MMTT4S - How Did We Ever Get Here?

Captain's log: 10 July 2019, In some serious Texas heat

It seems as if life is defined by migration.

According to mnn.com, Monarch butterflies take 6 months to migrate a few thousand miles. That's not the impressive part. Its lifespan is only a couple of months. So, doing the math here tells us that it takes generations to complete the migration. A typical Gray whale will travel over 10,000 miles in a year. Thankfully it will see the entire migration through, multiple times, unlike the Monarch.

Image courtesy of
worldofhummingbirds.com

Unfortunately, the belief that hummingbirds migrate on the backs of geese is just a myth. That's a shame in my book, because it's an awesome visual, isn't it? Still, the fact that these little boogers can hum right across the Gulf of Mexico or the Mojave Desert is amazing.

Animals migrate for a myriad of reasons: food, breeding, weather, habitat loss. The migration of some animals is still inexplicable to scientists.

We humans are no different. While we have a myriad of migratory patterns, many of which are a mystery to scientists as well, we do move from place to place. We move to seek better opportunities, and/or better living conditions, to escape, to start anew, to hide, to find ourselves, to lose ourselves.

Then there's the migration from life stage to life stage.

Jimmy possibly considering how he got there
Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Today's tune is aptly named "Migration" and is found on Jimmy Buffett's 1974 album A1A. It's yet another reflection piece that mixes with opinion on the state of things, advice, and a glimpse into the possible future. If you think Buffett sings about himself a good bit, well...he does. He's craftily created his persona that way, along with the whole Margaritaville mystique and brand. Why not? His is an entertaining story. Plus, he tells it with the flair for adventure, romance, and the poetic that most successful storytellers possess.

When I look back on my life, my migratory patterns are interesting to say the least. As Buffett says, when "trying to figure out how I got here...some things are still a mystery to me while others are much too clear." I tend to believe that there are some things God, in his infinite wisdom, planned as non-negotiables in my life, despite my best efforts to screw them up. I also believe that God, in his infinite wisdom, let my choices dictate some of the aspects of my life. In retrospect, though, my migration fills me with awe and wonder. My physical, meta-physical, emotional, psychological journey has defined me and continues to do so. Our summer migration to Surfside beach in the summers of my youth, our regular migrations to family homes, our migration to 6 different towns while I was growing up, my migration to Miami and then to Spartanburg and then to Abilene and then to Lexington are all physical movements that heavily impacted who I am today. Our migratory patterns now to the coast, to Texas, following our children's own adventures, and escaping on our own happen for various reasons but are both a result of who we are and a cause of who we are becoming.

In Jimmy's song "Migration" he mentions the repercussions of past decisions - being a merchant marine had he not learned to sing, getting married too early being a costly choice - and how to deal with looking back. According to Buffett (and pretty much everyone else) learning from the past is crucial. Indeed it is. It's also educational. He decided that it was time to have a little fun at one point in his life. Boy do we need to remind ourselves of that, huh?

I see some similarities in one verse in which he declares it to be a mystery to him "why some people live like they do," clueless to the wonderful things happening "out there" and my mantra of living ina state of constant total amazement. Often, looking back on our own songlines will help promote this type of philosophy. At least it does for me.

Lyle Lovett image courtesy of
esquire.com

One of my favorite lines comes from the chorus. While it does not completely define me, I can relate big time. Buffett sings, "I've got a Caribbean soul I can barely control and some Texas hidden here in my heart." As is sit here in Abilene, Texas, listening to Latino Tropical music channel on the cable TV, this sentiment is not lost on me. While I'm a Carolina boy for sure, my time in and connections to Texas have placed a permanent place deep in my heart for the Lone Star State. I could easily live here, and as I've mentioned earlier, Lye Lovett has assured me that even though I'm not from here, Texas wants me anyway. Proof that my migration has defined me.

Where my tropical gypsy soul comes from I'm not sure. Maybe its from my time spent in the Everglades or gazing out upon a 3AM orange glow over Miami or strolling along the shores all over the east and Gulf coasts or losing myself in the pages of magazines like National Geographic, Islands, or books like Treasure Island, Hawaii, Don't Stop the Carnival. I know I get some of my wanderlust from my dad and my love of the beach from my mom and wherever they got theirs from. I feel certain, though, that my life's migration has help influence it and vice versa.

So, take a listen to "Migration" and laugh about Buffett's opinion on mobile homes in the keys and what his plans once were if he made it to senior adulthood. Learn a little about his past. Tap your foot. Take some time. Reflect on your own life's migration. See if you can answer the question, "How did we ever get here?"

Aloha, amigos!

