Words and Definitions

Happiness – Glad; content; lucky; fortunate; apt; fitting.

I have been thinking of how I could explain how I feel today. I looked through my list of descriptive words and checked their definitions to see which ones explain my emotions. I am usually pretty good at saying how I feel, but today I find my words are lacking.

This weekend I attended my forty-fifth high school reunion. That is a long time and for most of us we haven’t seen each other in at least ten or more years. My first thought was, “I won’t be able to recognize anyone.” True, everyone had changed and most I had to double check their nametags.

After going through all of my yearbooks and reviewing the names and pictures I said, “I don’t know even half of these people.” The truth is that I knew them while in school, but I have forgotten so much of what happened during those dramatic personality growth years.

Why does it have to be so hard for teenagers to grow into adulthood? I know personally I had a difficult time. Teenagers often separate into groups that most meet their needs and miss out on so many other possibilities.




Clique – narrow circle of persons with common interests; a coterie.

Our social growth depends on our environment and the smaller our social group is, the more isolated our exposure becomes. Our religion, intelligence, and appearance often form boundaries of our social acceptance. Band, athletics or some other extracurricular activity limits us more. Finally, our social clique is formed, and moving out of that grouping is very unlikely.

The first class reunion I attended was at the ten year mark. Former students were still making their mark on the world, fighting for success and advancement in their carrier path. I didn’t enjoy the get-together very much. It seemed the same people were huddled in the same groups and we all limited ourselves to total enjoyment. Many didn’t even care to attend because they knew it would be the same atmosphere as high school.

At our twenty-five year reunion, many more friends attended and I found it to be a fun event. People mixed more aggressively no matter the clique we had been in during school. Some who we knew would succeed had done as expected; however, there had been some who had changed drastically. I found some whom I didn’t expect to move up in life had done very well, no longer hampered by preconceived restrictions.

We all go through these fazes no matter who we are or how hard we try to avoid them. I know that I worked hard to be open to everyone, or at least I thought I did at the time, yet there were many whom I never really knew. It was true back then and it is still true today. But, there is hope. Hope comes in the form of maturity.

Maturity – ripe; fully developed; come to suppuration; resulting from adult experience.

I believe the success of this reunion, after so many years, came due to our mutual maturity. All preconceived notions of social groupings had disappeared. I didn’t hear anyone talking about how successful they had become or how wealthy their husbands were. The model and cost of our cars didn’t matter, not even our looks mattered. We had all aged and looked like we were standing on the cliff of time.





Of the nearly two-hundred and fifty or three-hundred people attending, I was able to shake hands or hug about half. I visited with old friends of course, but I enjoyed speaking with many of those I had known but had never really sat down with before. No one remembered how shy and introverted I had been, or if they remembered they didn’t care. Only today’s meeting mattered and I think we all enjoyed the new association.

I still have my old friends, but now I have added new old friends. Still, there are friends from the past whom I want to get to know better. I hope that we can keep these new associations alive, for the friends we have from our early years are valuable. We were all designed by our like environment.

Living through the nuclear and cold war years, the assignation of John F. Kennedy and the shock to our country, the Viet Nam war, and most recently the devastation on 9-11, we have all experienced together what most of the world has only read about. How unique we are.

I guess you could say that we have shed the cliquish boundaries of our childhood only to have found a new barrier. We have stepped into the category of Senior Citizen with little effort. I hear people talking on television now, explaining how seniors are growing in number and demanding more than ever in the past. I say we have paved the way for the success of all of the younger people who have followed.

My class reunion this year was a blessing for me and I think it was for many of my friends. It proves that those stormy and difficult years of development had been of value. It told me that I could do anything I wanted and I succeeded. Life may be on the other side of the meridian, but it doesn’t mean it is time to stop living. The best is still ahead.

As we got into our cars and headed back to our homes, we had big smiles on our faces and our hearts had been refreshed with new blood. I don’t know when we will all meet again, but I hope it will be soon. There are still so many I need to shake hands with and give a big hug. Thanks to all for having been my friend.

Thanks to the planning committee, some pictured above.

Just a Reunion - 3

Love Prevails

Three years after the reunion

Rhythmic sounds of waves crashing against the rocks were like listening to one’s soul. Meditating, relaxing and restoring currents of energy flowed through Wanda’s body as she sat back in her beach chair and looked out over the Pacific Ocean. In the three years she had lived on the west coast with Jordan, each day gave her new purpose.

Jordan, reclining beside her with his hat blocking out the sun, absently reached over and took Wanda’s hand in his. It was a natural response, one she had grown to expect and enjoy. Jordan held her hand, stroked her back, or held her in his arms as if she were an extension of himself.

“What are you thinking?” Jordan asked in an easy voice. He was still resting with his hat over his face.

“I am thinking this is perfection, a perfect dream,” Wanda replied. “Being with you sometimes seems surreal.” Jordan gave a chuckle and then slid his hat back on his head as he sat up, propped on his elbow.

“Wanda, my darling Wanda,” Jordan said as he looked at his love. “This moment might not be real; this beach with the ocean and squawking seagulls might be a dream, but rest assured, my love for you is genuine.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

How many times had Jordan given that simple testimony, and how much did Wanda love to hear it? They had been apart so many years, yet their time together now was as if they had never parted.

Three years ago, at that memorable high school reunion, Wanda and Jordan had reunited. They sat in the large ballroom with a room full of other people and music and merriment, yet they were able to connect as they talked. As if they were isolated in the room alone, they told their stories.

Wanda explained the days following Jordan’s departure, how she had tried to wipe his memory out of her mind. She spoke of her years in college as she worked to become an educator. Wanda also told her story about finding Robert, her eventual husband and how their life together had been blessed with love and children.

Jordan revisited that day in Viet Nam which had redirected his life. From the pain and scars came opportunity. Although his brief marriage had been a mistake, he also explained that the broken marriage helped him see just how perfect his love for Wanda had been.

Following the reunion party that night, Jordan had ridden back with Wanda to the hotel where they were both staying. Jordan walked her to her room and kissed her good-night. The kiss was a promise, a vow that there would be more.

The next day, the couple shared breakfast and then Wanda drove them around to see all of the landmarks. The reunion group had arranged tours of the old high school, and walking the halls together hand in hand felt so natural. Those school hallways where they had walked together so often.

At the end of the day, Jordan became somber as they sat in her hotel room saying their good-byes. “Wanda, I don’t want this to be over,” Jordan confessed. “I still have so much to tell you. I would like for you to come and visit me in California.” It was a difficult thing to ask of her, but he wanted to show her the life he had made at his new home.

“Jordan, I don’t know,” Wanda replied. “My home is in Dallas.” Yes, the house was there, but her children were spread out over the country and she was retired. What was there to stop her from joining him?

“I can’t lose you again,” Jordan explained. “Come see where I live and how wonderful our life together could be.” Wanda stilled as shock overtook her. Did Jordan just ask her to spend the rest of her life with him? Her eyes looked down to where their hands were joined and then back into his eyes.

“Jordan, what are you asking? Are you saying you want us to have a future together?” Wanda needed clarification that her dream was coming true.

