People-Watching to the Sound of a Bell

I saw two fragile little gals with walkers, the fancy kind with a seat and four wheels, who braved the crowds to be with loved ones.

I saw grandmothers with daughters and granddaughters, three generations of women reflecting strong genetic similarities, mutually committed to the afternoon’s purpose.

I heard patient husbands sound the familiar honk that signaled where they were waiting in the parking lot.

I saw infants in strollers, sleeping soundly through the hubbub all around them.

I saw teenage boys with their arm around mom, giving her their most convincing, charming arguments of persuasion.

I saw giggly teenage girls walking past in craft-inspired flip flops.

I saw a glamorous middle-aged lady with lots of bling in zebra print leggings.

I saw brothers and cousins in overalls carrying heavy packages for the ladies to the pick-up truck.

I saw elementary school children, too many to count, give their parents a significant look as they walked past me.

I heard laughter and joking.

I saw newly-weds reach deep in the pockets of their sweat pants for change to share.

I saw genteel, kindly grandfathers, many of whom had hosted lunch for the whole family, open leather wallets stuffed full of crisp bills.

I heard one young man ask his mom, “What about the change left over from Dairy Queen, Mom?”

I saw toddlers too small to see the top of the kettle stretch to put their first pennies and nickels in.

I saw young mothers begin the process of teaching their kiddoes that there are people in our community that don’t have what they need and that sharing is a good thing.

When I called out the familiar “God bless you,” one lady respond that she certainly needed God’s blessing.

I saw and heard all of this in two short hours on the day I rang the bell for the very first time in my life.

When my relief crew came, it was a spritely, sweet grandmother who claimed that the two teenage granddaughters she brought with her “came all the way from Arizona to ring the bell.”

I hear the Salvation Army still has some places left for those willing to volunteer a few hours of their time. Contact Cindy Bell with The Salvation Army, 903.592.4361.

So much to see and hear in only a few short hours.

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

A Community Full of Reason to Give Thanks

There’s a chill in the air and we are alive to enjoy it.

Two reason to give thanks.

Each year at this time I make out a short list of reasons I am thankful and I send them all a small gift, before I start cooking for Thanksgiving or shopping for Christmas.

Why? Because I like to remember what really matters to me, right before the holiday rush competes to short circuit my soul.

So, who is on my Thanksgiving list this year?

-Bethesda Health Clinic. Serving the working, uninsured of Smith County, this group brings together volunteers from all walks of life, including hundreds of doctors, dentists, and nurses. Bethesda also unites churches of all denominations to provide affordable, top-notch health care and they do it all without one penny from our government. Pretty impressive. 409 W. Ferguson, Tyler TX, 903.596.8353.

-Bullard Education Foundation. With our government dictating how we have to spend our own tax dollars, local foundations put local control back in the hands of community leaders whose heart beat is the education of our own kiddoes. PO Box 928, Bullard, TX 75757, 903.894.6639.

-Discovery Science Place. East Texas children can grow up running through the bat cave and vibrating on the earthquake without ever realizing that it was a form of education. 308 N. Broadway, Tyler TX 75702, 903.533.8011.

-East Texas Rescue Mission of Tyler. Being a journalist takes me into new territory every day, but this year the thing that touched my heart most was to learn how many people we have sleeping on the streets in East Texas. I like this group’s approach because they make a long term commitment to those willing to take personal responsibility and apply spiritual solutions. 1023 N Glenwood Blvd, Tyler, TX 75702-5058, 903.592.9400.

-Pine Cove Christian Camps. I love the way Pine Cove ministers to families and kiddoes, soldiers’ families, young and old people, near and far, the privileged and the underprivileged. But my favorite thing is the way they train young men to be servant leaders. PO Box 9055, Tyler TX 75711, 903.561.0231.

Is East Texas unique in the way people are so committed to helping others? Or maybe its just part of a bigger American way of thinking that is built into our heritage and identity. Who knows?

All I know is I am thankful.

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

Reasons Women Love Hunting Season

As I write, it’s Saturday morning; I’m still in my PJ’s enjoying my second cup of coffee in the peaceful stillness that can’t possibly be my house. There’s a chill in the air…..

And that, my friends, is the #1 reason why women love hunting season.

A momentarily quiet house.

I am so okay with the men taking off to hunt without me. But that’s not the only thing that’s great about hunting:

#2 Meeting girlfriends at restaurants and shopping with no time restraints.

#3 Feeling totally un-guilty about buying a new outfit because the guys stocked up on all kinds of expensive new gear in the name of camo and amo right before they left.

#4 The men come in after each hunt with new stories to tell, like notches on a gun belt.

Sorting fact from fiction is all part of the fun. Like the top-secret rituals of a men’s fraternity,

only the initiated will ever know what really scared away the big buck.

#5 Women love what spending time with the men in their life does for our sons’ self-confidence.

#6 We love the way our sons swagger when they comes home after a hunt.

#7 And what about the awe mixed with regret that every little boy experiences the first time he shoots a squirrel with a BB gun? Then, strange as it sounds, each and every hunt after that reminds him again that “Life is Sacred.”

#8 It’s so reassuring when they come home and only the game was killed. Yeah, women tend to worry or pray the whole weekend.

#9 Not to mention the fact that sons go to bed early for two nights afterwards because they are so exhausted from the crazy hours and the fresh air.

#10 And yes, women like the way hunting puts us in control of the remote for a change, not to mention getting to watch chick flicks all weekend.

Seriously, there must be something sobering and thought-provoking about wandering about in God’s creation - the beautiful fields and forests of Texas - and beholding the way a mighty and good Maker rules His domain. The men always return refreshed and ready to recommit to leading and serving others.

Last, but not least, I think it is oh-so-cool when they cook what they kill which means I get a kitchen pass.

Oh, the glories of the hunt!

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Simplifying Work-related Stress

I have this theory that most work-related stress is simply people-related stress.

People can be downright stressful. Melodramatic.

So, what are some things that can be done to turn around the stressful situations, those work-related mini soap operas?

-Laugh. Look for people who know how to laugh. Make it a deliberate goal to sit at the “most fun” table at any seminar or event. Life is short.

-Focus on fun. Does 5 hours feel like 5 minutes on certain tasks? Do you look up and say, “Where did the time go?!” Say yes to more of those.

-Say No. Everyone has to do things they don’t enjoy along the way. That’s why it’s called work and that’s why we get paid. But minimize those tasks and set boundaries around them.

-Confide. Vent, but only with friends who are trustworthy and NOT co-workers. Don’t poison someone else’s well. Instead, look for mature folks who tend to end a debriefing with this kind of message, “I hear what you are saying, but I am guessing that you just needed to vent. You guys are probably a perfect team, bringing a balance to each other.”

-Repeat the Positive. Never repeat anything that is negative.

-Affirm. Affirmation tends to be contagious and everyone needs a pat on the back now and then.

-Delegate, Initiate, and Appreciate. If you are a creative ding-bat, sit next to the most organized, thorough person at the meeting. Or if you’re the intense, alpha type, sit next to the person who will be the most laid back. You’ll probably get on each other’s last nerve at first, but I guarantee that if you let the person know you appreciate the way they are wired, soon you’ll have a cordial, mutually productive relationship.

-Meet New People. New people are one way to enrich your life and stimulate your brain. Listening to other perspectives is a great way to learn something new.

-Learn New Things. Always take the opportunity to get training in areas you enjoy. Unfamiliar territory can be intimidating, but once you conquer a new skill, you’ll feel terrific and oh-so-smart.

-Reward others. Remember to thank the people in your life, at work and at home, that make your day better. Do not withhold honor from whom it is due.

Finally, reward yourself, too. Remember to take stock in what you value and commit to that. Reward yourself by making time for the people you love.