MMTT4S - Square Pegs, Belts, and Tully Mars

Captain's log: 8 July 2019, Abilene, Texas

Back in the Lone Star State.

Texas is one of my most favorite places in the world. Lived here for a few years. Made some great friends here. Created some incredible memories here. Most importantly, I found my wife here. I can't argue with General Johnson when he and the Chairmen of the Board claim that Carolina girls are the best in the world. I must say, though, that I'm more partial to Pat Green and Lyle Lovett's opinion on the girls from Texas (they're just a little bit better).

When I arrived here back in 1992, I was a flip-flop-wearin', vinegar-based-pulled-pork-eatin', basketball-lovin' beach bum. Not all that common in the cowboy town of Abilene. I soon realized that not only was my choice of smoked meat, my drawl of an accent, and my sport of choice different than the local varieties, I also realized that I was a little different. Then again, that was neither unusual nor a big surprise. In fact, it's par for the course, no matter where I find myself.

I've learned that I'm atypical in most facets of life on this planet. I don't quite fit in.

Sometimes it's extremely slight, like the pair of Wranglers that require a belt to stay up or the straw Stetson that needs a sliver of foam hidden in the inside band to give a fit snug enough to prevent losing the hat to a West Texas gust. Both the jeans and hat "fit" - just not perfectly. Other times, I'm the mayor of the Island of Misfit Toys. In either case, I've learned to accept it, embrace it, and even use it to my advantage.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Not fitting in is the topic of today's Jimmy Buffett tune "Cowboy in the Jungle" from his album Son of a Son of a Sailor. Buffett creates a wonderful character in one of his short stories in his compilation of short stories called Tales From Margaritaville - Tully Mars. Tully is a cowboy with a restless soul in search of a different life than the one he knows well on a ranch in Wyoming. His journey to the tropics is pure entertainment with a touch of introspection. This same character appears again in Buffett's novel A Salty Piece of Land and is inspiration for a character in today's song. Like the title suggests, our main character is out of place, as a cowboy in the jungle would be. Still, he figures out how to "plow ahead come what may" by adapting to his different environments, relying on his hunches, and rolling with the punches.

Image courtesy of
Goodreads.com

Buffett is somewhat of a misfit himself. Take his music. Plug in "Jimmy Buffett" or one of your favorite Buffett songs into a music app like Pandora or Spotify or Apple Music and let it create a list of songs for you. You'll get a mix as varied as the Texas landscapes and climate. You'll hear country, folk, rock, reggae, zouk, beach, surf and more. Not many singer-songwriters have their own brand of shrimp, clothing, tequila, retirement community, casino, restaurant...you get the picture.

Jimmy Buffett is atypical. He doesn't quite fit in. It works, though. Obviously.

After we hear of this out-of-place cowboy's exploits, we get a glimpse of Buffett the Unique as the tune continues. He pokes fun at typical tourists "trying to cram lost years into five or six days," claims to abhor swimming in "roped-off seas," and waxes eloquent about our short stay on this planet amidst the constellations and satellites while sailing alone on a "midnight passage."

Just a little encouragement that not fitting in is ok.

So, while I'm not a cowboy in the jungle, I can relate to Tully Mars. I'm still a beach bum, but I now prefer brisket to pulled pork. I love my cowboy hat, though I may wear it with Vissla shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. My cowboy boots are well-worn (not with shorts - I do have a line) as are my Wranglers (with a belt). And even though I stole away with my wife back to South Carolina, her family still accepts me for who I am. They are the best. Lyle Lovett pegs me when he sings "That's right you're not from Texas. Texas wants you anyway." Thank goodness.

So if you consider yourself a kindred spirit of mine and have wondered why the beat of your drum is a different cadence than that which you hear most everywhere else, kick back to today's tune "A Cowboy in the Jungle" and remember intuition can sometimes make up for blind ambition. It's the square peg/round hole idiomatic expression. Or is it round peg/square hole? Kinda silly either way.

Aloha, amigos!

The State of Constant, Total Amazement is Deep in the Heart of Texas...and Hawai'i

Captain's Log: Stardate 2018 August 6 11:46 PM CST

On this, the waning hours of our annual summer Texas trip - 1 part family reunion, 1 part pilgrimage, I sit by a pool turned into blackwater by a moonless night and I have an all-to-familiar, innate urge to capture this moment, to create something that will permit me to share this exact time, however poorly it may be. So, I write.