“Yes, my darling, I want you to see the possibilities and the beautiful place where I live,” Jordan said. “If you think you would like to stay forever, then the good life I have now will become perfect.” He leaned closer as he ignored the pain in his leg and gently kissed her.

“Oh, Jordan, it is more than I could ever hope for,” Wanda said as she returned his kiss. This union of flesh was just as needy as was the ache in their souls. What they had sacrificed more than forty years earlier was now a possibility.

Yes, was Wanda’s answer and three weeks later she flew to California to be with Jordan and two months after that they were married in a quiet ceremony on the beach. What had once seemed an impossibility had turned into reality.

That fateful night at the reunion when Wanda had walked out, had almost ended any hope for a future. If she had not remembered how Polly had always tried to come between her and Jordan, she would have gone back to a life where she no longer belonged, an empty life that left her with an empty soul. She had stopped just outside the glass doors and decided the least she could do was to talk to Jordan one last time. She had gone back into the reunion hall to simply satisfy her conscience, without expectation of her dreams coming true.

“You are still thinking, darling,” Jordan said as he looked at Wanda’s somber expression. “Are you tired or is it getting cold? The wind is carrying the chill of a new season.”

Wanda looked up and gave him that satisfied smile she now carried with her and answered, “I’m fine. I am here with you, where I belong.” Jordan stood and helped her rise as he took her in his arms. This was where she belonged. Here with her lover and in his comforting arms.

As they walked from the beach back up the hill to their house, Wanda saw a vision of that night at the reunion when their eyes first met, and she had fallen back in love.

It really had been more than just a reunion.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed reading my story. I welcome your comments and if you would like to follow my blog, please join me by clicking on the FOLLOW button.

Just a Reunion - 2

Jordan’s Story

Jordan Cable held on tightly to the stair railing as he made his way down the steps to the tarmac below. The small commuter plane had parked as closely to the terminal as it could. Jordan’s crippled leg made descending the stairs an effort. He had waited and let the other passengers exit first because he knew he would only slow them down.

“Thank you for flying the Eagle, sir,” the flight attendant said cordially as she helped Jordan step down from the final step.

“Thank you, young lady,” Jordan said. He remembered a time when a young lady like her would look at him in anticipation rather than with pity in her eyes. Jordan used his walking cane to go the last fifty yards to the terminal. The going was much easier now that he was on level ground.

After claiming his luggage, Jordan sat patiently waiting on the hotel shuttle to arrive. He reached in his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. And for the umpteenth time, he read over the agenda for his forty-fifth high school reunion.

Forty-five years had passed as if it had been twenty. This was his first reunion, his first time back in his hometown since shortly after he had graduated.

Jordan had been in love with Wanda Southwood and they had planned sharing a future together. Wanda had a scholarship for college plus her parents had planned financially for her education. Jordan’s parents wouldn’t be helping him attend college, and the scholarship he had hoped for never developed. Jordan refolded the paper neatly and put it back into his pocket.

Wanda had been the prettiest girl in school, at least in his eyes. The fact was, he seldom looked at the other girls. Although he had been popular, once he had begun dating Wanda, no other girl mattered. He rubbed his aching leg, the one that always hurt, but more so when he sat for long periods without exercise.

Jordan now lived in California, Palo Alto, in fact. He had woken early and flown all day to make it back to the East Texas woodlands. He had flown over the green forest as they approached the airfield and the green carpet of trees welcomed him home. He was tired now and hurt from inactivity, but he also felt an unexpected anticipation.

The hotel shuttle arrived and the driver took Jordan’s bag and loaded it in the back of the van before giving him a hand. He settled in and buckled his seatbelt as the van pulled away from the terminal and headed west, following the sun. The eight mile drive gave him time to relive his last days at home.

Wanda had had a future and Jordan didn’t want to hold her back. Her mother had been pressing her to break up with him and concentrate on her future. Jordan had decided that it would be best if they broke up and went their separate ways. They had discussed how their relationship would continue; only they would have freedom to grow. And, it was best. They were both too young. Giving up their dreams would damage any relationship they had in the future.

That had been the sensible thing to do, the right thing, the hardest thing he had ever done. He sacrificed his happiness with the only girl he had ever loved, the only girl he would ever love, in order to do what was right. Jordan closed his eyes and blocked the pain he still felt from that day.

The driver pulled under the canopy and came to a stop. He was young and moved like an athlete. Jordon used to move that way, but that was before, before the explosion.

Jordan had stayed out of sight, avoiding seeing Wanda after their breakup, for he knew if he ever saw her, if he was ever close enough to touch her pretty hair, he would beg her to run away and get married. He had moped around his house and his father, an oil field roughneck, finally had his fill and told Jordan to get over it.

“Men don’t get their hearts broken,” Jordan’s dad had said. “That is for the women. Grow up and get over it.” Grow up; that was his father’s answer to everything.

“Here you go, son,” Jordan said to the young man and handed him a ten dollar bill. Jordan had worked at odd jobs, often just for tips, and always made sure to tip service personnel well. After checking into the hotel, Jordan settled into his room. He had three hours to kill until six-thirty. He decided to soak in the bathtub as soon as he took his medicine.

The warm water felt good on Jordan’s leg. The scars still reminded him of the surgeries he had undergone, three all together, not including the work the medics had done on him in the field hospital.

After leaving home, his parents and the memory of Wanda behind, Jordan had volunteered to go into the Army. Within eighteen months, he had been shipped off to Viet Nam to fight a war he didn’t understand, but would keep him away from his desires. He had served almost ten months when one day, one miserable rainy monsoon day, his squad came upon a booby trap and boom, three men were dead and four wounded. Shrapnel had sliced into Jordan’s leg and by all rights, he should have lost it.

Jordan wiped tears from his eyes as he remembered that fateful day. Medics had saved his leg and transported him to the field hospital. In any earlier war he would be dead, but advanced medical procedures had saved Jordan, but saved him for what. The bath water had cooled, so he opened the drain and worked to get out of the tub.

Some people say that you can find blessings hidden in tragedy. It was hard at first for Jordan to encompass that idea, but as he rehabbed, he attended the university. The Army had sent Jordan to California for more surgery and rehabilitation. He liked the climate and the nearby ocean. With the military paying for his education, Jordan graduated from the university with a degree in mathematics. Eventually, he had obtained a masters degree and then his doctorate. After ten years of hard work and a great deal of good fortune, he had found a new life.

Jordan and his family remained in contact, however, they never came to California and he never ventured back home. He had a new life, a new dream and a new identity. Dr. Jordan Cable was now free of any restraints in life.

At a little after six, the shuttle driver came to pick Jordan up and carry him to the reunion hall. One of the benefits of tipping well is the quick service you get in return. The drive was short but gave him time to note the many changes in the sleepy old town where he had been born. The community that he had written off as a lost cause had found new energy and was coming back to life.

The driver helped Jordan exit the van and made sure the crippled man made it safely to the front door. As he approached, Jordan saw the joyous faces of his old classmates. When he took his nametag and placed it on his ten year old suit jacket, his nerves began to attack him. He should never have come back. This is not what he wanted. All of these people, they were reuniting, still making plans for a future. Jordan had come to bury his past for a final time.

There was a lady at the service table who he remembered, but not her name. She had always been around where he and Wanda were. Oh, what was her name? Patty, Penny, Polly... yes, Polly Meads. He smiled at the recollection just as she must have realized who he was.

