sam Adams Boston Lager. I was shocked at the $ 7.00 price. I drank the beer and then took in the aforementioned conveyor belt ride. I guess I drank the beer too fast because I recall the overwhelming hops taste after I belched. It was wonderful actually. I finally found a beer that tasted like that first beer I had experience back in Dulac, Louisiana (my very first blog "and so it begins") so many years earlier.I have been looking for more ever since. That overpriced beer begot The Brew Chronicles

Over the past two years (my first blog was December 15, 2008),I have rambled about many things and sometimes I actually discussed beer. I am no longer employed by the Power Load so I no longer travel across the country the way I used to and as a result I have lost the ability to discover new and wonderful offerings from the nation's craft breweries. I have to rely upon what is available locally and the good nature of my former work mates.

About a year ago I gave $ 40 dollars to a coworker. I was assigned to a project in Texas and was not going to a job in Northern California. I located a liquor store within a mile from where the motel my coworkers were to be staying. Along with the cash, I gave a detailed maps and a "wish list" to my co worker and I asked that he drop by the liquor store and pick up a few bombers of beers that are not available anywhere near where I live. I once sold him a car for $ 400.00 wherein he paid me in installment over the course of a year or so. I sort of felt that "he owed me one" Although he had six nights to do the favor for me, it seems he was "too tired" to take ten minutes out of his day on my behalf. I never got my Pliny the Elder and I never got the $ 40 back either. He ended up giving the money to another fellow employee who assured him that he would return it to me. (which did not happen). He now seems offended that I would mention this or that I might besmirch his name or good nature, If I had offended him, I apologize.

My son in law , The Big Ranch is currently working in a small town just south of Boston, Mass. I have given him $ 70.00 and a shopping list of some New England beers not available here. I have provided him the address of a beer store and I have even called the store and gave them my shopping list. (thanks Keith) . He called me last night and informed me that he had "my beer" He said that the store was less than two miles out of his way and that it only took a few minutes (since the beer was setting there waiting for him)

I am getting seven "six packs" of which I plan to make up "New England Mixer Six Packs" for The Jim, The New Mexican, Matt, a friend of mine who has introduced me to home brewing, and the owner of my local favorite pub. I plan on drinking the rest. Yum.

Here is what I am planning/hoping to get:

Gritty McDuff’s (Maine) - Original Pub Style -- This brewer has a cult following

Otter Creek (Vermont) - Alpine Black IPA . A real "Black" I.P.A. It is their Winter Ale

Blue Hill’s (Massachusetts) - IPA --This beer is brewed withing 5 miles of the liquor store

Long Trail (Vermont) - Double Bag Ale -- I have never drank a Long Trail beer. I want to.

Smuttynose (New Hampshire) - Old Brown Dog Ale -- The dog is actually named Olive

Haverhill (Massachusetts) – Homerun APA -- Never had one of these beers.

Wachusett (Massachusetts)- Black Shack Porter -- ditto

Two beers from Maine, two from Vermont, one from New Hampshire and three from Massachusetts. A true cornucopia of New England beer.

Atlas Liquors, Quincy, Ma ( less than a mile from where John Adams was born) is where my beers are coming.

I really tried to make the "beer run" for "The Big Ranch" as easy as possible. I would like to think that he may make a few more on his future sojourns. On the other hand I have to admit that the selection of various craft beers have significantly improved here in CenTex over the last several years.

Cheers... and Happy Birthday Bub.

The Third

Post Script:

If you are The Jim, The New Mexican, my friend Matt or one of the owners of O'Briens Pub, please try to still act surprised when I give you your New England Mixer.

"....what I have failed to do"

For far too long I have been writing my rants and thoughts here on The Brew Chronicles. I have sparsed out some thingsbeer from time to time but frankly I must admit it has been a vent for me.

I have spent far too much time focusing on things that all not in my control. It may not come across too much, but I found myself looking at the end as compared to the continued journey. That "train" of thought has ended

I realized the end is inevitable but my opining about it is not required.

For some strange reason I am beginning to feel renewed. I am going to 'roll" with it. The continued journey is and will be the subject of this blog.

"Hang on to your ass Fred"


The Third

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

Number "18" The Heart of a Tiger

During the summer of 1961 our family moved to Shreveport, Louisiana. Within a few weeks, we had joined the local Baptist Church, I was baptized and I was playing for the Lakeshore Baptist Church Bees. Up until that time, I had never actually played on an organized team. I was the "starting" shortstop. My uniform number was "2". During the entire season we did not win a single game. The following summer I once again wore the red and white uniform of the Bees. That summer we won two games. (both against the same team).