The slack key melodies from my Pandora Hawai'i station accompany the two small citronella pales that are pulling double duty as semi-effective tiki torches and less-than-semi-effective mosquito repellents, as I reflect and imagine. The pale yellow glow from the candles illuminates their corresponding areas to just about a 4-foot perimeter. From there the incomplete shadowy nighttime darkness takes over. I imagine there are tiki torches that cast a glow on pathways between island bungalows, simultaneously flickering in an ocean breeze as my own two "torches" dance in a warm and slight West Texas wind. The crackling rhythmic sounds of the jets from the sprinkler heads that dot the fairway just a few yards away have come and gone. Not quite a suitable replica of a tropical waterfall or Hawai'ian surf, but calming in its own way. And now the air is strangely silent, atypical for this Carolinian's ears. Back home, my thoughts would be struggling to gain a stronghold amidst the southern summer melodious trills and drones of the tree frogs, creek toads, and crickets.

I look skyward and notice that June Hershey's lyrics from the classic Texas tribute are again confirmed. "The stars at night are big and bright" indeed. Go ahead and clap four times - it's okay...probably required by some Texas statute, actually. There is Jupiter in all its glory, dominating the heavens with an egotistical shine that you absolutely must notice. There is also Mars with its marvelously red hue, giving Jupiter notice that another game is definitely in town for stargazers right now. A shooting star zips across the face of the vast Milky Way, which ribbons across a night sky littered with gleaming, brilliant lights. Clap-clap-clap-clap.

As the sounds of aloha surround me, I allow myself to imagine that my South Pacific double is gazing skyward as well and contemplating the same twinkling palette as I at this very moment, maybe even listening to George Strait or Lyle Lovett or Bob Wills, as though we are connecting across some cosmic pathway of brotherhood. My geographic brain tells me that this is probably inaccurate, at least in part. The sky in the islands of Hawai'i, just a few latitude lines south of here, probably look a little different. Heck, the sun may still be out there. Still, it is a nice thought. I envision Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (known as Iz to his bruddahs, of which I am sure I am one) is smiling down at me, strumming his uke, and wearing a Stetson straw cowboy hat tonight in my honor. Well, okay - maybe a palm leaf cowboy hat. But he is smiling...because it's returned to me tonight. I also imagine Willie Nelson, in a lei and aloha shirt, is plucking Trigger (his famously worn guitar) and smiling down on my counterpart. Wait...Willie isn't dead. So, I guess that visualization doesn't really work. Willie might be able to conjure a fitting version of this vision from the back of his tour bus, but I digress.

What is the "it" of which I speak, you ask?

No, it is not some alcohol-induced stammering or drivel flowing from the fingertips of some poor soul who has finally been pushed over the insanity precipice by a life of freakish busy-ness. At least, I don't think that's it. Bar tabs and/or medical records may prove otherwise one day.

No, the "it" is a credo of mine that I stole from a movie. Short version - to live in a state of constant, total amazement.

Now, that's not hard to do tonight. But, tomorrow, when I'm packing for our drive home, aka playing Tetris with my minivan and the luggage, bags, boxes, golf clubs, and various odds and ends, many of which strangely did not occupy space in our vehicle on the way out here, finding that state of constant, total amazement will not be a simple task. Neither will it be easy on our numbing drive down I20...for 17 hours. Sometimes, it's a struggle to live by a credo of such effort and rarity.

The battle against the status quo, normalcy, metaphoric sleep is real for the few. Life often likes to don us with blinders. They become comfortable and safe. We tend to anchor ourselves in the harbors of ritual, shelter, and the ordinary. Coincidentally, or maybe not, this particular credo of which I aspire to pursue was uttered on a boat at sea in the movie. Hmm...

So, for tonight, I've recaptured that state - a mindset of sorts - that delivers me. The world is good and magical and awesome, and I'm here to take part in or at least observe it. It is moments like this that I can recall when I'm on that interstate stretch between Abilene and Dallas or Atlanta and Augusta, where life no longer exists, and is subsequently sucked out of any one traveling through that area. I can recall it innumerable times when I seem buried under life's expectations or stuck on one of life's sandbars. I know that the amazing is still out there, be it in the natural world, the human existence, or the unexplained. And I am thankful that I am reminded tonight, and at other opportune moments, to pursue this state - constantly and totally.

Mahalo, y'all.

Fruitcakes Anniversary Spurs West Texas Memories

This weekend, RadioMargaritaville is celebrating the 20th anniversary of the release of Jimmy Buffett's platinum-selling album, Fruitcakes. This album is possibly my favorite of the trop-rock singer-songwriter's collection, which numbers around 50 now. For me, though, I think it's all about the timing.