“Are you Jordan Cable?” Polly asked. She could have checked his nametag but she didn’t seem to think of that.

“Yes, and you are Polly Meads,” Jordan replied. “Your nametag seems to have fallen off.” Polly gave a silly laugh and waved at him as if she were amused.

“Oh, everybody knows me,” Polly said, “I don’t need a nametag.” Again, there was that irritating laugh. People could always recognize her from her laugh. “Go on over to the serving line and get something to eat. We have punch or water on the other table. Sorry, the punch isn’t spiked.” She began that laugh again and Jordan turned, attempting to hurry away as he glanced around for Wanda. Surely she would attend the reunion.

As Jordan picked up a cup of punch, he recognized some men who he had played football with and admired in school. They had been good friends and he had a flash of interest in seeing them again. He made his way over and joined the group.

“Why, Jordan, it is so good to see you,” one of the men said. They began asking questions that Jordan wasn’t interested in answering.

“Are you married, Jordan?” another asked.

“No, but I was for a short time; she couldn’t tolerate my idiosyncrasies,” Jordan answered. A trio of commiserating moans went around the group.

“What line of work did you go into?” the next man asked.

“I taught school for a while,” Jordan answered. He had been an associate professor at Stanford for the last half of his carrier, but he wasn’t here to compare his manhood with the others. The questions dissipated as the men returned to one-upping each other. Jordan listened briefly and then lost interest.

This had been a mistake. He no longer belonged here, in this place and with these people. What did he ever think he could gain from attending this reunion? He thought and the answer was quick in coming. He came for some form of resolution. No more running or longing for what he had left behind, this was his chance to end it.

Jordan smiled and eased away from his old buddies. He had accomplished what he was here for. The world he once knew was long past and it could not be resurrected. There was no corpse and no need for a funeral. He placed his empty cup in the trash receptacle and turned toward the door.

When he looked up, Jordan was looking into the face of a woman he recognized immediately, he was staring directly into the sparkling blue eyes of Wanda Southwood.

“Hello, Jordan,” the lady said. She was lovely as ever in spite of time. Her smile was gracious and her eyes welcoming.

“Hello, Wanda, how are you?” After forty-five years, all Jordan could think to say was a faint trite expression.

“I was hoping to see you here,” Wanda said softly. She stepped closer, meeting his step forward, and wondering whatever had possessed her to give credence to Polly’s spiteful assumption that this still handsome man had lost his way to the hippie culture.

“Wanda, I’m sorry... I’ve always been sorry,” he said. He wanted to hold her in his arms as he had when they were just young kids and kiss her sweet lips. The sultry sounds she made as they kissed still haunted his memory.

“Were you leaving?” Wanda asked. “It looked as if you were ready to bolt out the door.” She gave a little laugh that warmed his heart.

“I don’t know any of these old people,” Jordan quipped with a smile. “I feel much younger than these people look. Except for you, you are as beautiful as always.” He finally managed to reach out and touch her arm. He had to touch her and make sure she was real and not just another of his dreams.

“Oh, Jordan, I’ve changed, we’ve all changed,” Wanda said, “but I know what you mean. I am a stranger here as well.” She covered his hand with hers and Jordan felt the old glow of romance spring to life.

“Could we find a place to sit and talk?” Jordan asked, “There are so many things I would like to know. Not that I want to pry into your private life, but I still think of you, sometime.” Sometime, like every day and every night.

“Of course, how thoughtless of me,” Wanda said, “I bet you need to sit. Standing is hard on...”

“My leg is all right, Wanda, and you don’t need to avoid saying the word,” Jordan said with a grin. “I know I’m crippled. A doctor was kind enough to tell me years ago.” His gentle laugh put Wanda at ease and she turned slowly, taking his surprisingly familiar outstretched hand as the years melted away and he led her to an empty table.

Suddenly, it was no longer just a reunion.

* * *

story to be continued in next posting

Just A Reunion - 1

Wanda's Story

Wanda’s hands were shaking so that she was having trouble putting the key into her car’s ignition. She paused, took a deep cleansing breath and then tried again. She had spent a busy morning, packing the last of her clothes for the trip and loading the car. It was now time to begin her two-and-a-half hour drive back to her childhood hometown.

The engine came alive as Wanda closed her eyes and turned the key. She had made her decision and she couldn’t change it now. As she drove out of her comfortable and secure neighborhood and headed to the interstate, she said a little prayer.

Wanda Sherman was a widowed school teacher. Forty years teaching ninth grade English had built her a reputation of being hard and demanding. However, her older students often referred to her as the best teacher they had ever had.

Robert Sherman, her husband of thirty-eight years, had suffered a massive heart attack three years earlier and now she was alone. Yes, there had been children, two wonderful sons and a beautiful daughter, but they had families of their own and were spread across the country. It was a lonely life that Wanda now found herself living. Retired from her teaching career and widowed, she had to find a new purpose.

Wanda pulled onto the interstate and merged into the traffic. Heading east in the middle of the day had its advantages, but still the traffic was heavier than she liked and they always were going too fast. She put her foot on the brake as a pickup pulled into her lane just in front of her with out any turn signal. “Idiot!” she murmured to herself.

As soon as Wanda reached the edge of the city, the traffic eased and she became comfortable with the pace. She smiled as she passed familiar landmarks, reminding her that she hadn’t been back to her birthplace in nearly twenty years.

Wanda had been born in a small East Texas town, an only child to a young couple. Joseph and Kathy Southwood had fallen in love in high school and married soon after graduation. Joseph, Wanda’s father worked in the oil fields and provided the family with a secure, if not wealthy life. Her mother worked part time in some of the stores downtown as a saleslady.

Wanda sighed as she remembered her mother. A small woman in stature, she more than made up for her diminutive size in character. Wanda’s father was the chief breadwinner and leader of the family, but her mother tempered Joseph’s often brusque authority with her soft tone and religious determination.

Kathy Southwood had made sure the family sat in the church pew every Sunday. She also made certain Wanda did well in school. She had the foresight to see changes in the world that others thought were still generations away. By the time Wanda completed her master’s degree in education, a college education was mandatory to succeed.

Wanda took a sip from the bottle of water she had beside her. She still missed her mother and father after all these years. Kathy had passed away shortly after Wanda married, and then Joseph followed ten years later. That was her family, her core, her link to the piney woods where she was going back to visit.

Forty-five years, could it really have been that long? Graduation from high school had been such a starting point for all of her friends, young eager kids with stars in their eyes and nothing holding them back. They knew they could do anything in the world they wanted and succeed. Wanda had her vision, and she was dogmatic in obtaining her reward.

There had been only one problem in Wanda’s progression to that point. She had begun dating Jordan Cable midway through her junior year and their romance continued until graduation. Jordan was a star athlete and a good scholar. His handsome good looks along with an alluring personality made him one of the most desirable boys to date. Wanda knew Jordan had been placed on this good earth just for her, but her family insisted on her getting her education before thinking of settling down.