I played "church league" baseball up until I was in the tenth grade in high school. I played baseball for three years in high school, one summer "American Legion Ball" and for two years while attending Louisiana State. Each year I wore number "2".

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In the fall of 1961 I was attending Judson Elementary. Our house on Judson St., was two "doors" down from the school grounds. My bed room was literally less than 50 yards from my fifth grade classroom. They were having try outs for the school's football team. I knew very little about football. Up until that time, I had attended one LSU football game in Baton Rouge and a Northwestern State vs Stephen F Austin (my dad was an alumni) game that was played at Fair Park Stadium (now Independence Stadium). Tryouts were held in September and it was very hot. We ran a lot and the coaches would not allow us to drink water. If we asked for water, we were forced to run more laps. After a few days I decided that football was not for me and when we were running laps I simply kept running and ran on home. My father was disappointed that I simply quit without informing the coaches. The next day I returned to practice and told the coaches I had quit. They offered me the chance to continue on the team but I declined. The next year when I was entering the 6th grade I tried out again and this time I did not quit. My position was "end". (both offensive and defensive). They gave me a choice for a jersey number and I asked for "2". The number 2 jersey was too small so I ended up with number "22" instead. The Judson Jets would go on to win all of the games we played up until the city championship game. We were defeated by the Riverside Rams. My mother would one day teach fifth grade at Riverside. My cousin Jeff would be in one of her classes as well as country star Leon Eric"Kix" Brooks.
My 7th grade was at Lakeshore Junior High and once again I played football. I wore a blue and white jersey with number "22" as a Lakeshore Lion. In the summer of 1964 our family moved to a house on Sandra Street. I would attend the 8th and 9th grade at Midway Junior High School. I kept the same number (22) as I played football for the Mohawks (Lakeshore's biggest rival). Our school colors were the same as those of the high school I would later attend, Black and Gold.

I had been playing football for four years and some of the high school coaches actually knew who I was when I showed up for summer practice in August of 1966. Up until then I had played end, defensive tackle, and center. Within a few days of practice I was informed I would be moved to playing linebacker and or safety. I liked the idea and quickly began to impress the coaches. I recall the day the coaches informed me I would be a starting linebacker on the 10th grade team of the Fair Park Indians. I was so excited. A day later I learned that two varsity players were involved in an automobile accident. Both had injuries that would prevent them from playing football that season. The next day I was informed that even though I would be playing in the 10th grade game on the following Thursday and I should be prepared to "dress out" for the varsity game the following night. I wore my white jersey with black and gold trim all day at school and I was the lone tenth grader setting with the varsity team at my first "pep" rally. My jersey number for the 10th grade team was "22" but my "varsity" number was "2".

I guess I could write how illustrious my high school football career was. (I did make second team all district my junior year and I was a three year letterman which was not that common back then.) The fact is that it was not that great. Because of some unfortunate events during my senior year (as chronicled in one or more of my earlier blogs), our team never got much attention. When I walked off the field from our loss (7-6) to cross town rival C.E. Byrd, I realized my football career was over.

During the summer of 1969 while attending USL (summer school), I was contacted by one of the coaches ( Ron Brown) of LSU's Freshman Team.(The Baby Bengals). He asked if I would be interested in "walking on" and having a tryout for the team. I agreed and within a few days I was driving from Lafayette to Baton Rouge for "summer drills" . The first two days consisted of nothing but running. I hated it. I have to say they did allow us to drink as much water as we wanted. The third day of practice I was given two worn out and faded uniforms to wear for practice. One of the jerseys had the number 18 while another had "30". I thought about asking for either 2 or 22 but to be honest I was not to confident I would really even make the team. The third and fourth day of practice found us in half and even full contact. I was beaten up pretty bad and I realized that there was a large gap between high school and college football. On Friday (the fifth day of practice) I had just about decided that college football was not in my cards. I was called into the coaches office. When I walked in I saw the Baby Bengal Coach (Coach Brown) and then I saw Cholly Mac (LSU Head Coach Charles McClendon) himself. They asked me to set down. I was informed that even though I was projected to enroll at LSU in only a month or so, I was actually attending a Division II school, USL. They both understood that I was only going to summer school, but both were concerned about possible NCAA infractions. I was told I could not participate with summer drills until I was no longer attending USL. I told them that I was not too sure I would have been able to make the team anyway and I told them I would return the uniforms given to me. They both told me that I had a good chance of making the team but to be honest I realized they were only being nice. It would have been cool if I had made the team but at the time I was also looking forward to traveling to what would later be called Woodstock.

