ASSAULT WITH A TOMATO

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CLOVIS REMEMBERED
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Guest Post by Richard Drake

This story is about growing up in Clovis in the early and mid-fifties.  All names are withheld to protect the guilty.

 Growing up in that town at that time was great for those of us who did it.  We did not have T.V. or cell phones or I-pads.  We had “Dragging Main”.  The weekend night activity was getting with your friends and riding up and down Main Street.  You had to have at least six people in the car and more was better especially if we could talk a girl or two to riding with us.  The car would start at Seventh Street and drive all of the way to the Santa Fe Railroad Station at the south end.  A quick U-turn and you were on your way back up Main.  There another U-turn and away we went.  The idea was to wave at the people in every car that you knew.  Of course, we knew everyone and they knew us but we still waved maybe 20-30 times in an evening.  It was great fun.  We laughed and laughed at what I don’t remember.

Occasionally a group of us would gather on the side walk in front of the State Theatre and watched the cars drive by.  We waved at each, of course, and they waved back.  I think we picked that location to see who was coming to see the movie.   We wanted to know who was dating whom first.  It was common knowledge that you had to take a girl to a movie at the State on the first date.  Our strategic location gave us an early indication of every new potential love in our class.

One summer evening one of the guys brought a sack of newly picked tomatoes from someone’s garden.  Taken legally I am certain because that was the kind of people we were.  As I recall there was nothing better to eat than a newly ripened tomato.  So we gathered at that magical spot on one Saturday night, waving at cars and eating tomatoes.

There was this new Cadillac that kept driving by and waving.  The driver did not belong in our perfect picture.   He was definitely older and kept smiling at us. He was not smiling and waving at the other cars.

One of the unnamed tomato eaters threw a tomato and hit the side of the car which then sped off. Ever one thought it was very, very funny until about 30 minutes later when a Clovis Police car drove up and two of the City’s finest strolled up to the group.  They were very direct as most people in Clovis were at that time.  “Which one threw the tomato”?  We were stunned and no one could speak. They kept asking and we kept not talking.  “What tomato? “What car”?  “When”? “Tonight”?  After a while the policemen said everyone is going to the station talk to the Chief.

The tomato eaters gathered outside of the station where they could see the Chief of Police talking to the driver of the vehicle.  Later on, one of the guys, who had been invited to the meeting, filled everyone in on the discussion. The Chief asked the owner what he wanted.  He replied that he wanted charges filed.  “On what grounds”?  The owner replied “assault with a tomato”. We were told that the Chief had trouble keeping from smiling. You must remember that the Chief knew all of the tomato eaters by their first names, probably since the Seventh grade.  After a lengthy discussion, the Chief played King Solomon and decided the proper course of action would be for all of the tomato eaters to clean and polish the car to remove all evidence of a tomato splat.  The owner agreed.

The Chief sat in his office with the driver while the tomato eaters worked and worked.  They polished and polished.  Occasionally, the tomato eaters would look up and the Chief would look at the driver who indicated that more polishing was needed. So on it went until the Chief got tired and the driver indicated he was satisfied.  Off the tomato eaters went as fast as they could.

The next day they heard from the Chief. The group had worked so hard and polished so much that they had rubbed completely though the paint to the primer.   Since the driver had said that he was satisfied, the Chief ended the incident right then.  However, he told everyone that he had better never again see anyone eating tomatoes on Main Street.

Growing up in Clovis was a great that time before television, before cell phones and all of the things that occupy kids today.  We had our friends, Main Street and, of course, sweet ripe tomatoes.


 Richard Drake, CHS Class of '53
Guest Writer for MIL'S PLACE

J.B.'S "QUINQUEMACULATAS EN QUESO" RECIPE!

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READER'S RESPONSE
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Mil's Note: I  once had a tomato worm hors d'oeuvre recipe which I  cut out of the newspaper. then lost. J.B., on his own initiative has sent us a favorite recipe. Thanks, J.B. (The tomato worm is the larvae for the butterfly-looking moth which is named "Manduca Quinquemaculata.")

Here is his note:

Hi Mil,

With an abundance of tomato worms, here is the obvious solution: a gourmet dip or soup.

12 large tomato worms (or more)

1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1/2 cup green chile, mild or hot (to taste)
1/2 cup of milk
1 tsp of salt
1/2 tsp garlic powder (to taste)

   Butter or olive oil
   Sour cream

   Tortilla chips 

Instructions  for preparation:

Sauté tomato worms in a frying pan until light brown in butter (or olive oil). Puree in blender. Then add the remaining ingredients and stir until the cheese has melted. If you have "lots of TW's,"
add extra milk and cheese and make a delicious soup. Garnish with a dollop of sour cream and a sprig of parsley. Serve with platter of corn chips.