May, 1994 places me in Abilene, Texas - a snapshot of the West Texas of old. Imagine a barbecue joint, scuffed plank floors, hardwood walls infused with mesquite smoke, a large board up on the wall that displays the menu - from brisket to steaks, which are ordered by thickness, and a long counter directly below, which multitasks as a buffet, check-out station and massive cutting board. Inside are ranchers, bankers, oil people, college kids, golfers, and actual cowboys, discussing the weather, prices, scores, and parties in between savory bites of smoked meat or pinto beans or homemade bread. It was into this world of Stetsons, Justins, longhorns and extended cabs that I brought Jimmy Buffett.

I became a Parrothead during college in the late 80's. But, having grown up in sunny South Carolina and spending my childhood summers at Surfside Beach on the Carolina Coast, I started unconsciously cultivating a coastal gypsy soul at an early age. So, Jimmy's stories of adventure and messages about enjoying life fit perfectly with my blossoming escapist dreamer's mentality. Armed with an arsenal of tunage, parrot-phernalia and ideologies to match, I rolled into Abilene in 1992, reunited with my brothers, who found Buffett with the same ease as I, and set out, peacefully making converts of their friends and my new acquaintances, including this cute co-worker who would become my wife in October of '94. 

Soon, as is customary of the Phlock, we held a party to celebrate life as it is seen through the salt-rimmed sunglasses of Margaritaville. My soon-to-be wife's family had a great remote West Texas spot out in Buffalo Gap, complete with pool, house, scrub brush, and the perfect sunset viewing mesa. We began an annual gathering here, away from the everyday two-step. The event grew exponentially, garnering the status associated with highly anticipated let-your-big-hair-down events.  It was around this time when Fruitcakes was released, providing the perfect accompaniment to the revelries of our ever-growing throng of newly tropicalized Texans. We found our inner fruitcakes as we quietly made noise with Miami cousins and Frenchmen, listening to Uncle John's six-string music on sunny afternoons with visions of lone palms, vampires, and mummies, Apocalypso on the near horizon (confused? see the song list from Fruitcakes). 

Jimmy Buffett had finally arrived in Abilene, Texas. Before, Margaritaville was a vaguely familiar tune, heard on rare occasions on the local country and western stations. Now, it had become a state of mind, an island reachable simply by imagination - not some far off South Pacific paradise that landlocked West Texans vacantly thought of after watching John Wayne in Donovan's Reef. For a few decadent days, boots became bare feet, starched white shirts gave way to leis, but we still wore our cowboy hats, even in the pool (rumors abound that those hats were all that some of us wore). Tiki torches blazed as we danced like natives about the base of a volcano. Pirates and parrots, sailors and surfers all joined this carnival, the likes of which had rarely, if ever, been seen in the heart of West Texas. Fruitcake city. 

The Buffalo Gap parties became too large to somewhat reasonably manage. So, we discontinued the official gatherings, leaving them to the ageless stories of legends. I returned to South Carolina, wife in tow. Some friends remained in Abilene; others scattered to other ports, both near and distant. Families naturally grew. Careers emerged. The movements of life shifted. The property in Buffalo Gap was sold. 

Those of us who can wrangle the cost and scheduling still gather annually in Frisco, Texas for the Jimmy Buffett concert and tailgate extravaganza, where we watch the parade of fruitcakes, indulge in our own brands of craziness (to prevent insanity), and reminisce about those few summers in Buffalo Gap when Jimmy Buffett's Fruitcake album accompanied a realization of the wonderful and wacky ways of life among friends old and new. Our kindred spirits rejuvenate. Our perspectives realign. 

We discovered back in 1994 and continue to discover still today that there was and is, indeed, "...a little bit fruitcake left in every one of us."

Tour shirt from the Fruitcakes tour - Saw the Dallas show

Man and Mower - a Special Relationship

When comparing the weather this summer between South Carolina and Texas, it’s difficult to find two more opposite stretches of time. It rained on us maybe 2 days while we spent the majority of our summer break in Southeast Texas. I think those were the same two days that it did not rain back home in Carolina. Needless to say, when thinking of all the rain we were getting at home, I was truly concerned about its repercussions. Not the flooding, ruined crops, or even squelched vacation plans, but, rather, my back yard.

Buried in my back yard is a septic tank, and covering the ground is the fastest growing patch of St. Augustine grass known to man. A coincidence? I think not. With less than average rainfall, I could mow my back yard once every 5 days. The rainfall amounts we’ve received in Carolina are biblical. Really. About a month after arriving in Texas, I received a text from Noah with the plans for a new ark to be built in my hometown of Lexington, SC.  I immediately envisioned the top of my backyard just below the gutters of my house. It was highly likely that my backyard would be the new home to species of animals typically found in South American rain forest thickets. I guess those hard-to-track-down animals are why Noah contacted me.