My college football career lasted only five days but I can honestly say I dressed out with the LSU football team and I was even assigned a number (even though it was for the Freshman team and probably was only a temporary assignment.)

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That same year sophomore quarterback Herman "Butch" Duhe was assigned the jersey number "18". He saw very little game time the entire year. He was projected to be the starting quarterback for the 1970 season. In September of that year and only a few days before the first game of the year. Butch died as a result of a brain aneurysm. Although not "officially retired, the number "18" jersey was rarely assigned to a LSU player for 30 years.

Matthew Mauck from Jasper Indiana, a gifted two sport athlete had been recruited by the head football coach of Michigan State University. At the last moment he elected to accept a pro baseball contract and he signed with the Chicago Cubs organization. He spent 3 years never making it to the "bigs". That coach, Nick Sabin had recently been hired as the Head Football Coach of Louisiana State University. Mauck contacted Sabin and soon he was enrolled at LSU and was made a member of the football squad. As a quarterback, he was assigned the number "18" on his jersey. Mauck"redshirted" his first year at LSU. In both 2001 and 2002 Mauck only saw limited playing time. In 2003 Matt Mauck was the starting quarterback for the Fighting Tigers. That year the Bayou Bengals won the BCS National College Football Championship. Although he had one remaining year of eligibility he elected to enter into the 2004 NFL draft. He was drafted in the seventh round by the Denver Broncos. He never saw any playing time and was traded to the Tennessee Titans and after two years he was released. He is currently enrolled at the University of Colorado School of Dentistry.

Legend goes, that upon his decision to place himself in the 2004 draft, he had a conversation with LSU trainer Jack Marruci. He asked that his number be assigned to someone who had the "Heart of a Tiger".
The following year Jacob Hester from Evangel High School, Shreveport, Louisiana was assigned number "18". Hester wore that number his entire time at LSU and in the 2007 season Hester rushed for over 1,000 yards and led his team to the 2007 BCS National College Football Championship. Hester currently plays for the San Diego Chargers of the NFL.

Prior to his departure from LSU he asked that his jersey number to be assigned to someone he felt had the "Heart of a Tiger" . Wide Receiver Richard Dickson was given the honor of wearing number 18 during the 2008 and 2009 football season. On the plane ride from Baton Rouge to Orlando Florida prior to the 2010 Capital One Bowl, Dickson informed running back Richard Murphy that he would be honored to have him wear number "18". He was later asked why he chose Murphy to wear his number. His reply.... "He has the heart of a Tiger".
The assignment of the number "18" has become a new tradition at LSU. Richard Murphy will finish his career at LSU at the end of this season. The number "18" will be passed on to someone else. Beginning this year, the person honored to wear the number is one who is now selected by the entire team and coaching staff. This individual is the one player who best shows his courage and his Heart of a Tiger.

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My youngest daughter, The Rock Star Mentality informed us several months ago that she was pregnant. Within a few days we learned that her "due date" was January 12, 2011 and the the new addition was a boy.

I was excited. After several months my daughter experienced a few incidents causing her to have to make emergency hospital visits. On October 3, 2010 she went into labor and her son was born "severely premature". My new grandson was only one pound seven ounces at birth. The "odds" were heavily against him yet he seemed to be doing even better than anticipated. The doctors and nurses were continually encouraged by his progress. They were making comments like "he is a strong one" ," he is a fighter" , and "he has a heart of a lion".
As I have stated many times, I am not too impressed with my new home town. But.....we are fortunate to have a Top 100 Hospital right here in town. In fact ....Temple Texas has more physicians per capita than any other city in the United States.

About two weeks ago, the little baby began to experience problems and the doctors at the prestigious hospital began to be less and less optimistic about his prognosis. Eventually it was decided to transport him via helicopter to nearby Austin, Texas to Dell Children's Hospital. it seemed as if surgery was imminent and the doctors and nurses were extremely cautious concerning his survival. His mother and grandmother both drove to Austin and spent the best part of a long night by his side. Early the next morning he was stabilized and it was determined surgery would not be necessary. Since then, he as steadily improved. Each day he shows us all what kind of fighter he is. When The Mrs. The Third returned home from Austin, she made a comment to me that our new grandson had the heart of a lion. Later that evening the three of us drove to Austin to visit the little man in his room. As we walked into the spacious NICU the Mrs The Third began bragging on how much our grandson was improving and how one day he might even play football for my beloved Tigers. She even suggested that his jersey number could be the room number he was currently in. As we approached the room where our grandson was in I saw the number and I looked at my wife and with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, I replied "No...He has the heart of a Tiger"

















Geaux Haise


The Third