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Ur Bst Golf

Golf is the only sport I know of where talented, athletic types brag about how bad their game is. For this reason, bookish, klutzy folks like me are totally endeared to the game; a sport that tends to convert perfectly normal people to instant looniness almost immediately.
I don’t usually do book reviews in this column, but today I’m going to make an exception for Ur Bst Golf, local author Ken Dance’s new book.
Don’t let the easy-to-read, informal tone, or the pocket size fool you. It is packed with helpful tips, humor, and wisdom, making it fun and informative at the same time. And it’s soooo local; here’s a sample:
“Sometimes the mere mention of a certain hole on a certain course can cause our palms to sweat. I know number nine at Hollytree in Tyler, Texas has ruined many a round for many golfers.” He goes on to explain that, instead of thinking yourself into a bad game, “The goal of confidence is to intentionally transform a positive thought into a present reality.”
He includes practical hints for winning the game of acquiring confidence in golf- and in life.
Ken dissects the elements of golf in a way that even newbies to the sport can understand.
In his section subtitled “Precision: a Combination of Distance and Direction,” Ken emphasizes that they are interdependent.
“I once played with a guy who achieved a world record for distance traveled. The first hole on the course was parallel to a very busy street in Dallas. When he hooked his drive, the ball took two bounces on the street and landed inside the raised door of a moving van just as it passed by. I’m not sure where that ball eventually went, but I know it went further than any ball I’ve ever hit. Distance isn’t everything.”
Ur Bst Golf is the perfect stocking stuffer. Or, because it is so local and personal, it is a great gift to send to friends in other places when we brag about how wonderful Texas is. (I can’t be the only person sending obnoxiously Texas stuff to all my friends, right?) Contact Ken at kendance@suddenlink.net or go to Amazon.com or BARNESandNOBLE.com.
Ken wouldn’t want me to write about his book without mentioning that the Chick-Fil-A Bethesda Golf Classic is coming up Oct 2 at Oakhurst. He often plays this tournament with his grandkids; it’s a friendly, relaxed opportunity to include newly addicted golf fans, young or old.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Heroes I Know: Stuck in the Mud

“Oh, you can’t get stuck in the mud if you still have two tires on pavement,” I assured my son moments before I managed to sink my SUV into mushy red clay right up to my front axel.
Luckily for me, one of my heroes happened to be nearby. Actually, he and his wife were hosting a birthday party for twenty or so of their son’s friends. My stuck car probably looked like a piece of cake compared to chaperoning that exuberant, energetic event.
I keep a short list of heroes. I figure that’s why God gave us fingers; to keep count of things.
Phil is husband to one of my friends and dad to five. He is also uncle and next-door neighbor to his sister-in-law and her three kiddoes.
Yep, when her husband died in an accident, Phil and my friend invited her sister to move to East Texas and then prayed. Miraculously, the house next door suddenly became available.
So, Phil’s been on my short list- my five finger list- of heroes for a long time. Long before I got my car stuck in the mud.
He called a guy he knew and in moments I was rolling again. I’m betting the guy with the tow truck is on somebody’s short list of heroes, too. Just a guess, but he showed up with his son and sometimes you can tell which dads are heroes by the way they interact with their kids.
So, what does an average ole dad hero look like?
-Even on a day when he’s worn out and frazzled, he manages to stay fairly restrained when he has to correct his kids. This is sometimes a superhuman feat, by the way.
-He often has one or two of his own kids in tow, apprenticing them in an as-you-go kind of way about how gentlemen conduct themselves in the world.
-And, he has an encouraging word for the other young people he encounters along the way.
Just for future reference, it is scientifically proven that a car can be stuck in the mud even with two tires still on the pavement.
On the other hand, it seems that there is a trick to being the dad that keeps rolling along. The secret to being a hero in the circle of your life, I suspect, is to be the most heroic you can be in a single present moment. And then, just let the moments add up.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

You Only Keep What You Give Away

You only keep what you give away.
I was reminded of this principle again recently when I experienced the computer glitch of a writer’s worst nightmares and all my files were lost.
Bummer.
So now I am searching my gmail files for attachments and discovering that I’m glad I always share my stuff.
This week’s events reminded me of an experience that happened right after my son was born almost thirteen years ago.
My friend showed up one day with a one-of-a-kind baby gift.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the package and discovered that she had given me two tiny items from the store of things she was saving for her own grandchildren someday.
It was one of my all time favorite gifts because I understood that she was giving me something very personal, a gift of herself; a “Baby’s First Christmas” bib and an antique plaque with a dimpled cherub from the wall of the nursery her own sons had out-grown. I hung the plaque next to William’s crib and, being a Christmas baby himself, he spit up on the bib immediately.
Within months after Christmas, I received a call from a mutual friend one morning.
“Cathy, there was a fire at Joyce’s house last night. Everyone is safe.”
The scene was surreal. Her two-story home overlooking the lake, designed by an architect who was a colleague of Frank Lloyd Wright, had been a masterpiece of contemporary architecture. Now it was a charred, blackened slab.
The insurance company made an initial payment immediately and within days Joyce’s family was settled in a rent house with a convenient storage barn out back.
Where there had been family heirloom furniture, now there were practical, simple pieces like desks for the boys from Walmart.
She explained to me that the process was actually freeing somehow.
Fortunately, over the years, she had given copies of all family portraits to family members, so her pictures were already coming home.
Then we went to the barn where there was a row of plastic tubs holding the few indestructible items they had managed to salvage. We spent the day scrubbing thick, black goo off of china and the few pieces of silver that didn’t melt.
And I returned her bib and her plaque.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Road Trip Romance

With family-filled summer days over, I vote for a romantic getaway.
Okay, everyone knows that guys and gals have totally different ideas about what’s romantic, right?
So when my friend spelled it out recently, I got out my pen and pad and took notes.
“Just buy Dorritos,” she began.
According to her theory, our significant others get tired of being told to eat healthy meals. When their sweetheart hops in the car with a cooler and a grocery bag packed with junk food, that means it is time to cut loose. Vacation. Road trip. Romance.
And all this time, I thought putting veggies on the table was a loving gesture meant to communicate that I hoped to keep him with me awhile.
This time of year is a great time for a road trip when beach towns take on a whole new laid-back attitude because it’s still hot enough to enjoy a shady umbrella and a good book, but the crowds have cleared out. In fact, hotel and condo rates drop as much as half mid-September. A mere 6 to 10 hours from now and you could be listening to the gentle pulse of the waves and treating yourself to a platter of fresh sea food.
To get your manfriend in the right frame of mind, here’s the food that communicates freedom and romance for the car ride according to my anonymous expert, a friend who suggests these “seven steps to a healthy relationship” (besides nacho-flavored Doritos):
-butterfingers,
-Ruffles potato chips,
-a cooler filled with Mountain Dew, and
-plenty of country western music which is the number one national favorite, apparently.
Step #6: Stop for Barbeque. “I don’t know what the deal is with THAT,” she says.
Step seven is funniest, though, as far as I’m concerned.
She has a firm opinion about a sure way to make the trip go faster.
“Buy copies of Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Bizarre, and GQ,” she says. Then as your sweetheart drives along, read exerts and ask innocently, “Would you like this?” or “Do you want to try this while we’re on vacation?”
Well, no wonder the trip goes fast, right?
You better keep an eye on the speed limit because your sweetheart’s foot will be getting heavier and heavier and his mind won’t be on the junk food.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Water-cooler Talk about Divorce