So, on my 16-hour drive home, I had lots of time to contemplate how to attack the jungle of grass behind my home. My lawn mower, the kind you push, was way too meager to handle a job of such magnitude. And, besides, it was in the storage shed, buried somewhere in the depths of Jurassic Lawn. Initially, I considered going the machete route, but that sounded like way too much manual labor. Plus, I’m not sure I’m handy enough to take on a panther, which I’m positive must have taken up residence there, armed with anything less than a Sherman tank. Then I thought, “Why not a Sherman tank?” No - way too much damage control afterwards and I doubt my neighbor has one anyway. As I drove along, I crossed napalm, ninja sword, the Army Corps of Engineers, a herd of giant goats and various other less-than-ideal options off my list and eventually decided on flame thrower.

We finally arrived home a little after midnight. I felt like wine. Now, I know what you’re thinking – “Sure, after a long, tiring road trip, a nice glass of vino would be nice and would certainly help with the winding down process.” But that wasn’t it at all. I actually felt like wine, as though I-20 had stomped me like a vat of grapes for hours.  I didn’t want a drink of anything. I wanted to be six years old again and have my dad gently pick me up out of my seat in the car, carry me into the house and tuck me in my bed. I couldn’t talk my wife or son into being Dad, so I crawled on my own into bed without unpacking the car and without a glance toward the backyard. I would have to search for flamethrower dealers in the morning. Maybe my father-in-law would have one. I have a tack hammer and a yard stick. He has a basement and half of a garage filled with a table saw, radial arm saw, the hand tools section from Home Depot, an honorary doctorate from the John Deere Academy, and I think I saw the keys to a Sherman Tank hanging up by the basement door.

Next morning, I peeked out my window at my back yard, much in the same way my wife peeked into the mirror after I convinced her to save money and let me highlight her hair. Admittedly, I blinked a few times. I expected to be staring straight into tall, broad blades of grass. And maybe into the grisly face of a 47-pound ladybug.  Instead, I could see trees, my neighbor’s house, even the storage shed. The grass had only grown a foot tall, a little more in some areas!

“Honey, would you mind calling your dad and telling him I won’t need that flame thrower after all?”

So with high spirits I prepared for some quality time with my lawn.

I’m one of those guys who secretly enjoy mowing the lawn. It’s therapeutic. It’s just me, my mower, and grass in need of a trim. I can be creative – think professional baseball outfield patterns. I also have deep conversations with myself, solving lots of my world’s problems and coming up with earth-shattering ideas that I never really act upon. Now, when I say conversation, I’m using the actual definition that requires a speaker, message, listener, and response. I play both roles, and do so very well. Sometimes out loud. Thankfully, my hands are busy. Otherwise, I’d be utilizing hand gestures to get a point across to myself. My neighbors already have doubts about my sanity. I imagine them all standing at their windows, admiring my lawn care skills.

“Hey, sweetie. Come take a look at Walt across the street. Man, he is a pro behind that mower. Just look at that diamond and sun rays pattern! Such grace. And he makes it look so effortless. I admire him as a man and yard artist.”

“Um, is he talking to himself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. He does that. You know how artistic types are, sweetheart.”

“Maybe he’s a genius.”

“Maybe…”

One day for grins and giggles, I’ll mow the yard without the lawn mower – just me and myself, having a nice long talk as I walk back and forth in some strange geometrical pattern in my front yard.

Mowing the lawn is also like washing the car to me– it’s a chore I publicly abhor, but secretly adore. The finished product makes the work worthwhile. Standing back and admiring one’s handiwork is fulfilling, especially if the job has been done well. But, as opposed to the lowly bucket, hose, and cloth used when washing the car, the lawn mower is more than a necessary tool. It’s Robin, Watson, Tonto -the proverbial sidekick. I usually give it a pep talk before taking the field and congratulate it after another fine performance. Sometimes we argue about its gas drinking problem and the occasional smoking, but, all-in-all we have a solid relationship. We’ve been together for nearly 15 years. It comes from a great family – Craftsman. No fancy self-propelled, push-button, attached bag shenanigans. It’s all real 6 horse power, mulching blade goodness. Oh, and, I can turn it on with one stroke…every time.

Back to the job at hand. I was a bit worried how my lawn mower would respond when faced with grass that rose quite a few inches above its gas cap.

So, I decided to give the yard two trims – the first with the mower raised a couple of notches. I think my lawn mower actually smiled. You know how kids, and RuPaul, and Adam Sandler, like to play dress-up? Well, my mower got the chance to play a grass combine harvester…and was thrilled. Two runs over the entire backyard and a tank-full of fuel later, my mower and I enjoyed a nice cold drink while admiring our most recent conquest over the St. Augustine green, problems solved, the next big thing discovered (but ignored). I heard the faint sounds of clapping and cheering emanating from behind the closed panes of glass of the surrounding houses. We retired gratified, me to my home and the mower to its shed.