One month after graduation, Wanda and Jordan broke up. It was a mutual decision, but Wanda cried just the same. Somehow, even though they spoke words of friendship and promised a continued connection, she knew their lives would soon part forever. Tears burned at the back of Wanda’s eyes, trying to escape. Even after these forty-five years, a wonderful marriage and perfect children, Wanda still had a small ache in her heart when she thought of what could have been.

Wanda pulled off the highway onto the exit ramp. She was about halfway to her destination. It was a good time for a break and a cup of coffee. Maybe if she were in a crowded café for awhile she would stop becoming so melancholy. She took a seat in a booth near the front and ordered coffee and a sweet roll. Melancholy always eased with something sweet.

Her efforts to distract her mind failed as Wanda sipped her coffee. The sweet pastry was a blessing, but she continued to have a barrage of thoughts. She became angry at herself for some of the conflicts that confronted her. She and Robert had had a marriage anyone would wish for, but old lingering fantasies continued to tease her mind. What if? Yes, only, what if?

Wanda had had an opportunity to rebut her parents and accept Jordan’s marriage proposal. Her father said he didn’t want her to marry, but if she did, he would continue to support her education. Her mother was less compassionate, but Wanda knew Kathy would have helped her, too.

After returning to the interstate, Wanda tried to envision Jordan as he must be today. She knew he had married. One of her old girlfriends had told her about the wedding and the girl from out of town he had wed. But, it had been such a long time. How had he changed, where did he live and was he still married? A tingle went through her as she imagined the possibilities.

A vision came to her of a stately older gentleman with frosty white hair and round pink cheeks. No, make that tan cheeks, Jordon was an outdoors kind of man. He probably played golf everyday, now that he was retired. Wanda smiled at her fantasy mirage.

Jordan had been smart and could have gone into any number of professions. He may have become a businessman or banker, or even a salesman. With his personality he would have been great in sales. Wanda chuckled and said, “I would have bought a car or anything else from him.” The thought warmed her and her smile relaxed her face.

This was going to be a great reunion. Besides seeing her old flame, she had dozens of old girlfriends to visit with and catch up on the events of all those missing years. It is said that the closest friends you will ever have are the ones you make in school. Even with such a long void in their relationships, Wanda knew the girls would all get back into their old form. “Remember the pajama parties we used to have?” she said aloud and startled at her own voice.

Wanda looked at the speedometer and saw she was going much faster than she normally drove. She had even passed several of the cars which had passed her earlier. Was she finally in a hurry to get back to her roots? Yes, the anticipation was becoming unbearable. Wanda took a relaxing breath and reminded herself, “This is just a reunion.”

The tall trees had gotten thicker the further Wanda drove into the piney woods. Tall pine trees were mixed with the oaks as the greenery painted over the rolling landscape. She knew she was close to home now, back to the beginning. The exit for Highway 42 was one mile ahead, just a few more miles and she would be there.

The landmarks had changed, and if the big highway signs hadn’t alerted her to exit, Wanda would have driven past the once familiar road. She turned south and followed the winding road for the next three miles. Catching sight of oil derricks standing sentinel over the town’s skyline, Wanda sighed. She was home.

Wanda felt eighteen years old again, eager to see old friends. She was certain this would mark a turning point for her, a new beginning coming from an old reunion. She found the new modern hotel and claimed her reservation for the night. The party would begin at six-thirty, plenty of time to get refreshed and put on the perfect dress she had spent two days shopping for.

After getting ready and pacing as she waited for time to pass, Wanda headed to the reunion hall. It was only a few blocks from her motel and she arrived quickly. As she approached the double glass doors, Wanda saw three of her girlfriends sitting at the reception table.

Screams and waving arms followed by hugs greeted Wanda as soon as she stepped through the doors. One woman almost danced as she was overtaken with joy. All of the women looked much the same as they had in school, but much older versions. Their eyes and smiles were familiar even though their silhouettes had greatly changed.

Wanda had been shown around the room meeting new people along with her former classmates. Husbands and wives actually made the recognition process harder. Twice she had approached men who she thought she recognized only to find out they were husbands of her old girlfriends.

Wanda was having a great time, but she also kept vigil for Jordan. His name had been on the RSVP list so she knew he planned to attend. She had made a point not to mention Jordan to her friends in order to be able to back out if she wanted to. It would be hard to see him for the first time. She surveyed the room one more time but didn’t see the man she had known so well.

Polly, one of Wanda’s oldest friends, leaned close and whispered. “Did you see Jordan Cable when he came in? He’s standing over near the punch bowl.” Wanda turned and took a long look. There were four men where Polly had said. One had his back to her and the others looked familiar but she couldn’t recall their names.

“Which one?” Wanda asked. “I don’t see Jordan.” She took one more look to see if there were any distinguishing features on any of the men.

Polly almost giggled and answered, “The man leaning on the cane.” Wanda’s eyebrows rose as she realized the man who she thought least resembled Jordan was indeed him. Wanda stepped to the side so she could get a better view. The man looked shorter than she had remembered and slightly humped over. His hair was long and reminded her of Ben Franklin.

“Hasn’t he changed,” Polly injected as she also watched the old man drink from his cup. “I swear, running off to California and joining that hippie group really ruined him. I bet sex and drugs fried his brain, it certainly didn’t help his looks.” Again, Polly gave her little laugh before turning and moving over to another group of friends.

Wanda took a sip of water and thought about Jordan. Had he really given up hope for a future and gone to be a hippie? After all, it had been a time of drugs and free sex, communes and religious cults. She felt saddened as she watched the shell of the man she had imagined. She had expected more, her fantasy had promised more. With disappointment and remorse filling her, she slowly made her way to the front door. Her need for a reunion had passed.

* * *
story to be continued in next posting

A Good Time at the Fair

It is that time of year again. Fall is probably my favorite season because it brings so many wonderful things. The start of a new school year, the harvesting of crops, the changing landscape with fall colors in the trees and then the falling leaves.

I always enjoyed getting back to school and reuniting with my friends. Summers gave me the freedom I enjoyed, but I often lost contact with my close schoolmates. It took a couple of weeks to get used to my schedule and the new routine, but everything soon fell into place. Did you ever notice how pleasant and pretty the teachers were those first few weeks? By the end of the school year, they seemed to have aged and taken on a much gruffer attitude.

In our area we don’t have a great deal of farming and the crops that we do have often are harvested before the hot dry weather kills everything, but one crop we have in abundance is hay. Acre after acre of sweet grasses are grown, mowed and rolled into big bales.


When I was young, the hay was compacted in rectangular bales small enough for a man, or strong boy in many cases, to pick up and toss on a large hay wagon. Today, the hay is rolled into huge cylinders that have to be hoisted by tractors with hydraulic lifts.

We are fortunate in East Texas to have the thick forested landscape. Most of the trees are evergreens, but we also have oaks, maples, and dogwoods, to name just a few. Their leaves turn with the first frosts and dress the rolling land. Brown, gold, rusty red and other colors join with the green shades to decorate the hillsides. I have spent numerous lazy Sunday afternoons driving along the back roads admiring nature’s artwork.

Holidays and other occasions for celebration also come with the fall season. Football provides the entire family a chance to get together with friends and have fun. In recent years tailgate parties before the games have become popular activities. I have a lot of trouble though with the fall allergies and then cold weather. The older I get the harder it is to enjoy sitting out in near freezing weather.