“Divorce was not an option, but homicide was,” laughed my friend who had chalked up sixty years of wedded bliss with her husband.
Unfortunately, the plain truth is that divorce is frequently an option.
Not just around the water cooler at work, but with anyone willing to listen, guys want to talk about their marriage when they get hurt, frustrated, and angry.
Unfortunately, there’s a pattern:
First, they blame their spouse. The guy thinking of bailing on his marriage always has a crazy wife, have you noticed? She isn’t taking her meds. His life is hell.
Next, they complain that they haven’t had sex in a long time. This is when the other guys suggest it might be time to consider divorce because who in the world could go without sex, right?
As a woman, I’d like to respond to those two ideas.
First, heads up, fellas! Desperation may look a lot like crazy, but it’s not the same thing. A woman who recognizes that her marriage is failing is going to feel desperate.
You could take her desperation as a compliment. It probably means that she still loves you. So quit blaming her and take responsibility because as a husband, you are the head of your home.
Now, about sex, here’s a news flash, fellas. Women are designed by God to like sex just as much as men. It’s a primal thing. So, if your wife is not responding to your overtures, there is probably something else working against you.
There are a lot of things it could be and I’m not a therapist. But don’t miss a chance to gently initiate conversation and changes on this issue. Your leadership could pay off in the long run in many ways, including with really great sex.
Next time you are standing at the water-cooler with a friend who is struggling, please don’t say divorce is not an option.
Instead, remind him that victory always comes with a high price. Encourage him to put on his game face and get off the bench. Please tell him that you’re on his team.
Then, the water-cooler conversation can get back to talking about your favorite teams.
We all have our favorite hero athletes, but these days the real hero is the one working to make his marriage function well. And the friends who encourage him to stay in the game.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:checklischarlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve.gmail.com.

Self-Segregation

It’s a strange, but folks in East Texas tend to be self-segregating.
If anybody can explain this phenomenon, I sure wish you’d write in and educate me. I don’t get it.
I was reminded of how hard it is to break old patterns last year when I pulled up to drop off my son on the first day of middle school.
“It’s a third, a third, a third,” was the answer when we asked about the demographics of the school. In other words, the school is pretty nearly equally populated with white kids, black kids, and Latino kids.
Heck, I don’t even know the politically correct way to describe the groups. Caucasian? African American? Hispanic? Whatever.
Personally, just cus a person’s skin is pigment-challenged does not mean they relate to some region in Eastern Europe. I generally describe my ethniticity as Texan and leave it at that. I even write Texan in the box marked “other.”
Anyway, this mix of demographics seemed like one of the advantages to us in choosing a school for our son. Since he is a people person, we saw the advantage to him of learning to be comfortable with folks from all backgrounds with varying perspectives.
But on the first day of school, there it was plain as day. Yep, we’re in East Texas all right.
“See how the kids divide themselves into groups. The white kids are over there. The black kids are over there. And the Latino kids are in the middle,” I pointed out the obvious to my son as we pulled up in front of the school.
I really hated to call attention to the fact. I felt a piece of his childhood would be over forever when he recognized that there were self-imposed differences. It would complicate friendships that in elementary school had been unpolluted by race issues.
On the other hand, I couldn’t see any advantage in pretending that the lines don’t still exist. Within days, he would get the picture clearly from kids who would try to keep him on his side of the divide.
“Your job this year is to cross-pollinate as many friendships as you can. Seek out friends from each group, please, and honor your friends to each other.”
And than I added the phrase I send him off with every school day.
“Oh yeah, don’t forget, you’re the best young man in the whole world.”
So, okay, maybe I’m a little prejudiced on that particular point, but, hey, I’m a mom.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

TV-Challenged

There was a time when I could turn on the TV all by myself.
That was in the days before Wii and VCRs complicated my life and introduced a set of at least three remotes into our household.
Maybe it’s just me but I call this phenomenon “Tyranny of the Remote.”
Occasionally, I get really fed up. My thinking goes something like this, “I am a college- educated person, for heaven’s sake, it can’t be that hard.”
After punching endless button combinations and resisting the urge to throw the annoying devices through the TV screen, I finally do what any sensible, college-educated person would do.
I call my son.
When he quits laughing, he walks me through the process again.
This never happens when he is home for one simple reason; the men in my life wouldn’t trust me with the clicker even if I did know how to use it. That’s because they tend to view the History Channel as a quick blip on the screen between Walker, Texas Ranger and Psyche.
I’m doomed to endless reruns of tough guy, manly stuff; superhero cartoons for big boys.
I like the fact that my men are so simple in their approach to TVs. They simply want the biggest, brightest, loudest one they can find.
Yes, sirree. They simply march in, make the purchase, take it home, then fiddle with the buttons until it does what it is supposed to. No technological challenge is too overwhelming; it distract them for one minute that there will be endless cables to hook up or programming to install.
We recently bought a new cabinet to hold the TV.
My biggest problem with it is that it came with a gigantic, gaping hole for the flat screen. Plus, there’s no way our extensive collection of John Wayne movies are going to fit in a few small drawers. And there’s no place in it for all the boxes we save.
I don’t really get the logic of holding onto the shipping boxes. I guess my brain shuts down as I try to figure out where to put them without causing a fire hazard.
Then, as I rack my brain, surveying the collection of corrugated cardboard in the attic, trying to remember which Sony and RCA products we actually still own, it suddenly dawns on me!
Maybe the reason my guys have brain cells for using the remote is because they aren’t distracted by Life’s Peripherals.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Pledge to the Moms of Girls

Here’s my pledge to girls’ moms: “I promise to teach my son that breaking your daughter’s heart is a big no-no.”
Having raised two girls I have some pretty strong feelings on the subject.
So does my husband and all his friends with daughters. Their ideas usually involve starting to polish their guns on the day that first baby daughter was born.
“Well, how do you expect them to find a husband if they don’t date?” asked countless parents surprised when they learned that we didn’t see the point of dating.
“How does dating a thousand Mr. Wrongs get them any closer to Mr. Right?” I always asked, but apparently that is a trick question because no one ever bothered answering.
Now the shoe is on the other foot, and I am trying hard to teach my son to be faithful to a wife he doesn’t know yet.
Apparently, I’m not the only mom that has noticed that girls can be aggressive, even in middle school.
If you have a daughter that age, she may be interested in what moms like me are telling our sons:
-Yes, son, many of the girls are annoying because they are so boy-crazy. Please be kind to them as you ignore them.
-When a girl hangs around and acts silly, please say something clear, but gentle like, “I am hanging out with the guys. Please find some girls to talk to.”
-Girls act boy-crazy because they are needy. They are needy because they are not getting enough attention at home.
-Yes, I know that girls dress in new and creative ways, calling attention to the fact that they are female. Hmm…let’s hope their parents aren’t aware of that particular outfit because that would mean that they don’t care about her enough to say no.
-No matter what happens, you are responsible not only for your actions but also for your thoughts. Girls make the decisions they make. You are the boss of your decisions and thoughts.
-If you choose to honor a girl with your attention, you don’t get to reject her later. So choose your friends carefully.
-It’s silly to date in middle school. In fact, it’s silly to date unless you are prepared to explore the commitment of marriage. Period.
That’s just the beginning. The foundational ideas. The ones I can put into print without embarrassing my son.
And this is only middle school. I hate to think how complicated high school will be.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Cheap and Easy Gal’s Night Out