Didn't any of your relatives live through the depression??

Best,

J.B.

(TEST KITCHEN: We determined that adding 1 1/2 tsp.  Lipton's Onion Soup powder and squeezing a bit of lemon juice on the bowl before serving, enhances the flavor. Mil.)

Enjoy.

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BY MIL
8/29/12

Sent from my iPad

"THAT OTHER BULLY!"

Guest Post by Richard Drake:

Mil, your bully story reminds me of my bully story!

In the Fifth grade at La Casita, we had a bully like the one you described.  I don't remember his name. He was the biggest kid in school by a very large measure and he was at least two years older.  Maybe he was the younger brother of your J.J.  I avoided him as much as possible and since I lived west and south of the school yard, I missed him after school.  I think he lived on the north side of the school.

 One day he decided that it was my turn and told me to meet him outside of the play ground after school.  I was scared to death with all kinds of images running through my mind.  I had told my Dad about the bully and his advice was to fight him as best as I could.  The bully would not stop until he beat me up or I beat him. I thought about telling my Mother but decided against that idea.  Typical of La Casita Mothers at that time, she would have taken one of my Dad's belt with her to school and given the bully a lesson in proper school manners.  The embarrassment  of that thought was worse than that of a beating.

 After school I made a dash towards home with the bully in hot pursuit.  He was faster and caught up to me just as I jumped the rock fence.  Against the fence there was a tree limb about four feet long and about two inches thick.  I picked it up and as he made his charge, I took a swing and I hit him on the arm just below the shoulder.  He screamed out loud and started to cry.  As he took another step towards me, I took an stance like I was going to hit the ball out of the park.  He took off running.

 For the next two weeks I went to school every day ready for another round.  I made certain that the tree limb was hidden but still handy.  He never threatened me again.  As my faulty memory recalls, he moved away shortly afterwards.

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    BY Richard Drake, CHS Class of '53

    Guest writer for MIL'S PLACE

    9/23/12

THAT WONDERFUL LITTLE "RED AND WHITE STORE"

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CLOVIS REMEMBERED
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It is hard to say how much quaint little "mom and pop" grocery stores on corners in nice little New Mexico towns affect the great overall cosmic scheme, but I'll tell you that Tom Phelp's Grocery,  at 421 W. Grand was a major deal in the lives of little kids, all around that area. His store was easily spotted by them,  for it was a white store with RED TRIM!

We called it simply: "THE RED AND WHITE STORE."

Tom was a very tall man, particularly with that white meat market/chef' type hat he wore. To little kids three and a half feet tall, he seemed about six feet--six! He was a kind-looking man, all dressed in white shirt and apron; and though I didn't know the word at that time, I guess you'd say he was rather laconic...not given to shooting the breeze with five year olds. He lived in the back of the store with his wife, and once I was sent on some scary errand that required my knocking at his side (back) door, though now I can't remember what it was.

Why do things and events from the 1930's seem so quaint and interesting to us today?  Maybe things were just so much simpler: no TV, no cell phones (twittering tweeting, texting); no computers, and in fact--- not everybody had phones, and if you did, you gave a number to an operator who asked "number please?" and then you were on a party line.

So it was in those long ago simpler times in the spring of 1938, that we moved to Clovis and into an old house behind the MAGIC STEAM LAUNDRY, 313 W. Grand Ave.  My Dad was the new owner and would run the laundry until the end of WWII.  The "Red and White Store" was a handy block and a half west, on the south side of W. Grand, and on the corner.

We bought our main groceries elsewhere at a big store up on Main Street but often I was sent to Tom's to get a loaf of bread, quart of milk, or a pack of Avalon smokes (@ 9 cents) for my Dad, and I always tried to scavenge several cents in change for some jaw breakers, suckers, or other penny candies. Tom did have a very nice clean little meat market with the floor back there all covered with fascinating sawdust. Seems like we occasionally bought a little bacon from him.

How the habit got started, I'll never know, but somehow I had become a five-year-old Wrigley's chewing gum junkie. Any kind---Doublemint, Spearmint, Juicy Fruit...even Chiclets, Beeman's, Dentyne, or maybe licorice-flavored Black Jack---CHOMP CHOMP---but Juicy Fruit was my biggie! Tom sold all of these at the Red and White. Now and then I managed a nickel for a pack.