Rains came the very next day. Nice timing!

My mower and I both smile, knowing what rains bring – tall grass and quality time together.

The Republic, In-Laws, and Jerry Jeff

(With a nod to Texas singer/songwriter/legend Jerry JeffWalker) Packin’ up our bathing suits and cowboy boots. Hauling in the perch traps and taking up the trot line. Deflating the air mattress, rolling up the sleeping bag, and washing the used sheets and towels. The last chopped brisket sandwich and chicken fry are just fond gastronomical memories. Great grandparents are showered with loving hugs and tear-stained kisses. The dog gets a good scratching behind her ears. The creek receives a final nod in appreciation of its relinquished bounty. A sure sign we must be going home.

I married a Texas gal. It is easily the best choice I’ve ever made. Truthfully, Em really chose me, I guess. Rumor has it that I drugged her and when she awoke she was married to me. Some initially thought I must have come with a monstrous dowry to get her father to agree. But, once they got to know me better, that thought quickly became quite laughable. In any case I certainly out-kicked my coverage. Along with all the wonderful perks that marrying a Texas girl carries – loves sports, especially football, loves cooked meat, loves freedom and independence and all that Texas (and a few other U.S. states) embraces, loves a good time, loves me (thank goodness) – is the opportunity it affords us to spend time in Texas with her family. I’m a lucky guy. I have awesome in-laws.

Don’t believe me?

My wife’s father is an ex-Marine. His mere presence quietly demands respect. Other than that, though, you’d never know of his military background. The man tears up at Hallmark Card commercials. But I’m not about to make fun of him. Anyway, he interviewed me and hired me for my first job in Texas. Soon thereafter I began dating his only daughter.

He didn’t shoot me.

He didn’t even fire me.

I think he teared up a little. I like to think it was out of joy.

Even more impressive was his reaction when I dropped by to see his “little girl” after I had just been to a tennis tournament at Fairway Oaks Country Club Tennis Pavilion in Abilene to see Andre Agassi. Just for kicks, I had borrowed a long clip-on hair extension from my sister that matched my hair color perfectly, clipped it in my hair, and covered the clip with a Nike tennis cap. Donned in a Nike windsuit, I resembled Agassi (from a distance) and I waltzed right into the tennis pavilion to see what kind of reactions I could get. Even though I didn’t have the eye brows to really pull it off, stares, whispers, finger points, and a couple of camera flashes while I hovered near his private SUV made it worthwhile. Afterwards, when I knocked on the door to Em’s family’s house, I was greeted by her suddenly troubled and befuddled dad. He is typically on the contrary side of piercings, tattoos, and long hair on guys. So, at best he wasn’t really sure how to take me, this different, albeit likable, guy who is dating his daughter.

Maybe he was deciding how to dispose of me before Em came out of her room.

As the moment became increasingly awkward, I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain why I looked the way I looked. He simply replied, “Uh huh.”

He found a way to accept me and my colorful ways, though, gave his blessing for our marriage, and we get along wonderfully. Not only is he my father-in-law, but he’s a true friend and confidant. We’ve rubbed off on each other. I wear a cowboy hat while working in the yard and he’ll put on a Hawaiian shirt and go to a Jimmy Buffett show with me.

“Sure,” you may be saying, “winning over dad is one thing. What about the dreaded mother-in-law?”

Get this: my wife and I moved to South Carolina when she was eight months pregnant with our first child, which also happened to be the first grandchild on either side of the family. Actually, my mother-in –law claims that I snatched her daughter from her and stole away in the dark of night, robbing her of that first proud grandmother experience in the most sinister of ways. She probably has every right to grab my eyelids and yank them right up over and around the top of my head. But, somehow, she loves me. She’s the best. I love it when she comes to visit. That’s right, guys, I said “love”. We get along incredibly well and laugh a lot, usually at ourselves. She will also go to a Buffett show, but it’s not really a stretch for her.  She has a magnet on her refrigerator that says “I don’t spoil my grandkids, I’m just very accommodating.” Spot on. As close to a perfect grandmother as one can get. Not too shabby as a mother-in-law, either.

So, my in-laws are fantastic. That’s how we are able to spend nearly a month of our summer vacation with them in their home on Sandy Creek, which runs into Lake Livingston, just outside of Trinity, Texas, every year.

Our summer Texas whirlwind tour is always a blast. This year’s was no exception. My son enjoyed his 6^th year attending CampOlympia, a fabulous summer sports camp. We compared the football stadiums of the University of Texas, Texas A&M, and LSU – all from first-hand views. We took a Hummer limousine to watch a Texas Rangers game and to two Arlington-area restaurants, one before and one after the game.