Personally, hard economic times require more laughter.
Any excuse for a party, right?
Lately, my idea of a relaxing night out is meeting girlfriends for sushi. Unfortunately, sushi drives up a restaurant bill faster than double martinis.
Casual get-togethers at home means cheaper fun, but no sushi, right?
So, imagine my delight when I found a do-it-yourself sushi kit at the grocery store. A plan began to form in the recesses of my mind.
Thus, the Cheap and Easy Gal’s Night Out was born.
If you want to have your own Cheap and Easy Gal’s Night Out, all you need is the following:
-Invitations. Okay, if they are your real friends, who needs invitations? On the other hand, text media is the only way to do justice to the idea “Cheap and Easy Gal’s Night Out.” If you’d like a copy of my invitation, I’ll be happy to email it to you.
-Guest List. Keep it to a few close friends. Then, add a couple of new people to the group. New friends add dimension to our gatherings, and our hearts.
-Menu. Sushi kits sell for less than $3 per person. Add a cucumber, an avocado, a bag of carrots, a bag of frozen shrimp, Diet coke, and fortune cookies to the cart. Pocky, a Chinese sweet treat that is dipped in chocolate, is also a good choice.
-Alcohol. Llano wine is cheap and it’s Texas; two qualities that tend to endear me to any person or product.
-Party Favors. In keeping with the cheap theme, I bought fashion magazines for each guest with a subtitle, “Mega Savings Inside!” Perfection, rolled up and tied with a bow.
-Hostess Gift. Well, as long as we’re being casual, I figure why not stay with the easy theme and tell everyone to bring cash.
“No hostess gifts. Bring $5 and we’ll pick a charity.”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I laugh just imagining how local charities will react when they start receiving small donations marked “Cheap and Easy Gals.” Anonymously, of course.
Why not take a Friday night to sit around and laugh with friends for a few hours? Figure out together how to make do-it-yourself sushi and get it to your mouth with chop-sticks.
I don’t care what the economy does; money can’t buy fun or friendships like that.
Simplicity seems to be the definition of fun at my house, and probably yours, too.
I bet your friends won’t complain about being described as cheap and easy.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Well-aged and Well-adjusted

Nothing made my Granddaddy happier than an excuse to fish.
He was a gentle man with a small-ish frame and a ready grin. Cataracts had taken their toll on his vision, but not on the sweet way he always interacted with us.
I can still see him standing on the end of a pier with cane pole in hand. There was something so inherently peaceful in his demeanor.
We never heard him say a cross word, although there were a few occasions when he firmly encouraged my grandmother that it was time for their visit to come to an end; she would have stayed indefinitely.
“I don’t believe in retirement,” said the gentleman at the Bullard Kiwanis meeting when I asked for help with this column. He was the picture of why I agree with him, busy mentoring young people, happily contributing to a better community.
What we believe about retirement and aging will shape our future. As I age, I can’t help but notice some of the mythology out there:
-“Retirement means you lose your identity.” What retirement really means is that now you can serve in the way you want to without concern for making the next buck.
- “I worked; now I can play.” I call this RTS, Retirement Teenager Syndrome. The happiest teenagers and old folks I know are the ones who are NOT focused on self-indulgence, but are busy sharing their lives with others.
-“Caretaking is an imposition.” You might be surprised to learn that your kids don’t mind the hours with you at the doctor’s office or the midnight trips to the emergency room. In fact, they might actually savor the quite and tenderness of those moments spent waiting with you.
-“Nobody is interested in the elderly.” The truth is that in many cultures, the elderly are still esteemed for their wisdom. In our own culture, I meet young people all the time who are craving the interest of someone wiser. The trick is to be wise enough to recognize the need and secure enough to offer whatever you can.
My kids and I met a retired gentleman recently at the picture framing counter who is a perfect example of offering whatever you can. He simply congratulated my daughter about her diploma. A few words later and we were pressing him with questions about his experience as a Korean veteran. He is now a friend and a valuable source of insight. All because he took a minute to encourage a young person.
“Drawing closer to the Lord and wanting others to do so too,” is crucial explained one friend, adding with a grin, “at our age, you know you’re gonna face Him sooner rather than later.”
So, what’s the best way to avoid getting caught in the trap of mythology about aging?
Spend time with young people.
If your grandkids live far away, why not adopt some more close to home? Next door. At church. By tutoring kids who need help with school work.
Why not do what my granddaddy did? Grab a cane pole and take a young person fishing.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Red, White, and Blue and Read All Over

July is the star-spangled time of year when I feel it is my patriotic duty, and my free speech right, to say why I love small town newspapers.
Don’t we all have a soft spot in our hearts for freedom of speech?
This year in particular I am counting blessings when I consider how many of our small towns around East Texas have careful publishers who are crunching the numbers and managing to stay ahead of the recession while the big boys in big cities across the US are closing down due to the weight of interest on old loans.
Of course, any student of history knows that our forefathers recognized that an independent news source would hold government leaders accountable.
Some folks these days think that the web can fill the need for independent news sources. That may be true when it comes to broadcasting news to Timbuktu. But, just ask yourself this….
Who are you gonna call with a rumor you heard from your kids about something fishy going on between a student and a teacher?
When you hear elected officials are thinking about raising sales taxes, aren’t you gonna whisper in the ear of the reporter who came out to the ribbon cutting on your new business? Emailing a blogger just doesn’t quite cut it.
When your county commissioners and state representatives aren’t listening as you helplessly fume about the new state highway cutting through your grandparents’ old farm place, where are you sending your letter to get public attention?
Any day of the week, our small town publishers, editors, and reporters are accessible. You can drop by the office for a free cup of coffee and a chat, run into ‘em in the line at the bank, or see ‘em in church on Sunday. Heck, you probably have their home phone numbers.
Okay, folks, if ever there was a time to vote with our dollars, now is the time to show support for our local newspapers.
If you have a business, buy ads.
If you can sell something in the classifieds, do it now. Not only will you give the paper a boost, but your own budget will get a bonus, too.
If you want to honor someone’s birthday or anniversary, why not do it with an ad in the local paper.
Instead of canceling your subscription, keep it, at least until we get past this recession. Think of it as a donation to a worthy cause. A really cheap donation.
In fact, why not buy a subscription for a friend? Tie today’s edition up in a bow, deliver it yourself, and tell your friend you love them. And you love a free press and a free country. You can sing “God Bless America” to your friend when you deliver the news.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.co

Orphaned Front Door

It was love at first sight. A relationship of convenience.
I wanted a new front door and I could afford the aged pine Louisiana beauty with no glass that came with two cypress sidelights included at no extra charge.
This particular door is a survivor. I could tell right away, leaning against the wall with all the other abandoned doors; it had a lot of inner beauty that could easily be overlooked. It looked forlorn. With moldy water-lines, I wondered if it had survived Katrina.
When we set the sidelights next to it, all three pieces looked happier; almost giddy. As giddy as doors can be when missing their window panes. Missing panes must be something like missing teeth for humans.
I took my orphan door family home and began the work of restoring them to their original glory. Or something like that.
In the process of reinventing my door, I learned some important life lessons.
- After trying to sand the fuzz off of cypress for a few hours, I re-visited my strict “no power tools” policy and invested in the cheapest electric sander at Noonday Hardware. Do other women hate power tools only because their husbands’ are way too heavy?
-By the time my builder saw my door family, I was too emotionally invested to re-consider because during all the hours of sanding I developed a respect for each line of the grain. Is this how all wood-workers feel?
-“I will not let my insecurities define who I am” is my motto, but I discovered that I get paralyzed when projects cost more than $100 dollars. Does everyone have a fear factor about messing up a project with a three digit price tag?
On the other hand, in this case, a little DIY doubled the value of the original investment.
-Having to custom fit the recycled door meant dollars went to local craftsmen. My builder kept his carpenters busy an extra half-day doing the custom trim.
-Adopting someone else’s cast-offs, meant I met a bunch of new folks, including Mona and Ferdinand at Antique Woods, 184 Pershing Hwy in Sunset, Louisiana where they had a fabulous selection at great prices.
Also, I met Chris, Toby, and Karen at Columbus Art Glass, 2625 University Blvd, in Tyler who spent more time talking colors with me than it took them to actually cut the glass when I finally decided. We narrowed it down to a mere eight different colors, all based on the symbolism in Russian Greek Orthodox iconography which is, okay, rather customer-specific, right?
Hopefully, the new front door with the colorful panes will serve to remind family and friends that our home is a sanctuary from the trials of a cold, cruel world where not only doors, but also humans, can sometimes feel orphaned.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Lots of Paint, Glue, and Icky-Sticky Stuff, Discovery Science Place