Labor Day leads us to Halloween and then Thanksgiving and on to Christmas. We gather and eat too much, and then are forced to go on a diet to lose the resulting pounds. By the time we lose a couple of pounds, it is time for another get together. September and October also bring us our county and state fairs.

This week the crews began erecting the many rides and booths for the Gregg County Fair. I remember going as a small kid with my parents. It was exciting and frightening all at the same time with the noise and crowds. My family especially enjoyed the animals that were displayed and judged. The best animals were awarded ribbons and a chance to go to the State Fair. The food booths were also a particular favorite of ours and I can still taste the corn dogs and funnel cake.

I didn’t partake of the rides and other activities at the County Fair until I was a teenager. Unlike today, there weren’t that many different rides. It reminded me of the rides at our Halloween Carnival. This year the organizers are boasting to have the most rides in the fair’s history.

It seems to me, with my limited memory, that the local fair was only three or four days long when I first attended. Starting on Thursday, and ending either Saturday evening or perhaps Sunday afternoon. This year the officials have announced that the Gregg County Fair will be in full swing for eight days. I guess they will have more time to make a profit.

But by far, my parents loved the State Fair of Texas the most. Dad just called it The Fair. For a long time I thought Texas invented the concept of having a fair. Almost every year we would go to Dallas, rent a motel room and stay for two days. The Fair was too grand to experience everything in just one day.


Have you ever been to the fair and wandered through all of the animal stalls housing pigs, sheep, dairy cows, beef cattle, and of course the prized bulls and sleek horses? Dad had lived on a dairy farm during the depression and knew everything there was to know about the underside of a milk cow. He said he learned it first hand.

Mother liked the Women’s Building with cooking and sewing contests, displays of the latest cooking utensils as well as new revolutionary appliances. I saw a television for the first time as a man spoke before a small audience and explained how the magical box operated. Dad was skeptical that the invention would ever become popular, but he also said that the American consumer would buy any fool thing if their neighbors had one.

Everyone loved the Automobile Building. I was too young to drive, of course, but I found it was the base for many dreams as I grew older. Mother almost fainted when she saw a demonstration for an air conditioned car and felt the cool air filling the interior. Two years after that demonstration, Dad bought her a new car equipped with the best air conditioner available. The cooling unit was housed in the trunk and plastic tubes came up beside the back window and led to overhead vents.


My brother was ten years older than me, so he got to go to the Midway alone to enjoy the games and rides. My sister was stuck with me for the first two years when I was allowed to chance the rides. She tried her best to lose me in the bustling crowd, but I managed to stay close to her. Finally, one year our high school band attended Band Day, and I got to have fun without my sister chaperoning me.

After my wife and I married and started our family, we weren’t able to go very often. A couple of times my mother volunteered to babysit so we could go, but it had gotten so expensive that we had to spread out our trips and prioritize our monies. Such was the joy of working in education.

I’m not sure if we will go to the Gregg County Fair this year, but we do plan to attend The Fair. If the weather is nice and we can sneak away, we may attend on Senior Citizens Day. I like taking advantage of the reduced rates. Whether we need the help or not, I have gotten to the point where I am proud of being older and enjoy any advantages the condition affords.

So, if you go to The Fair and see an old bald-headed man walking around wide-eyed with a big awestruck grin, you can be assured that I got in at a discount and am in the throes of my second childhood. See you at The Fair.

Summer Education

At an early age, my daddy put me to work. It made it easy since he owned a construction company. I didn’t need a resume or even to fill out an application. At five-thirty in the morning, my dad shook me and said, “Come on, boy, it’s time to get going.”

I was fourteen years old that summer, and for the next several summers I would get going before the sun and work all day in the hot summer weather. There weren’t all of the laws and restrictions back then. Today, a company wouldn’t allow a young kid even to ride in one of the big trucks or especially to climb on top of a tank battery and paint.

I guess you could say I was blessed, although I didn’t think of it as a blessing at the time. Work in the East Texas oil field was hard and demanding. Being the boss’s son didn’t help with my coworkers, either. They were either afraid to be around me or else they would make my row just a little harder to plow.

One exception to that behavior came when I was sixteen. I had had enough experience to know my way around and most of the regular workers knew me as well. One old man in particular seemed to be laboring beside me much of the time that year. Whether we were pouring concrete or digging a foundation, Lester was there.

I learned a lot from the old black man. He was about fifty years old, pretty old to a teenager. Where I would go out in the morning and work as hard and as fast as I could to get the job done, he found a steady pace and maintained it. I took frequent water breaks while he continued to dig in the hard soil.

In some ways Lester reminded of my granddaddy. He would hum or mumble out a soulful tune as he drudged along. Oh, yes, another thing I need to mention, Lester would take his false teeth out while he worked. Man, it wasn’t a pretty sight when he laughed or called out hallelujah, but he never failed to put a smile on my face.

I think one reason I liked Lester so much was because he accepted me as his equal. To him I wasn’t the boss’s son, nor did he think of me as a rich white boy. I was his coworker and that was that. At the end of the day, I was dirty and as dark as him, or maybe he had become as light skinned as me. I didn’t really think about it; it wasn’t an issue.

It wasn’t until the end of the workday that our lives went in different directions. I would go get into my new car, turn on the air conditioner and spin the tires as I hurried home. Lester, on the other hand, gathered his weathered lunch pale and started his walk from near Laird Hill to the other side of town.

For weeks I never noticed. I was a carefree teen, after all. But one day, I stayed to lock the gates for my dad, and that is when I learned that Lester lived in a different world. After closing and securing the gates, I got into my car and headed home. About a mile up the road, not quite to the intersection where I turned to go to the nicer part of town, I saw Lester walking. His slow pace was familiar as he went along.

Something gave me cause to pull to the side of the road and wave for my friend to come get in. His open-mouth smile was warming as he hurried to the passenger door. He looked like he had won the sixty-four thousand dollar quiz. He opened the door, got in and slurred out a gummy thank you.

“Where you heading, Lester?” I asked.

“I’m going to Miss Beulah’s place, Mr. Dan,” he said. “I stays there most of the time. You don’t have to take me all the way there though, just let me out where you need to.” Of course I planned to take him where he needed to go. I couldn’t let him out and go on without worrying about him.

“You point the way then,” I said and pulled back onto the highway. We drove into the main part of town and then crossed over the railroad tracks. I noticed Lester holding his cap over the air-conditioner vent, so I turned down the fan speed to accommodate my friend.

“Miss Beulah lives on the highway past Cedar Top, you know where that be?” Lester asked. Cedar Top was the colored section of town. I knew where it was but also knew better than to go there.

“You think it’s safe for me to go back in there?” I asked. Like I said, I was young and this was back in the sixties.

“Sure, Mr. Dan, we colored folks don’t cause no harm,” Lester said. I drove on, not completely convinced that he was telling the truth. We came to a turn off onto a dirt street that led back to several small shotgun houses. Lester pointed to the last house and I pulled up by the front door.

“Come see my garden,” Lester said as he searched for the door lever. I had heard many a story about Lester’s garden. From the tales he told you would think he had a twenty acre farm. I got out of the car and followed him to the back of the frame house.