We kids were always trying to get the parents to spring for some candy bars. Most of them were five cent bars, in those days, and now and then, my mother would decree that it was candy-bar-time and would give us 20 or 25 cents for  favorite candies for all. Hers just happened to be a coconut bar called "Best Pal." It was a whopping 10 cents! My favorite candy bar has always been a Snickers.  My Dad was so busy trying to make a living that he didn't care one way or another about the candy, but would usually eat a Hershey. Others that we ate were: Baby Ruth, O Henry, Milky Way, Bit 'O Honey, and Butterfingers.

Then WWII came and we never saw a stick of Wrigley's for four years. For that matter, there were none of the great candy bars, either, that I can remember. So as time passed, and the war went on, and we moved up on Reid Street into a new house, we kind of quit going to the "Red and White Store." Then Dad sold the laundry in 1945, and we were not in that area of town anymore.

For many years, when visiting Clovis, I'd drive over that way. The re-routing of the highway had wiped out a lot of the old landmarks, but the "Red and White Store" was stilt there! Who owned it (maybe still Tom), I didn't know.

Even today, 75 years later, that little store lives fondly in my memories.

******30*******
BY MIL
9/26/12







Sent from my iPad

LADIES' SOCIALS, MEN'S SOCIALS, AND TAILGATING

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"HEY GUYS, DIDN'T ANYONE BRING A SALAD?"
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Men and women are different. By and large I judge that it is a good thing. It works out well.

Today, we are not attempting to go into the vast physiological and psychological differences between the two. Strangely, it's just women's socials/men's socials that I want to consider here. This subject has greatly captured my interest.

What has brought this to mind is there that are many, many different women's groups out there, meeting at various intervals---weekly, monthly, etc. There are sororities, book clubs, cooking clubs, quilting clubs, professional clubs, church groups, retired groups, and so on.

The subject here is the menu at these meetings. Guys, isn't it fascinating to know that a high percentage of these groups have "pot luck" SALAD menus, or something like that. Perhaps the ladies feel that such fare will bring a giant HALO to linger over their chosen venue!

Any man, on hearing the term "Salad Party" from his wife will react thusly: "Gag..umph...gag...oh, sounds wonderful, my sweet!" But thinking in his heart: "You've got to be kidding me!" Or, "Thank goodness, I don't have to go to that!"

I have followed these types of parties, with great fascination and interest, and always ask the wife, when she returns home:  "Did anyone bring some GOOD FOOD, you know, on sticks?" Sometimes the answer: "Why yes, Beatrice brought little meat balls (or chicken bites) on toothpicks, and the girls went absolutely crazy over them!" (Beatrice was the heroine of the meeting, and will probably be elected next president!)

So why do women keep punishing themselves? Why not save on calories at home through the week, and live it up, dietarily, when out with the girls?!

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Now we come to the men. (And we assume that they do their salad-eating, if any, at home.) With men, you've got your "specialists." Men, like doctors, tend to specialize. You've got your steak-chefs, your expert-barbecuers, your astounding chili-makers, your accomplished hamburger-grillers, your baked bean-gurus, your bratwurst-broilers, and not the least---your cornbread-geniuses!

So when the pro-football TV crowd, the "men's group" (whatever THEY do), or the three tables of poker players get together, THERE WILL BE NO SHORTAGE OF FOOD! There will likely be some six packs, on ice, for the thirsty. But, "Hey guys, didn't anyone bring a salad?"

 Also, did you know that down in Texas, not only are many red-blooded Texans great cooks,  but they have their own big private heavy-duty, heavy-capacity "barbecuers," often barrel-looking things, mounted on trailers and  they pull them behind their pickups to any social event wherever they are needed, near or far--- no-prob! Like: "HAVE BARBECUER---WILL TRAVEL!"

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Now we come to "TAILGATING" at football games! An activity for both men and women! Judging, from having observed this custom both at games and numerous TV game prelims, it seems that tailgating can become very elaborate and fancy, even to tables covered with white tablecloths, china, and stemware! This attracts interest, and people like attention.

Your normal run-of-the-mill tailgating group may have a couple of big  guy-cooks in tee shirts and bright aprons covering their ample guts. Their professional-looking grill is piled from one side to the other with steaks, hamburgers, chicken, and brats. (You wonder: who can eat all this meat?!)