One of the things I like about Discovery Science Place in downtown Tyler is the folks there let me think I’m volunteering to teach.
With over 90 camps to choose from this summer there’s a little something for everyone. For more details, go to www.discoveryscienceplace.org.
The kid in me loves any opportunity to get gooey in the name of education, so, I volunteered to do a one-day science camp that spontaneously combusted art, science, history, and lots of paint, glue, and other icky-sticky stuff.
The truth is I learned more than I taught. Of course. Isn’t that the way it always is?
Preparing for the day-long seminar was already instructive as I tried to tie all the loose ends of my activities together with info from history and science.
Fifty years of learning and yet, I found gigantic gaps in my knowledge. How can this be!
Just exactly why does ketchup shine up copper pennies instantaneously?
I suppose this is trivia, really. Nothing earth-shaking.
On the other hand, in the name of adults everywhere, pride demands that I maintain some semblance of knowledge.
The reality of six uninterrupted hours with smart kids and their questions began to take shape in my mind. My confidence shrank in the face of my ignorance. I began to grasp for straws
What was I thinking? I muttered unintelligibly with a cloudy, bewildered look in my eyes.
To calm myself, I decided that this summer I would observe a real teacher simultaneously handle the science and the room full of smart kiddoes, rather than taking on the daunting task for a week myself.
So, just in case you have smart kids in your life and you, like me, feel the need to project the illusion of being well-educated, in order to maintain the adult-to-child balance of power, here’s your chance to send them off to science camp and let them come home excited and full of facts.
You won’t even have to admit that you are learning, too, as they tell you all about the experiments, projects, and fabulous teachers.
By the way, the penny/ketchup experiment we did scientifically proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that kiddoes love science in direct proportion to how messy it is.
Even though I googled penny, ketchup, copper and science experiments, I still don’t know why copper reacts to ketchup.
But not to worry, I’ll get another chance soon. DSP has a full docket with over 40 teachers brave enough to teach- or is it play- science, art, music, cooking, and culture this summer.
And of course, there will also be the folks like me, generally helping out while trying to be invisible when the smart kids ask questions.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Father’s Day: A True Apology is an Act of Courage.

A true apology is an act of courage.
I was so fortunate to grow up in a home where apologies were modeled at intervals, when appropriate, by a dad who took his parenting responsibilities seriously.
I only appreciated this phenomenon, when, as an adult, I began to recognize how many of my friends had NEVER heard an apology from their dad. EVER.
Sure, my dad lost his patience with three rowdy kids from time to time. But, I never remember a time when he didn’t follow a cross word with a heartfelt apology.
For instance, in typically generous fashion, my parents decided that the thing to do was drive all three kids to Disney World. Yeah, they were habitually naive about how well-behaved their kiddoes would be in the car.
Having patiently ignored and endured two days of bickering, interrupted by complaining, my parents nerves were beginning to fray about the time we reached the freeway in California during rush hour. Finally, my dad turned around and chewed us out.
All was silent in the car.
Suddenly, the silence was interrupted by the flashing lights and siren behind us that can mean only one thing; my dad was fixing to get a ticket.
As kids, it seemed like an act of God.
Amazingly, after the officer pulled away, my dad did the truly miraculous, no, heroic thing and apologized to us kids for losing his temper.
On a side note, I don’t think any one of us kids apologized for our attitudes. Personally, I remember gloating inwardly, just demonstrating again that children want justice for everyone but themselves.
There are plenty of ways to apologize which are cowardly. We’ve all experienced the kind of apology that only dodges responsibility.
So, what makes a true apology?
-Take responsibility for what you did or said. Simply and clearly, “I am sorry that I….”
-Don’t point out the other person’s faults. Period.
- Saying the words “Will you forgive me?” gives the person the chance to decide.
-Accept their answer. That’s it. If they need more time, then that’s their responsibility. You are free.
The reason the three rowdy backseat siblings like to laugh now about the time our dad got pulled over, instead of say, complaining to a psychologist, is because Dad had the guts and integrity to apologize to us. Wow.
Just a quick acknowledgement that he lost his patience with us. That’s all it took to convey a world of good mental health to his kids.
This Father’s Day, if your kids have never heard you apologize, please change the ebb and flow of your relationship by acknowledging the things that weigh on your conscience.
Give your kiddoes a heart to laugh.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Entertaining Kids is Highly Overrated: Nine Tips to Delete “Bored” From Your Summer

“Mom, I’m bored.”
Yes, summer is when all children everywhere try to shift the burden of entertaining themselves to mom.
Entertaining children is highly overrated, in my experienced opinion.
Never one to take on additional responsibilities regarding my children because they were already so much work, I always balked.
“Okay, get out a pen and a piece of paper,” I responded each year sometime during the first week of June.
Kids are way too smart to fall for any tricky business that involves pen and paper after school is out, so already I had them on the run.
With groaning and complaining, they proceeded to list their goals for the summer. Then, we posted them on the fridge, in case boredom struck again. I saved the lists; they are pretty cute.
If you are lucky enough to still have bored young ones in your home, here’s a list to arm you for the summer ritual:
-Walk the dog. Wash the dog. Teach the dog tricks.
-Create a sweet treat. Clean up the mess. Deliver it to a neighbor.
-Interview an elderly person about history.
-Plan an easy craft. Invite a younger child over to play.
-Plan a meal for the family. Make the grocery list. Guess at the cost of items on the list. Take it to the grocery store and shop with a separate cart for the items. Give the cashier the money and compare it to the estimate. Prepare the meal for the family.
-Make a special table decoration and set the table. Eat by candlelight.
-Make paper dolls using cookie cutters for patterns.
-Write a screenplay and act it out with siblings, neighbors, or cousins. Video tape it.
-Choose an amazing book and take turns reading it out loud together. Then, rent the movie version.
-Play an old-fashioned board game, like Candy Land or Sequence. Make caramel corn in the microwave. (For the recipe, go to my blogsite.)
I know times have changed with so many moms working. Children spend summer almost as busy as they are the rest of the year.
But don’t forget to schedule in a little down time. Being bored is good for kids. It gives them a chance to think about and make their own plans for a few hours.
Boredom can be a good thing, especially if it produces a disciplined mind.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Microwave Caramel Corn

2 2.9 oz. bags of microwave popcorn

Caramel sauce:
1 stick butter
1 1/2 cup brown sugar
½ cup white corn syrup
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 teaspoons baking soda

Begin by using your butter to lightly grease a cookie sheet.
Then, nuke your popcorn. Empty the bags into a big bowl and separate away all the unpopped kernels.
Next, make your caramel sauce in a big microwave dish. I use a 2 quart measuring cup. Melt the butter first. Then add all the other ingredients, except the baking soda. Nuke for 1 minute. Stir. Repeat two more times or until the sugar feels less grainy. Then add the baking soda and nuke 1 more minute.
Pour the sauce over the popcorn and stir. Spread it out on the cookie sheet to cool.
My friend gave me this recipe years ago and it is a family tradition on game nights.