“This be my squash and I got melons on the back side. Da beans grows on the fence and I gots turnip greens over here.” Lester danced around his small garden as he proudly showed me his collection. He had turned the soil by hand and planted every seed. I was too young to fathom the pride the old man had, but I could tell it made him happy to show it off to me. To me, his friend.

After we inspected the green garden, Lester showed me to his back porch, or rather Miss Beulah’s back porch, where he offered me the metal rocking chair. It was the nicest chair in his collection. He sat on a wooden keg with a piece of cardboard over the top.

We visited like long lost friends, he told me about Miss Beulah and their living arrangement. I learned a lot on that old porch. Lester offered me a beer, my first, and I sipped it with pride along side my equal.

I tell you this story for a couple of reasons. One, as a young boy you can find friendship from many surprising places. Also, I think it points out that we are all minorities and can find ourselves separated from the larger group. The older field hands isolated me to some extent, isolating me from their friendship. Lester was the one soul who bonded with me. He was the lone black man working in the crew and he was the one who knew my plight better than anyone else.

I visited with Lester several more times that summer, sitting on his back porch, sipping a cold one while he smoked and shelled peas. He introduced me to a world I would probably never have known if it weren’t for him and our unusual friendship.

Before the next summer arrived, Lester was laid to rest in the colored cemetery. I was the only white person in attendance at the graveside service. Miss Beulah cried with deep anguish and it hurt me to my core. Lester had been killed in a senseless shooting less than a block from his home.

Lester, I still remember those hot summer afternoons and wish you were here to share this story. If you can hear me know, have a cold one on Mr. Dan.

I Need a Zapper!

I was going through my e-mail file earlier today and wished I had a junk mail zapper, you know like those bug zappers you put in your back yards. I get so much rubbish in my e-mail account that I spend more time cleaning it out than I do reading my good e-mails. And that bugs me!

Really, the stuff I find there. I’m a little too old for a college tuition loan. A cruise to the Caribbean Islands might be nice, but not to Sandals Beach Resort for Singles. “Invest now for your future,” another e-mail said. “If you start now, you’ll be rich when you retire.” I don’t think so. I retired five years ago. Even an Obama economist couldn’t make that promise come true.

One e-mail which did look promising, but don’t tell my wife, offered a senior’s dating service. It wanted me to send in my profile with an appropriate picture, and for $9.95 a month I would receive profiles of five women, complete with their pictures, and a monthly dating magazine. I’m not currently in the market, but it is good to know I have options. I wonder if the monthly magazine contains a centerfold.
It wouldn’t matter. I’d only be reading it for the articles.

One e-mail which left me wondering advertised that I could become a corrections officer over the internet in eighteen months. It is nice to know that you can receive an education while in your own home, but don’t you think prison guards should receive some hands-on training? The next thing they’ll promote is to do the work from home.

Have you seen the You can work part-time from home ad where they send you stationery and you have to buy stamps and send the letters out to about a thousand of your closest friends. Just having to buy stamps would bust me. You get paid three cents for ever letter you mail. It costs you forty-four cents for the stamp.

Another advertisement is for Dental Assisting School. Like I’m going to let someone who got their degree from correspondence courses look in my mouth. I don’t think so. The same goes for online training for your commercial truck driving licenses. I think I have seen some of the graduates driving down I-20.


Another popular advertisement, especially now that I’m getting older, offers vitamins and drugs online. I like that idea, but if you could just order one, would you pick the vitamins, Zoloft or Viagra? That would be a hard decision when all these would be useful.

I also had an e-mail today selling dance flooring. How does that differ from regular flooring? I put that one in my junk mail file. I don’t think I’ll be doing any dancing soon. Some things are best left to the professionals.

Another e-mail that caught my eye was for electronic cigarettes. It made me laugh. Could this be similar to the electric chair? Now, that was something to die for, wasn’t it? Do electronic cigarettes come twenty to a pack like regular smokes? I think that might be overkill.

Utility services are often featured, phone service, faster internet connections and a plumber. What, a plumber? You can get your plumbing fixed over the internet? I would call up for service, but I’m afraid I’d get some guy from India on the other end of the line telling me what to do with my stopped up sewer line. I get enough of that from my computer software provider.

Palm reading is something I definitely stay away from. Something about reading my palm via the internet I don’t trust. You scan your palm print and send it off with your payment of only $19.95. Do you think Ron Popeil has some connection with the fortuneteller?

Well, I guess I have rattled on long enough. My inbox is full again and I need to clear out the new junk mail. I am sure you have your own junk mail stories. Feel free to post one in the comment section below. Many of your comments compete nicely with my blog notes.

Until next time, have fun and keep reading.

Riding on the East Texas back roads

When I get restless, which is about every other week, I get in my car and drive with no particular destination in mind, just a drive and change of scenery. The other day, I found myself on the south side of my hometown on a street that goes through and follows the city limits.

My drive soon became a trip down memory lane, taking me back to a distant time when I was young and lived in the Highland Park addition, and Peterson Road was just an oil topped road leading into the piney woods. Small farms were hidden away along the road that cut through the countryside, but the main purpose of the road was so the oil companies could get to their oil wells.

Following the oil topped road back into the backland would take you past numerous lease roads leading deeper into the woods. Oil wells had been drilled here and pumped for fifty or sixty years. Today as I drove, the old roads turning off and crossing cattle guards were mostly deserted.

Back then I attended a country school built with oil money from the oil boom of the thirties and forties. I would board the bus at Peterson Road and follow the black oil pavement across the countryside, the road undulating as it made its way deeper into the woods.

Everyone, especially the young kids riding the school bus, took the oil coated roads for granted. We had no idea of their uniqueness. Not until I was a teenager and visiting my family in Oklahoma did I realize everyone didn’t have oil topped roads. In Oklahoma the roads were a rusty red clay which had been plowed and were somewhat level. Red dust coated everything. In the winter, the red clay absorbed the rain water and deep ruts were pressed into the goo. Often the roads were almost impassable. Cars were left parked and four-wheel pickups took over the commuting job.

Of course, our oil roads had their own problems. In the rain, they would become slick and everyone knew to slow their speed when traveling the wet roads. In the winter, ice coated the roads and all traffic halted. We always liked the fact that our country school would close at the least sign of ice.

As I drove along, following the old bus route, I thought of the thousands of gallons of oil that had been poured over the sandy land and plowed level. Today it is an environmental hazard and is against the law. Besides, the price of oil makes it too expensive to waste on the ground.

Some of my school mates lived along the road and I would go visit them. We often walked the mysterious trails back to where the actual oil wells were located. As I traveled along the road each day, I would see the many side roads leading back into the woods and wondered what lay at the end of the black ribbons. Now I know the lease roads broke off into other smaller paths winding to the wells and a battery of oil tanks which was built on the lease to hold the oil production.

It was sad to drive the road and see how it had deteriorated. The majority of the oil wells have been plugged and the tank batteries dismantled or left to rust away. I was amazed to see small pine trees growing where the oil topped lease roads had been. I could still see the lines of the road, but native Bermuda grass and goat weeds grew through cracks in the oil topping, a demonstration of the natural progression of nature. The land may be destroyed or trees harvested, but given time, Mother Nature will reclaim what is rightfully hers. Even the oil coating the land can’t stop the cycle.