We enjoyed a beautiful sunset beside a gorgeous 99 thousand-gallon infinity pool surrounded by palm trees and iron gas-powered tiki torches in the shade of an incredible natural rock outdoor living area…in west Texas!  

We did the food truck lunch (la Barbecue is the best ever), swam in a natural spring-fed pool that remains 62 degrees year round on a 106-degree day, and joined a sea of good-timers for a concert at Blues on the Green in Austin.

 

We stood where legends have played in Gruene Hall and then floated the Comal River. We dined in luxury (best clam chowder ever) after a chasing tennis balls at the gorgeous Abilene Country Club. We took in “Wicked” and treated a couple of special “girls” to hair appointments at American Girl in Houston.

I fished most days, accompanied by snowy egrets, blue herons, pelicans, wood ducks, cormorants, and a couple of small alligators.

 

We paid homage to the Mississippi River, the gulf coast of Mississippi and Alabama, Mobile Bay, Lulu’s Restaurant at Homeport, The Chimes in Baton Rouge, Joe Allen’s in Abilene, the windfarms of Snyder and Sweetwater and big Sam Houston in Huntsville. We swam, watched fireworks on Lake Livingston, took in numerous youth baseball tourneys, hit the cinema a time or 2, and enjoyed loving fellowship with friends and family all over the state of Texas.

 

How can a family of 4 on 2 teachers’ salaries manage all of this? Simple. An incredible blessing of loving, generous, and kind friends and family.

So, when we get back home to Carolina, to another set of family and friends who are just as generous, loving and kindhearted, and they ask us what we miss most, we’ll just smile and say, “We loved it all!”

This Light Show a Nature-Inspired By-Product - Experiences in Amazement, Part III

AKA - Light Show III. In contrast to the previous 2 posts (fireflies, lightning), the only natural aspect to this edition involves the surroundings and not the show itself. Still, an awe-inspiring moment nonetheless.  

Driving on the flat plains of west Texas bores some to tears. To me, though, the slowly (very slowly) rolling landscape of mesquite scrub resembles an open petrified ocean, freeze dried and converted to earth in some cosmic flash. Change the hues from sandy clay to deep blues and dark emeralds and replace the occasional cell tower to a trawler and you're offshore in the Atlantic.  

The terrain carries a unique beauty that stretches for hundreds of miles, painted by the most vivid, molten sunsets seen anywhere. Typically, flat top hills sporadically line the horizon at various distances - fossilized rogue waves to this sea lover's imagination. The only objects that confuse this whole creative dusty-dry to salty-soaked transformation are the occasional oil wells. If I stretch it, they could be buoys. Maybe. Too much of a jump, though, even for me.

Now, though, the wells have been joined by another intrusion of man into this wild landscape. A drive down Texas Highway 84 from Snyder to Sweetwater will present the driver with a sea of wind turbines. Thousands of smooth white blades slowly twirl atop mammoth obelisks, all facing the same direction, not too unlike sunflowers following the sun, except these space-age machines move with the wind. The view is surreal, to say the least. In the midst of pure ruggedness have sprouted acres upon acres of these perfectly symmetrical giants, completely throwing off nature's own rougher symmetry. And yet, it's strangely mesmerizing, peaceful possibly. Not necessarily disappointing, like a beachfront McDonald's on Fiji. Rather, it works in some odd way.  

By day, the scene catches the eye and keeps luring it back. Thankfully, stretches of the road provide little, if any, traffic, making it easier on the wandering eye. But at night, oh at night, is when "the moment" happens. It completely pops when driving south from Snyder, thanks to the fall from something of a shelf that drops you into the valley of the turbine farm. When following this path in the nighttime's dark blanket, dimly lit by a sky full of sparkling silver stars, one must make a conscious effort to refrain from applying the breaks, pulling to the side of the road, and placing a call to UFO Central. It really looks like the mother ship has landed. The mother of all mother ships!. And if the visitors occupying this behemoth aren't friendly, we're toast. For on top of each of the wind turbines is a blinking red light, like those on any tower that may interfere with air travel. But, here's the part that causes immediate jaw-droppage, the lights are synchronized. Yes. They all blink at the same time. 

The unison of red pulses hypnotically grasps everyone in the vehicle, and the wide-eyed gregorian chants soon begin.

 

"Ooohhh woowww."

"Maaaaann."

"Thaaaat'ssAaawwwessooomme."

"WwhhhooooooooaaaaaaaaDuuude."

 

That last chant was mine.