The Gift of Perspective, Mom’s Day 2009

Life has a way of putting things into perspective.
My mom is the kind of person who everybody wishes would mentor them.
Even if I could list all the community service she has done over the years, I wouldn’t do it. She’d be mad at me for the attention. And, even though I’m fifty now, she is still my mom and I know better than to mess with her.
Anyway, the things she did around my home town are not nearly as impressive as the things she did accidentally along the way with her kids.
Take, for instance, the last time we saw her Uncle Ernest alive.
Ernest Wilson grew up on a farm with four other brothers, eeking out a living in a family accustomed to the struggle of surviving.
He volunteered for WWII and soon found himself assigned to Dwight D. Eisenhower. After the war, he was invited to stay on as personal secretary to the general, soon to be president.
It was an invitation Ernest turned down because he had other dreams.
So, he came back to Texas, studied geology and was soon helping to guarantee that our nation’s oil supplies would be coming out of the ground in Texas.
At which point, he did a profound thing with his newfound wealth.
He paid for his nieces to go to college. Thus, my mom became a geologist herself. And she also met a cute Austin boy with a charming personality at the university.
The last time I saw Uncle Ernest, he was a few days away from death, pretty much comatose, in a nursing home in Dallas.
I can imagine my mom’s perspective; it was probably a difficult decision to take us kids to see him in that condition. She would have worried that we would remember him the wrong way, as frail rather than amazing.
My perspective is entirely different, of course.
I remember the tender way she sat on the edge of his bed and whispered her affection to him. I remember that he stirred briefly as if to respond.
Mom and I were remembering that day recently and we wondered what Uncle Ernest’s perspective would have been.
Was he disappointed to be confined to a bed, this man with the insatiable drive? Honestly, he didn’t seem restless at all; he seemed peaceful.
When you think about it from a certain perspective, sleep feels pretty good.
Waking occasionally to find someone you love hovering over you to tenderly tell you again how much they love and appreciate you, that’s pretty good, too.
This is how you treat the people you love, I remember thinking as a kid.
Thanks, Mom. I’m the lucky kid who got to be mentored by you in the quiet, accidental places where Life really matters.
And Happy Mother’s Day to all the gentle, loving moms out there, mentoring as you go.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

My Spanish is Embarrassing

I always say, “If you grow up in Texas, you should learn Spanish.”
And I say so in dos idiomas.
With so much mom-pressure, our daughters will finally admit to being functional, though not fluent, in Spanish. I say they are fluent, but how in the world would I know? My Spanish is pitiful.
One day I was torturing our son with vocabulary at the hardware store when a senior gentleman had the nerve to correct me about teaching my son Spanish. His thought, which he emphatically shared with me, was that we live in America where the language is still English.
I guess he didn’t notice that we were already fluent in that language.
‘Scuse me, but I just hate being the dumbest person in a room, I explained to the elderly gentleman. If everybody is talking a language I don’t know, I assume they are talking about me. So, I guess I’m neurotic in more than one language.
The best reason I’ve heard for being serious about keeping English as our sole official language is that it makes it harder for politicians to lie to us if all public discussions take place in one language. We don’t want elected tricky officials making different promises to folks who can’t communicate with each other because of language barriers.
On the other hand, the economic reality in Texas is that retailers are finding it expedient to translate all signs into Spanish.
One of my favorite spots, The Noonday Store, serves up “the world’s best hamburgers” in any language. Their hamburgers are a terrific excuse to practice my Spanish.
Line up with folks from all over the American continents and choose from several daily specials that come with sides and homemade dinner rolls. Save room for dessert because there are always two choices of homemade cobbler.
My favorite part is you can order in two linguas because the owners, Flo and Bill, are as bilingual as you can get. And they are really patient with a middle-aged Angla practicing broken espanol.
Early in my bilingual career, I tried to explain to Flo, as I paid for my hamburger, that I was embarrassed because my Spanish is so bad.
There was a pregnant pause while all the bilingual people around me tried to decipher my Spanish. I felt myself grow uncomfortable as people stared at me with mystified expressions and then began talking rapidly to each other in Spanish, all the while smiling at me and nodding. Clearly, they were more embarrassed than I was.
As so often happens in life, sometimes what we say and what we mean are two entirely different things.
“Yo soy embaracado porque mi espanol es tanto malo,” I tried again.
Translated I think I said something like this, “I am pregnant because my Spanish is so evil.”
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Boys’ Imaginations

“Special Operations – Marine Corps” it said in a simple, clear font.
On the plain vanilla business card was the picture of a tough-looking dude in sunglasses. No smile.
I would be worried about the state of our national security, except for one thing; I recognize my son’s friend in the picture.
My 12-year-old son’s own business cards say “Weapons Specialist.”
Technology has done wonders for boys’ imaginations, hasn’t it?
Of course, I had a spy kit with a plastic lipstick tube that was really a walky-talky. Unfortunately, that was in the day when parents still thought batteries were way too expensive to buy any time but Christmas. So, all my conversations about the target I was stalking were pretend conversations, the jist of which had to be reported to my fellow spy playmates when we rendezvoused at headquarters for peanut butter and jelly, uh, I mean, caviar and champagne.
One Sunday afternoon recently my son downloaded their pictures from my digital camera and found the program on my laptop to manufacture business cards. Later, when he delivered his friend’s business cards, the boys took a two hour break from defending our national interests to watch a movie full of special effects which were filmed in front of a green screen.
Apparently, the sharp and deadly swords in the film were really just sticks which are less dangerous for the actors and more realistic after you fix them up with modern technology. All this according to my son who is occasionally an expert on unexpected subjects.
I hid my video camera. I’m in favor of education and technology, but a mom can only take so much tinkering with her stuff in one day.
I didn’t bother to try to hide any sticks. It’s been my experience that boys will make weapons out of anything that happens to be handy at the moment.
“Hey mom, can I borrow your spray paint?” he asked mid-afternoon.
You can imagine what that question did for my peace of mind.
In spite of modern technology, some things haven’t changed. For instance, my son and his friends still fight for truth and justice and the American way. Just like we did a million years ago in the days of black and white television and battery-operated lipstick spy gear.
They run around the neighborhood seeking out the bad guys who are now terrorists, a word we never thought of.
Our sons still take up sticks and defend the neighborhood, our flag, and our values.
And moms still have heart palpitations, not about digital cameras, laptops, and spray paint; but about the destiny of young men trained in courage and heroism.
All of which bodes well for future freedom, I suppose. Although I’m wondering if I should warn the Marines about what is coming up the ranks.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

I Refuse to Be Poor

“I refuse to be poor,” said my friend recently with a big grin.
Don’t ya love it? In the face of all the negative economic talk, she’s made a decision to be rich.
Me, too.
Take, for instance, our dog, Lucy, who does not care if the bills get paid this month as long as there are scary and dangerous squirrels in her yard that she can chase away for the safety of our family.
Okay, it may seem silly, but I love the way Lucy passionately goes about her business in the present moment without any concern for what the folks in Washington or on Wall Street are cooking up.
Besides squirrel-chasing pets, here is the list of wealth we can all enjoy no matter what the economy does.
-Heritage. We are a people who are rich in our ancestors; those good folks who founded a nation on the principle of self-government, based on self-sacrifice and self-discipline. Then, they came to Texas and built a culture out of hard-work and vision.
-Family. We can be rich in family in any economy.
If our kids know that dad and mom are heroes who would starve before letting the kids go hungry, then we are rich indeed.
When our parents have committed themselves to a lifestyle full of dignity and service to others, we inherit a wealth.
-Friends. We are wealthy if we have friends who understand the real priorities in life and remind each other.
-Good Health and Brave Hearts. Folks who are enjoying good health always add this to the list of reasons to be thankful, but I’ve noticed that my friends who are fighting a health battle are the ones who inspire me most. So, give us hearts to be brave in the face of whatever happens. Let us inspire those around us as we face challenges with grace and courage.
-Community Values. Community values are expressed a thousand ways, but one of my favorites is in the hymns that ring out on any given Sunday in hundreds of churches across East Texas. There’s nothing like a good old rousing rendition of Amazing Grace to serve as a reality check.
Does it seem a little Pollyanna to be positive in the face of bad economic news? Maybe. Or maybe the reality isn’t what we see on the television at night.
Maybe, just maybe, the reality is the wealth we enjoy in the loving relationships we create as we struggle and succeed together in tough times.
Just like my friend, I refuse to be poor, even if our bank account fluctuates with the rest of the world’s economy.
My best wishes to you, dear neighbors, for your continued success in the face of uncertain times. May you be rich in all the ways that matter.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Oh, I had this thought...if you are interested in seeing some of Anna's sculptures (although sadly, not the missing Haleluiah Girl) she has a web site at www.annakrafve.com Yeah, I know its mom-ish of me, but I'm really proud of her work!

