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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
“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.
Monday, April 13, 2009
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.
“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.
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