By the time I reached my old school, my mind had been refreshed. A trip back into nature helped to mend me. The red brick school still stands, serving children from throughout the countryside as it did when I was a kid. If the old buildings ever become unnecessary and were to be abandoned, they too would return to the forest it had been before man intervened.

It was great to get out and on the back roads of East Texas and relive my early years. I know I can never go back, I’m not sure I would want to if I could, but to recall those days for a little while was enough for me. It rejuvenated my spirit. It made me smile.

I have put it off long enough.

I hate to be one to gripe, but this is too much. It’s that time again. You know, the time when you get hungry for a snack, go to the pantry and can’t find anything you want. There are no potato chips, crackers or even nuts to be had. Cereal for a snack just won’t work, especially since I had eaten a bowl full for breakfast. I was perturbed.



My next option was to eat something healthy as a snack. I looked in the big bowl on the kitchen table and found it dusty and bare. Not a single piece of fruit remained in the almost always full bowl. My mouth watered for the taste of an apple or banana. I’d settle for an orange or tangerine if we had one. Desperate now.

The refrigerator is another place to find food, right? I opened the door and looked over the shelves. Nothing readily popped out that I wanted, so I began going through the containers of meals from the past. The slices of roast from... well, I can’t remember, appeared almost like modern art with purple and yellow fluorescent designs on them.

The small container of macaroni and cheese would have been acceptable except for the green and gray growth. I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning out the containers and flushing the disposal full. When I went back to the fridge, I opened a fresh box of Arm and Hammer to absorb the odors.

Now that the refrigerator was empty of old leftovers, I began to knot inside. Even the fridge was bare of anything to eat. There had to be something in the freezer, so I hurriedly took a look. Frozen peas, broccoli and ice cubes headed the list. There were also some popsicles, but those were for the kids. I needed substance. Finally, success, there was a squashed box of Eggos. I should say Eggo because there was only one. Coated with a white blanket of ice, the treat would have to do.

I knocked of as much of the ice as I could and then put it into the toaster oven. As it began to heat, I went back to the pantry for the syrup. No such luck. There was a bottle but it held only a teaspoon of syrup, I needed quantity. What is a replacement for maple syrup? I took out the cans of yams, corn, and green beans only to find there was no substitute.

As I tossed the package of two heels of bread, I spotted a jar of peanut butter. It would do so I took it and headed to the toaster. It was smoking and there was a mostly black Eggo inside. I said something bad, but it didn’t change the fact that I had burned the last thing in the house to eat. I burned my fingers as I pulled it out of the oven and then scraped as much char off as I could.

Not bad, I decided as I took the brown and black Eggo and placed it on my plate. I opened the peanut butter jar and saw it was almost empty. It took a teaspoon to scrape the sides and bottom of the jar to get the last bites. I tossed the jar in the trash and realized the container was full. I filled a small glass with milk and added the quart container to the trash.

As I ate, chewing every bite much longer than was necessary in order to make it seem like I had a big meal, I began compiling my shopping list. I could not put off a trip to the grocery store any longer. I am an organized kind of guy and have made a list of the usual items we buy at the store each month. I have the list laid out to follow the flow of the store.



I took the printed sheet and began checking the items to purchase. Cokes and Sprite were first because they were located in the very back of the store. I like to push the empty basket to the back and load on my way to the front. Next were bottled water, eggs, butter, and milk. Item by item I mentally marched through the store as I marked off the items.
Times have really changed. I remembered going to the store with my mother. The grocery store was half the size of the big stores today. We would shop for Kellogg’s, Folgers, Tide, Coke, and Del Monte canned goods. They still have these brands, but now there are several more to choose from. The big one is the store brand.

The cereal section is full of names of stuff I’ve never seen before. Fruity this or chocolate that, I’m not sure I would even sample some of the mixtures. We had Cheerio’s, shredded wheat, oat meal and malt-o-meal to choose from.



My granddad had a small neighborhood grocery. It was attached to his house and held the basic items a housewife would need. Granddad ran the meat and produce part of the store while Grandma handled the other. Neighbors would come by and head to the back to visit with Granddad. That is something else; I don’t know anyone at the stores today.

As time moved on and our country became more prosperous, the small family stores closed and the big super stores took their place. I’m not complaining, as I say, but I do miss the intimacy of the old ways. I wouldn’t think of stopping by Wal-Mart just to shoot the bull with an old friend, but in the old days that happened every day.

When I lived in New York City, the streets were lined with specialty stores, one for fruit, and another for cheese or bread. A fish market sold just fish and a meat market sold meats. Neighborhood women would go from store to store to buy for their families. I liked the way everyone haggled and interacted. It had an old world feel to it, but hardly efficient.

Well, now that I have my list made, my stomach is begging for more food so I had better get busy and do my chore. I won’t like the shopping part, but in the end I will be rewarded.

I put key lime pie on my shopping list.

This is a video you will enjoy.

Mystery of the Balloon Race

A pickup truck pulls into the freshly mowed field pulling a trailer. Experienced volunteers rush to help the driver unload the trailer’s valuable contents. The mystery of what is hidden behind the doors fascinates the young onlookers as the contents are removed.



First, a large woven basket is pulled out of the trailer. The basket is large enough to carry two grownups, but today only one man would be aboard. Next, large bolts of fabric billow out and are soon stretched out on the ground and attached to the basket. But the most curious of all the items is the jet like contraption sitting atop the basket.

The youngsters grow anxious as they watch and parents scold them to wait. The best would soon be here for them. As each component is assembled, the hot air balloon slowly takes form. When fuel tanks are added and the wind conditions are given a final check, the volunteers hold open the cloth envelope and the jet’s flame is lit.



The once anxious youngsters cover their ears and hide behind the adults as the jet comes to life. A mighty flame reaches out and begins to heat the air captured within the balloon. Blast after blast of fiery flame reaches into the growing cavity and the mysterious device takes shape.



From behind mom and dad, the kids peer out to see the multicolored creation grow and hover brilliantly over the dwarfed basket. The confined hot air strains to rise into the air, but helpers tether it to the ground until it is time. The extravaganza is just beginning.



In the evening, the glowing balloons reign prominent against the dark skies. Each balloon dressed in its festive bright colors is illuminated by the bright flame looming inside. The spectators ohhh and ahhh as each participant takes his turn showing off his balloon. The accolades from the audience are reward for the hard work in assembling the floating device.

On race day, even larger groups gather to watch. Dozens of balloons fill and take off on an undetermined flight. The skills of the pilot are combined with the will of the winds to carry the balloon across the countryside to its predetermined destination. The envelopes of heated air lift the basket up from the grassy field and drift into the heavens.





The sky looks soft and sedentary as we look into it from the ground, but it is layered with opposing wind currents. At five hundred feet elevation the winds may be blowing east at ten or twelve miles per hour, while at seven hundred feet they blow north at a much faster speed. The experienced pilots search out the wind currents that best serve their purpose.



I have watched them high overhead as they move almost silently by. Occasional roars from the jets break the otherwise silent void. I stood in my yard one day and looked up to discover two balloons passing over. They had arrived without fanfare and were swept away in equal silence.