Halleluiah Girl Gone Missing

This column isn't due out for a couple of weeks, but I ran into a couple of the TJC welding guys today having lunch at Bruno's. In honor of the great job they are doing, I'm posting this early. (Enjoy, fellas, and thanks for blessing our family with your good work.)


“I’m looking for a lost sculpture we call the Halleluiah Girl,” I explained over the phone.
“Oh, we call her the Rag Lady,” laughed the woman, a person of authority at TJC.
When my daughter was an art student at TJC, the teachers there created a welding class just for her so she could try her hand at sculpting. While the rest of the all-male class was learning to do precision welding, joining identical rows of metal over and over in precise patterns with no scarring in order to prepare for a future in aeronautics or medical technology, Anna was cutting Greek faces in relief out of metal discs and creating furniture out of old pipes.
The Halleluiah Girl began her life as a random circle, triangle and some spare parts, salvaged from a junk yard probably. With two metal stick arms raised in salute of the heavens, I imagine she was dancing in celebration of being released from a pile surrounded by chain link and guarded at night by ferocious German Shepherds.
I can imagine her excitement when she realized that she had been reincarnated on a college campus, surrounded by the stimulation and laughter that goes with young minds learning new things. Imagine her delight when she was assigned the task of jazzing up an empty space on the campus.
It was a task she did quietly, but enthusiastically for many years. Occasionally I would stop by to check on her, bringing my husband and his truck with the hope that he would see the value of moving her to our rose garden. For some reason, he believed she was happy where she was.
Alas, I may have waited too long. Maybe she felt abandoned. Unappreciated.
Maybe she felt exposed; naked and ashamed because the artist never got around to painting her.
Anyway, Halleluiah Girl wandered off the job.
“I’ll put out an Amber Alert for, what did you call her? The Halleluiah Girl?” promised the lady.
I called my daughter later to report the status on the lost sculpture.
“I have some good news for you. The folks at TJC have developed an emotional attachment to your sculpture. They’ve even given her a nick name.”
I am thinking of re-naming the sculpture: Homeless Girl.
I hate to think of her stuffed into a dark closet and jealous because the vacuum cleaners get to see the light of day once in awhile.
If we find her, I am going to give her a bright red coat of paint. Maybe a new task will help with her recovery, too.
She can wave at my neighbors in her bright red triangle dress as they drive by my rose garden. Maybe the neighbors will develop an emotional attachment to her, too.
Or maybe my husband will agree to donate her to a Homeless Shelter with an empty spot in their garden.
Maybe, when they see her dancing among the flowers with her arms outstretched to the sky, they’ll re-name her Halleluiah Girl once again because she is the perfect picture of second chances.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Steer- herding, Rootin’ Tootin’ Cowboy Oil Man

The following is a true story. For the most part.
“Guess what happened this morning at the site,” said my husband over the phone as I drove to a neighboring community to meet with a newspaper publisher.
The last time he asked a question like that, he and his dad were attempting to get control of a blow-out. Wouldn’t you assume that a gusher blowing oil all over Timbuktu would be a good thing? Just goes to show you what a green horn I am when it comes to the oil business.
Blow-outs mean trouble for would-be oil tycoons because they are a mess. It turns out you can’t sell oil that is spilling out all over the ground, plus, there’s the expensive, but necessary clean-up. Bummer.
That was years ago, but I learned to appreciate an answer like “not much” when I ask my husband about his work day.
Each and every pump jack in Texas has a fence around it now days, as you may have noticed. No more invitations to teenage boys to do the obviously life-threatening thing, I guess.
Turns out that somebody out there knows even less about dangerous, expensive oil equipment than I do, though.
“We got to the location and there was a steer INSIDE the fence!” my husband announced over the phone, “I guess the cattle owner wanted to separate the steer from the rest of the herd.” Implying that the steer was a ferocious beast.
“Okay, I know you didn’t let your pumper go anywhere near that steer. Please tell me you did not do what I think you did,” I responded.
Please understand that I have children with this man.
“The pumper held the gate while I ran past the steer and turned off the pump!”
And he thought it was fun. I could tell by the tone of his voice. Then they waited for the cattle owner to come and round up the beast.
Well, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree because you should have heard our son when my husband told the story at dinner that night.
I had to get out my shovel because we were getting boot deep in bull…uh…manure around the table.
It turns out the steer had udders. Horns, too, of course, but mighty short ones I began to suspect.
Okay, I don’t know much about the oil business or cattle, but even I know that steers do not make milk. Which could explain why the animal was separated from her offspring.
“Dad, when you tell this story, you should say that you were wearing a red shirt and the steer chased you around and around the pump jack!” said my son.
Not that his dad needs any help with tall tales.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

All My Friends Are Movie Stars

All my friends are movie stars. I’m not sure when this trend began, several years ago I think, but its in full force now.
There’s the nice young man at the bank who remembers all my account numbers for me and is something of a financial guru, Jeremy Irons.
And there’s the funeral home director, Jimmy Stewart, who I invariably introduce to someone else about once a month, as I attend the funerals of all the people who used to seem like old folks to me.
There’s the publisher at the paper who I have asked for as Calvin Klein. You can imagine the blank stares this produced.
Can you imagine how surprised my kids were to learn that my first date in high school was with Jerry Falwell?
Of course, there’s my old high school buddy, Lorne Greene.
“Do you think he noticed that I called him Lorne Greene?” I asked my husband after I introduced them at a little league game a few years ago.
“Maybe his hearing isn’t what it used to be,” answered my husband.
One can only hope.
“Who is Lorne Greene?” asked a young friend recently when I was explaining my movie star problem.
Okay, if you’re under forty, and you actually read my column, which is doubtful unless you are my children, in which case you read faithfully to see what I’m writing about you publically this week, Lorne Greene is the dad on Bonanza. My kids already know this because one of them has a thing about Bonanza and the rest of us have suffered through re-runs for approximately ten of his twelve years of life.
Lorne Greene passed away in 1987. This could be awkward if I have to introduce him to anybody else besides my husband.
I don’t know who attended Lorne’s funeral, but I assume it was a bunch of movie stars. I wasn’t invited.
Speaking of funerals, have you noticed that the obituary pictures just got a lot bigger in one of our regional newspapers?
Personally, I think this is a great marketing idea. Obviously, there are some of us who turn to the obits first every morning. Sad, but true.
Now, I can see those bigger pictures without my reading glasses. This is a great mercy because I can’t always remember where my glasses are.
I suspect my friend, Cindy Crawford, who helps me with the housekeeping, is hiding them from me.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