As we make the slow, not very steep, not very elevated descent into this transformed landscape, the feeling is a very otherworldly type of coolness. Even though the illumination is man-made, the sheer area covered makes the scene as impressive as nature's synchronized light show performed by the Congaree Lightning Bugs that we were lucky enough to catch earlier in the summer. This is indeed another rare "wow" moment. That makes a trifecta for the summer, which may qualify as a moment in and of itself. And to think, summer's not yet over. Are the moments of cosmic alignment, when amazement and wonder converge for a brief moment for those awake enough to recognize them, over for now? I'll let you know, but I have a feeling...

From Lightning Bug to Lightning - Experiences in Amazement, Part II

Within a few days of observing the rare and amazing unison light show of the fireflies of Congaree Swamp (Part I), I found myself on our bi-annual pilgrimage to Texas, or as I like to call it, The Republic - birthplace of  Tex-Mex, "Remember the Alamo", and…my wife. 

We make the 16-hour trek for 2 of the 3 big breaks from school - Christmas and summer. Spring break is typically beach time. I feel certain that if my in-laws ever move to the Texas coast, Spring Break would then qualify for the traveling-to-Texas trifecta.  

I don't mind the drive. Really. My gypsy soul tends to get restless near the end of May and November in anticipation of hitting the open road. My family has seemed to accept this about me, if not acquired the quality themselves. It certainly makes for more pleasant traveling, if nothing else. We have our traditions (always stop and gaze upon the Mississippi River, no matter what time of day or night) and games ("OK, who will spot a green convertible, giant peanut, or goat first?"). All in all, it's a wonderful family experience. 

Ironically, the only real arguments that break out are over the one thing placed in our vehicle to help ease the drive time monotony - the DVD player. Deciding on a movie, who gets to choose the movie, in what slot the movie should be returned in the multiple DVD case, who gets to hold the DVD case, who gets to hand the DVD to Mom to place in the player, at what volume should the movie be played, at what angle should the screen be set to avoid the most glare, the proper way to clean a DVD disc, why the DVD is skipping, why our DVD player a piece of junk, why we should or should not buy a new minivan because of our crummy DVD player, why Dad threw that last DVD out the window, was that a bad word Dad said, why Mom is looking at Dad like that... 

You get the idea.   

This trip was of the summer variety. We left late afternoon and hit Atlanta a few brief moments after the heavens had unleashed their fury upon the metropolitan area, catching the northern end of a storm that produced 65 mph. winds, quarter-sized hail, blinding rain, lots of stop-and-go driving and flashing hazards on the road. Horrendous conditions for driving through Chunky, Alabama, much less traffic-swollen Atlanta.  

Little did I know that this storm was just the beginning of a wondrous display of natural beauty, the likes of which I had never experienced before.  

One amazing light show produced and directed by Mother Nature (read about the synchronized firefly display previously posted) is uncommon. But that was just a warm-up for her main event.  

As soon as we cleared the rain of Atlanta, the westward skies remained cloudy. I anticipated driving through pockets of storms until we decided to stop for the evening. Not my choice for a pleasant, peaceful nighttime trek across the southeast. Any other time, rain is pleasant and peaceful. I love it. Just not when I'm trying to navigate my way around and between 18-wheelers, motorcycles, stalled Oldsmobiles, the texting teenager, and ma and pa going 30 in the lefthand lane...at night.  

That, thankfully, was not the case. Instead, we were treated to the most unbelievable lightning show this side of the Mississippi. The only reason I know this is because we stopped for the night just east of Jackson. It may have been the same on the other side of the river. I just don't know for sure.  

This was no ordinary lightning, if lightning can ever really be ordinary. No sir, no run-of-the-mill cloud-to-ground snoozers here. Not your everyday tree-blaster. Not even a brief cloud illuminator. The show we saw lit the entire skyward horizon between the outermost peripheries of our vision as we gazed westward. The electric fireworks paused for no longer than 10 seconds during the remainder of the night, a trip from Atlanta to Jackson, Mississippi. Not only did we get to see how the Earth would put on a Pink Floyd laser light show, we got to witness this marvel for hours nonstop. Were it not for other vehicles on the road, I'm not sure we actually needed headlights to illuminate I-20. 

As my passengers quietly nodded off into a sleep, no doubt filled with dreams of wonder, I realized I was privy to another one of those rare moments of wonder myself. It was simply and staggeringly beautiful. As the lights of Jackson appeared on the far horizon, Van Morrison quietly serenaded my drive with "Moondance", and the light show played on. I knew this was a truly special moment. I also knew I needed to stop for the night. The next day would hold more travel time (we were a little over half way now), more games, a stop at the Mighty Mississippi, and the part I anticipate the most: who knows what else.