During the Great Race days, you can see the sky filled with the brightly colored balls as they float away. It reminds me of a race between turtles, a slow but purposeful undertaking. It is still a marvel to watch, even after these many years of following the race.



Science explains the competition of hot air verses the cooler air. This struggle holds the balloons firmly in space, yet it is such a tempered balance. At any moment there could come a sudden downdraft of air or a cross wind running unleashed across the balloon’s path. Thanks to the skill and experience of the pilots, few accidents occur.



It can be humorous to watch the landings. Like an elephant trying to sit down gently, the basket is lowered to the ground. The pilot lets the hot air escape and the balloon slowly floats closer to the landing area. In a perfect situation, the basket touches down just as the envelope deflates. But that doesn’t always happen.

Sometimes the basket hits the ground and then the winds lift it back up, just enough to allow it to fall to the ground again. Then the basket is dragged across the landing field, hopefully only a short distance before it comes to a rest. Chase teams of volunteers following on the ground in trucks hurry to the sight to secure the precious balloon.



Each year our local balloon race grows. This year it was rated the number two race in the nation. Reno, Nevada ranks number one. The city of Longview, Texas praises the race for raising money for charities as well as bringing in money to the area economy, but the greatest contribution the race participants give us is the smiles and bright eyes on our children’s and grandchildren’s faces. They still possess the mystery and innocence many of us have lost.




A big thank you goes to all who come participate as well as all who come to watch, but the biggest thanks goes to the parents who let their kids experience the mystery.


* * *
Here is a video with more beautiful pictures:



Pictures taken by the Longview News Journal

Seeking Perfection

It was the perfect day.

It was the perfect moment.

It was the perfect opportunity.

Perfect for what?


Marjorie stood silently as she peered from her corner bedroom window. Dark threatening clouds were rolling in and blotting out the sunlight. The rumble of thunder resonated from a distance and an occasional flash alerted the coming storm. She smiled.

Across the street a young boy pedaled feverishly as he steered his bicycle into his yard and jumped off without stopping. The bike crashed against the picket fence as the boy ran up the steps and rushed into the house for safety.

Fallen leaves danced in circles along the street as a wind devil carried them in its powerful embrace. A lost page from a newspaper climbed into the sky like a kite and then floated back to the ground. The storm ever neared as Marjorie absorbed the moment and decided it was perfect.

Again I ask, perfect for what?

Marjorie was a forty something who had experienced little distress in her lifetime. A normal childhood by most observations, but the seed of illness had made her unsure of herself and destined for failure. In spite of her sometime despair however, the kiss of success had caressed her and she had become much more than expected.

A wife, mother, teacher and businesswoman, Marjorie had many titles and had prospered in all. It often seemed possible as the saying goes, “You can accomplish any goal you set your mind to.” But she knew that accomplishing her goals were impossible.

How can you begin again, start your life over with new parents and a new birthright. How can you overcome the doubt which had been instilled since birth, in spite of her family’s attempts to get her help? Marjorie had been successful for a number of years to set aside her weaknesses, but with age they were slowly creeping back and consuming her.

The mind can be a terrible place, a place for disease to fester and take away one’s resolve, a disease born from abuse and neglect. Marjorie suffered from bouts of depression and often disappeared from the world which looked at her every move and criticized her thoughts.

When she began to withdraw and remove herself from convention, she was first described as quaint by her friends. Later on, those who knew her least called her a recluse and a crazy. Those who have never suffered with this ailment or such an apprehension can be cruel. Paralysis caused by internal fear is very real.

Depression is defined as a psychiatric disorder showing symptoms such as persistent feelings of hopelessness, dejection, poor concentration, lack of energy, inability to sleep, and, sometimes, suicidal tendencies. To Marjorie it is simply the end of the road.

The lightening flashed and the crack of thunder shook the windowpanes. Rain began to fall hard and wind blew the drops of water against the house. Marjorie glanced at the clock and decided again, it was time, this was the perfect time.

For Marjorie, death was the way to begin anew. Her hope had been shattered by time and untreated disease. There would be no better days ahead for her for she had an impaired vision of the future.

I knew Marjorie as kind and sweet, smart and talented. To me she was to be singled out as an example to be emulated by her young followers. Her masking abilities convinced her acquaintances that she was perfect. She was a perfect success, a perfect example of a perfect life.

So once more, what is perfect? Is it a truth which we can rely on or just a falsehood of our own making to give us hope? And when we fail to reach that desired goal, are we failures for not achieving more?

Of course not. We succeed by trying our best and living to help others. Our internal goals direct us but are not our measure. We are measured by who we are and not what we have achieved, by the work we have done not the fortune we amassed. We strive to be the best we can be, knowing we will not be perfect.

But for Marjorie, she reached for her perception of perfection, and when she could not achieve it, she lost hope.

Then came the perfect day.

The perfect moment.

The perfect opportunity, and she reached for perfection one last time.

Forgive those who fall short and help those who are paralyzed in thought. They may be your friend.

Is It Time to Dance?

I have been wondering lately about that time of life. You know the time when you are on the downside of the seesaw, closer to the end than the beginning. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t a morbid study of life and death, but rather a checkup like when you go to the doctor.

I know I haven’t accomplished all that I have intended, but time goes on just the same. It is like planning the itinerary for a long vacation and highlighting far more things to do than you have time for. I often set the vacation plan aside midway and follow my instincts. It usually is a better route and relieves so much of the pressure.

So here I am, counting sixty plus on a scale of say a hundred. It will be more like eighty or seventy, I know, but one still is allowed to dream. The car is loaded and I have traveled long and hard and have cast aside my road map. I’m living by the seat of my pants and making smaller footprints in the sand.

I am reminded of a time when I was growing up. In my small town, we often had sock hops on weekends for the young teens. The large room with polished hardwood floors was filled with loud music playing and boys and girls near the same age. We would have high hopes of discovery when we entered the hall, but we soon found reality.

The boys would line up on one side of the room, standing or sitting and joking among themselves. The girls did the same on the opposite wall, hoping the boys would notice them and ask for a dance. The braver males would cross the DMZ, or neutral zone, and ask his favorite girl to dance, but the majority stood to build up nerve.

Now, I had a plan each time I went to the little gatherings, it had been discussed with my closest friend and rehearsed in my mind. It was a proposal which could not fail once enacted. But therein lies the problem. I was too shy to launch my plan.

I pause here to recall an old saying, “It’s time to put up or shut up.” I think that relates very well to my dilemma. Planning needs to be done to insure success, but to build an agenda is worthless without action.

Back at our sock hops, the best time for interaction was when the boys and girls met at the cookie and punch table. It was an opportunity to talk without the other boys commenting. We cared so much what others thought and said that we were inhibited. But for the shy like me, even this attempt at contact was futile.

But there came a time at each dance where opportunity was running out. The party would soon be over and you had to ask yourself, “Do I want to dance with a girl or just go home? Again.” It was that time when you had to ask, “Is it time to dance?”

I think in my personal life that I have been successful; a long marriage to a wonderful wife, three great kids and five grandkids whom I adore. Outward possessions no longer worry me, I have become more introspective. Some of my friends count the days, hours and minutes remaining at the dance, but I have decided that I will stop asking that old question.
I know the answer, it is time to dance.

Will you join me?