I Must Re-Post This Because It Makes Me sad & And I Love My Pity-Parties. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.”–W. Shakespeare (this is really long–please try to slog thru it)

In 1971 when my step-sister Madelyn and I were fourteen and thirteen respectively, my parents would often go out of town on the weekends. My father and stepmother seemed to always have some magic convention or gathering to attend in Dallas, Houston, Kansas City, or any number of other venues.

My father knew all the local high school kids from his directing of the senior plays every year. Two of the former graduates, Ronnie and Doug, then about twenty years old, remained very good friends of my father and particularly Ronnie, (who was Peanut’s Uncle).

My father decided that Madelyn and I needed a ‘baby-sitter’ while he and Gloria were off on their long weekends, so they paid Doug and Ronnie to look after us.

Now mind you, Madelyn and I were both pretty certain we were over-mature for our age and could easily fend for ourselves, but we loved having two “big brothers” to help us throw the greatest parties in the history of Honey Grove while under their tutelage.

We used Marcom Manor as our venue of course and were always in a rush to get the house back into some semblance of order before the folks returned, usually on a Sunday, but occasionally on a Monday or Tuesday.

During Labor Day Weekend of 1971 my parents were off to a big convention in Houston and we had a great party planned for Sunday the Fifth of September.

We were to have ‘The Mother of All Parties’ out at Lake Coffeemill, north of Honey Grove. (The party was going to serve double duty for me, as my fourteenth birthday was just five days away.)  Right up until the night before, I had no date lined up for this all-day Blow-Out, and I was in a panic.

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Yeah. I’m Just Screwin’ Around. “Copin’ With Hagen” A cruel Miss-Stress! I am so Tired. I Caint Walk. My legs have Stopped Working.

“WARNING: THIS PRODUCT CAN CAUSE GUM DISEASE AND MOUTH CANCER”

Now they tell me

I may be properly fucked

(Well at least it don’t cause WuFlu)

Chris Ledoux-Copenhagen:

How I live my life (But Y’all already know this):

Video compilation credit: biggestkkfan

(The Font is Too Damn Small–Hope Y’all Can Read it–I Tried To Fix it, But I Grew Bored.) “I Miss Peanut So Much! He was My Very Best Friend. In Keeping With TTales & Hieroglyphs Virtual Ink Green Earth Policy…”

We would like to Recycle This:

Hauling Hay For Fun & Profit:

It’s been a while since I have written about Peanut but he has been on my mind of late. A few of us in Honey Grove during the Seventies, not being afraid of hard work and also not being afraid of making good money would haul hay during the summers, brutal hot honest work.

This was back when those infernal ‘round bales’ were just making their appearance, threatening to put all the ‘square bale’ haulers out of business. (The bales were not geometrically square of course, but ‘rectangular bales’ just didn’t have a ring to it.)

Hauling hay was a two-man operation: one man would drive the truck guiding the hay loader along the rows of bales. The other would stand on the back of the flatbed and stack.

Once the truck was loaded the duo would head to the barn (or more often than not, an old depression era house which served as a hay barn.) One guy would throw the bales off the truck and the other would drag and stack. Return to the hay field and repeat, but with the rolls reversed for fairness.

Squarebales

Generally, but not always, one guy would be the truck owner and the other just a hired hand. I was a hired hand behind a famous hay-hauler named Nubbin. He paid me a nickel a bale; not bad money considering hauling a thousand bales a day (our usual goal) would net me fifty bucks tax free.

If we hauled in prairie grass fields (which always had bumble bees) he would pay me two cents extra to stack every load. Nubbin was frightened of bumble bees. I wasn’t.

If the ‘haul’ was from a hay field close to a proper drive through hay barn, we could sometimes haul fifteen hundred bales a day. But more often we had to drive a few miles and stack hay in an old house, dragging the bales through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, past the old bathroom, the wasp nests, dead skunks, eventually stacking hay in the back bedroom and filling up the place as we worked forward through what was once the pride and joy of some dirt farmer from the Dust Bowl days.

WildoradoTexasFarmhouse

Peanut was hauling using his uncle Hungry’s truck. Hungry was the most celebrated hay hauler in North East Texas, a real legend. Even Nubbin would admit this. There was no man had hauled more hay than Hungry. Memory fails as to when Hungry actually hung up his hay hooks for the last time, but Peanut was eager to take up The Legend (and the truck).

A word about your average hay truck in the fleet back then: There were none younger than about Nineteen Forty Eight. Most had gone through a several overhauls or downright re-building with new engines—well new to the truck anyway–held together with spit and bailing wire, and they did just fine.

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More Re-Spam: “The Letter Said He Was Reported Dead.”

“Near the front lines he’d been found

A mine blew his jeep into a twisted heap

And I still hear the sound

Of the wheel that kept spinnin’ ’round.”

*****

For some bizarre reason, this song reminds me of my first wife, Janet.

I suppose it is because she was in the U.S. Army Reserve and used to drive Jeeps for a living.

Or something.

I Loved Her Dearly.

And I respected her (Even though, she was ‘Certifiable Nuts.’)

Did not matter:

I loved her.

Still do.

This post will make no sense whatsoever.

Don’t Care.

It is just for me.

And Jerry Jeff.

And Janet Sisco

The more I explore old songs… songs that make me FEEL, the more I  come to understand the depth of my depravity.

This is not necessarily a bad thing.

My life has become a ‘rolling wheel.”

Spinning out of control.

Almost a whirling dervish.

But not quite there yet…

“The unexamined life is not worth living.”

Some smart guy once said that.

So here is Me:

Examining.

Stay Tuned….

Random Memories from The Middle East: The Road to Sharm el Sheikh

Since I am an arrogant snob and a pompous ass,  I add this ‘added value’ for those who never get me.

(You’re welcome.)

Drive Through.

dervish is a Muslim of particular religious order. … To call something a whirling dervish is to say that object or person resembles a spinning top or is wild in its movement. An object can also just be a dervish. The term twirling dervish is technically correct, as a dervish could be described as twirling.

More “Added Value:”

In Keeping With TTales & Hieroglyphs Virtual Ink Green Earth Policy…

“His whole life was short, quick and straight.”

Who does this remind me of??

Oh my Gawd! How I do miss him!

Peanut!

The Flat-Bed Truck and The Pastel Sun-Dress