This year, this picture will be 20 years old. I took this the first (and last) time I ever went water-skiing. After that summer, my toes would never again touch that lake water, nor would I return to that little town. I didn’t edit the picture in any way; it just has that curious green hue. Now it seems like a metaphor for looking back at youth, vigor, athleticism, the wide hope of your whole life ahead of you–all in the past, but captured by that cheap little camera. For those of us living insular lives, not traveling the world or checking off entries on Bucket Lists–those of us just trying to get by–it’s a nice reminder to know, as Sandra Bullock’s character says in Hope Floats, “Once upon a time your mama knew what it meant to shine.”
Category: Texas
Hungry Eyes
What Does The Owl Say?

The Barred Owl is also known as the Hoot Owl and the Eight Hooter and the Rain Owl and the Wood Owl and the Striped Owl. Oh, my goodness, I think that’s all the adjectives and nouns that exist. We saw this sign at the Nature & Science Center and cracked up at the mating call of the barred owls:
Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all? Is that a rhetorical question?
Actually, where I live, it should be, “Who cooks for y’all?” But owls probably don’t have a regional dialect.
Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late
“Catholic girls start much too late.” That’s what Billy Joel says, anyway. But these Catholic girls look decades ahead of their time; heads bowed down, as if texting or finding apps for their smartphones at http://www.howtopraytherosary.com.
Growing up, I knew very few people who attended church and absolutely no one who attended Catholic church. I don’t even know if there was a Catholic school within twenty miles. All I know of Catholic school are the horror stories adults have told about knuckle-rapping nuns and fear of the confessional. I admit there is something eerie about these kneeling, chapel veil-adorned students and the halo surrounding them.
But I don’t know enough about Catholicism to condemn it, so I’ll leave that to Madonna. Sacrilegious is her middle name. In any event, this looks innocent enough.
Like most high school students, these young ladies had the opportunity to dissect “reckless amphibians.” Perhaps that was a small outlet for raging teenage hormones.
Uniforms prevented them from dressing hoochie-mama, and also made it more difficult to determine the poor from the middle class. Nobody was drinking Tab or Diet Coke or Monster; milk was doing their bodies good.
Without the distraction of boys, it was easier to remain chaste and avoid temptation. If you played your cards right, you could wind up with the coveted prize. Hope they hooked a good one!
Thirty-Five Cent Flick
When I was young, there was a dollar movie theater in town, where you could view not-so-recent movies or rescreenings of Ishtar. I also recall going skating on Wednesdays for dollar skate night. But I am not old enough to recall paying a quarter and a dime for a movie. This I cannot fathom. How much was a Coke? A nickel?
When LBJ Locks You Into His Steely Death Stare…
Politics Can Be Fun!
Canterbury Club
Juxtaposition
Bazaar Was Bizarre
We visited the Blue Genie Art Bazaar in Austin, hoping to find some unique gifts. This art was easy on the eyes.
Small booths showcased different artists with a wide range of talents.
Some prints revealed the artists’ love of the city.
Some things just plain creeped me out.
In the end, we wound up leaving empty-handed. Although the pieces were interesting, they were vastly overpriced. Perhaps they were intended for pretentious, high-income Austin hipsters who congratulate themselves on funding the hobbies of former U.T. art majors. Too harsh? So is $55 for a set of six coasters. And with so many children there, it seemed curious that many items were covered in curse words, too filthy for me to type here. One thing’s for sure: Austin is still keeping Austin weird.
Holiday At The Ranch
Real Icicles On Our Fake Icicles
When the sky becomes so cold that water becomes a solid, that sky needs to go away. That sky needs to summon the sunlight and warm it up to a temperature in which a human can function. Whipping biting bone-chilling wind is the devil, especially when one is trying to pump one’s overpriced gasoline into one’s aging Japanese car. Give me 110 degrees over this any day.
Okay, Canada. Okay, Yankees up there above the Mason-Dixon line. Bring it. Tell me what a wuss I am and how awesome it is to ski in frosty weather, and how your snowman is the bomb. Tell me 20 degrees ain’t nothin’, that you’ve skinnydipped in Arctic waters and liked it and you can hardly wait to do it again. No, thank you.

The weatherman predicts colder weather in the morrow, but really, does it matter? Cold is cold. And he’s not losing his job even if it turns out to be cloudy with a chance of meatballs.





