I’m NOT Going Through Menopause

I’m fifty and I’m not going through menopause.
I know this because every year I have my doctor draw blood and check it. Who knew there’s a test for menopausal women?
This only became a question because my husband kept saying, ‘Oh, you’re just going through menopause.”
No, I’m just super-sensitive and it has nothing at all to do with menopause thank you very much.
Most women, and apparently their husbands, dread menopause.
Let me just say that having your last child late in life does affect your perspective. When I started experiencing symptoms at 38, I thought then that I was probably just going through menopause early. I was afraid to tell anyone I was pregnant, for fear I’d have to go back and explain it was just a hot flash.
Now every time I get symptoms of any kind I think I’m pregnant. Not that I’m neurotic or anything.
All my friends, of a certain age you understand, are going through menopause, so I feel kinda left out. I’m really due to be menopausal. I’ve earned it.
I’m looking forward to having an excuse for my temper tantrums.
“Oh, Mom’s just menopausal,” I imagine my children saying as they tiptoe around the house avoiding my hypersensitive feelings.
“But you better clean up your room anyway,” they’ll add tenderly. In my fantasy world.
The reason that menopause hasn’t struck me yet is bound to be because I had that child late in life.
Or maybe it’s because I just love my estrogen cream.
It’s fragrance-free, plus it goes on like silk.
The instructions say to use only a dab, so I am not recommending the following course of action. I have no idea what the consequences are; side-effects could involve additional mammary glands, sort of like the blue Hindu goddesses I see in art museums.
But I spread that cream all over. In gobs.
I really like it as a face cream. Originally, I had hoped that it might hold back the wrinkles. Uh, no, that doesn’t work. Apparently.
I also love yams. And soy. I developed a taste for all-things-estrogen when my daughters moved away and left an estrogen vacuum at my house.
Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed with testosterone. Or, as one of my friends said when they got their new puppy, “No more penises!”
I joined my mother’s garden club. I went back to my sorority meetings. Anything to be with other women.
I call my mom a lot. Bless her.
“You know, men go through menopause, too,” she told me.
What a relief. I bet that explains why my husband is so super-sensitive.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Son of Man

Why didn’t he refer to himself as the Son of God?
Others called him Son of God, of course, but he called himself the Son of Man.
Why not claim the more impressive title? He deserved it after all.
Everywhere he went, Life sprang out of his words, his touch, his compassion. Just to touch the hem of his garment meant health. Health and Life and Power trailed after him like the followers who recognized and affirmed his Life-giving Nature with their curiosity or their adoration and awe.
Fruitless trees withered under the clarity of his Divine Purpose and Nature.
It makes sense that he would claim the unpretentious title, of course. He would leave room for humans to draw their own conclusions; to exercise their free will to decide who he is.
As I traveled along in my faith, I realized that the real miracle of the scriptures is summarized in the words, “God with us.”
This theme is repeated often by the New Testament writers, people who knew him personally and observed his Nature firsthand. Those guys who were trusted with the “Word of God” and received the gift of speaking in foreign languages instantaneously at Pentacost, recognized that he was the translation of God to humans
Recognizing the Creator’s astonishing Force, meant recognizing the difficulty that humans would have understanding One whose very Nature is Good and All-powerful.
Along the way, I grew to understand that God sought out humans to be his spiritual companions; this One, this Creator; this Force of Nature. His love transcended the limits of the creature who could not comprehend such a limitless Being. He sought us out in our limited perspective, inviting us to experience him in terms we could understand.
When the writers describe Jesus as the one in whom all things exist and have their being, they mean it. They got the message. They watched the “translation” and understood exactly Who they were dealing with. Peter stated “You are the Son of God.”
There it is again. That unclaimed title.
Most recently, I begin to believe that for Jesus, the real miracle was the miracle of existing in the flesh.
For him, to exist as the Creator was his very nature.
On the other hand, to limit that Creative Force, by translating himself into the form of a man and then to live within the confines that are inherent in his created, physical universe, that was the miracle; the true demonstration of his power.
The power of his love, actually.
For him, the real accomplishment, the real miracle, was to be the Son of Man.
No wonder Son of Man was the title he claimed.
Son of Man is also the title that honors the Creator’s Love for us.
The Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Stabbed at School

“William just called to say he got six stitches in his abdomen today at school,” said my husband, having searched me out in the Cyber Café of the cruise ship.
I was attempting to download my first video blog in international waters via satellite. Cool stuff. But apparently not as interesting as my son’s life back home.
Naturally, we were a gazillion miles away in the middle of the Pacific Ocean having a romantic holiday at sea when the crisis hit.
How long will it take them to get a helicopter out here, I thought.
“What happened? Did some kid stab him?” I asked. Not that I’m hyper-paranoid or anything.
It turns out that a hostile door with a broken handle and a bad attitude jumped out and bit him in the abs, “right where I’m getting a six pack” according to our son.
There are rules about running down school hallways and past doors with resentments at being over fifty years old and subject to the whims of tax-payers who hate to vote in favor of bond elections. Who could blame a door with that kind of baggage?
My dad, the retired gynecologist who happens to have innumerable surgeries in his experience, and my mom who is much more stable and practical than me, took him to the doctor in our absence. This is probably a good thing.
The last time one of our kids had to be taken to the emergency room, I made a scene. Okay, I’m sorry, but those doctors in the emergency room did not carry that kid around in their wombs for nine months. That’s all I have to say on the subject.
That night, after the decision was made that we could forego the helicopter, I dreamed that my son showed me the wound and, even though there was no sign of redness around it and no fever to indicate infection, I still had a terrible foreboding that all was not right.
The wound looked like a pirate had stabbed him.
Not that I’ve ever seen a pirate stab wound, you understand. Somehow moms just know these things. Especially when sleeping in a bed that is rocking to the gentle rhythm of the Pacific Ocean a gazillion miles away from her stabbed son.
When he showed me the wound upon our return, it wasn’t anything at all like my dream.
“Mom, you could see the fat hanging out where the gash was,” he told me. He assured me that it didn’t hurt a bit and he didn’t shed one tear. Apparently there are not that many nerve endings in your belly.
Which made me think of liposuction for myself.
Unfortunately, the guilty door with a penchant for stabbing people until their fat falls out is already repaired, so I’m out of luck.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

Kids are surprisingly Resilient, Part 2

There were three of them. Broad in the shoulders, blond-headed, easy smiles.
Brothers. Big men on campus. Co-eds swooned at the thought of them.
Being a big man on the campus at the University of Texas, with a population slightly less than Tyler’s back then, was no small thing even thirty years ago.
Unlike some of the other uber-achievers at the university, these brothers were respected not only by their male friends, but also by the gals as real gentlemen.
Being a leader on that campus marked you as a future leader anywhere you decided to settle; the cream tended to rise to the top.
Many of the campus leaders spent summers working at Camp Longhorn. One of the first of the high-end sports camps, Camp Longhorn is the place where blobs were first invented right after WWII by the owner who was also the Longhorn’s winning swim team coach.
At least one of the brothers was a counselor at Camp Longhorn where he was a trend-setter, too. He was cool, tan, and in charge of the boats, spending his days pulling campers through the water and teaching them to ski. His joy was infectious. Any kid lucky enough to draw the straw for his boat knew they were in for a treat. He had a perceptive way of focusing on each camper and making them feel like the most special human on earth.
In my last year as a camper, we were scheduled to take a special field trip to some fabulous place that escapes my memory now.
The campers were all a-twitter about something else; a small detour in route to the real destination. The day of the trip, all the campers were squirming with anticipation.
The bus pulled up in front of a middle-class home on a shady, tree-lined street somewhere in central Texas.
We were there to take a break, get a drink, and to meet his parents.
His parents were the big event.
The thing that sticks with me most is that his parents were very clearly, tenderly, affectionately in love with each other. And his mother was deaf.
Yeah, that was in the days before our culture had run through half a dozen politically correct euphemisms, like handicapped, challenged, impaired or special.
Those parents welcomed a bus-load of sweaty camp kids into their home and both spoke clearly to the group, extending their affection to us. Fingers flew and hugs were exchanged as the mom waved goodbye to her son when we pulled away an hour later.
Don’t ya wonder what challenges, like being hearing-impaired, do to the dynamics of a family?
I’m not saying that having a mom who was deaf made those brothers turn out to be the exceptional people that they were.
Personally, I think it was their parent’s hearts.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.