But: here is no halo hanging over this scene! Again: WHO FORGOT THE SALADS? It is almost as if, "Salads need not apply!"

My experiences with tailgating picnics did not begin until 1992. Let me tell you---there is nothing like it! The fun, the relaxation, the excitement, and the electric energy in that parking lot---you can almost cut with a knife! People are laughing, joking, cooking, and a few old-time players are even out there tossing a football around, reliving their glory days, and hoping someone will notice and admire them! People are sitting in their lawn chairs, having a pre-meal diet Pepsi, or whatever.

OH THE SMELLS! Nothing like the smells! Wow, someone has got a pot of coffee going! Life is good! Here comes that KOB Radio guy to talk with us. Be right back!

After rhe game, and the rigors of getting out of the crowded stadium, we'll go back to our Blazer, fold the tailgate down, and rummage around in that icy, freezing water in the ice chest for a few left-over diet Pepsis, sit down, and talk about the game, and let the traffic thin out.

Tailgating is one of the nicest joys in life. It'd be fun, even if you just went, ate, talked,
absorbed the sights and energy, skipped the game and went home.

It's interesting how much of our life revolves around food and friendships!

********30********
BY MIL
9/21/12

Reader's response to advance copy:  "These are great experiences for many folks.  At Gator games I notice that hundreds of people tailgate with their TVs, and naturally, food and drinks and don't even go to the games; they all just sit around under the trees and Gator tents and just eat and have fun!"

Ned Bibbix


Sent from my iPad

********30********

BY MIL

9/21/12

Sent from my iPad

DO WORLD WAR TWO SONGS...."CARRY YOU BACK?"

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"WHEN THE LIGHTS GO ON AGAIN, ALL OVER THE WORLD..."
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"THERE'LL BE BLUEBIRDS OVER THE WHITE CLIFF'S OF DOVER..."
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"There'll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover,
Tomorrow, just you wait and see...
There'll be love and laughter
And peace ever after...

I'm a fifth grader in La Casita School, eating my oatmeal and toast; the time is 7:30 a.m. I'm leaving for school in 30 minutes. The year is 1944 and there's a war on. Has been for a long time. I'm listening to Clovis radio, KICA , and they're playing "Bluebirds over..." and I'm humming right along with it. Always do. I know all the WWII songs and their words by heart, and can sing them. (I still can, 68 years later.)

You had to have lived through that war to totally understand and "appreciate it," so to speak. There is an excellent documentary out there, put out by U. of Colorado about 30 years ago, titled "You Are What You Were When." To kids like us, growing up in the "Big One," it was a critical and unforgettable experience in our lives.  I guess we will always be a little bit, of what we were "when", during that momentous time.

Whenever today, I hear a song from that era---maybe in an old movie, old record, or on an "oldie" station, it carries me back--- to those days and helping with the war effort. We were always involved in the "drives" for old rubber tires, aluminum, tin foil, paper, bacon grease, or iron. We scavenged neighborhoods, attics, backyards, farms, old lake beds, and all around the edge of town---for all manner of junk needed in the war effort!

Any song from that era reminds me also of building model airplanes, drawing them covertly in class, reading "Dave  Dawson in the R.A.F.," and reading the comics about Joe Palooka fighting the Nazis in France. It reminds me of hot summer days, sitting in the shade of the elm trees in the front yard, playing,  and watching B17 bombers drone lazily around the edge of Clovis. I am reminded of war movies like "Mrs. Miniver," "Back to Bataan," "The Fighting Sullivans," and "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo."

Yes, it's the songs that touch our memories, our hearts, and our emotions...and that carry us back....Do you remember, and can you sing---

"Praise the Lord, and Pass the Ammunition"

"Coming In On A Wing and A Prayer"
"Rosie the Riveter"
"I Left My Heart At the Stage Door Canteen"
"Deep In the Heart of Texas"
"Let's Remember Pearl Harbor"
"Don't Fence Me In"
"Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," (Andrew Sisters)
"Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive"

As far as the troops were concerned, "Lili Marlene," a German poem, set to music in 1938, became a favorite of the Afrika Korps; and then also the British in N. Africa; it was translated into English and thus was said to be the favorite song of the war for the fighting men. (at least in that theater.)

By 1940, over 96% of urban U.S. households had one or more radios. Listeners, numbering into the millions, were hearing WWII tunes over and over. Nostalgic songs, love songs, and songs of hope, were heard all across the United States, and anywhere in the world where the troops had radios. Songs like:

"When the Lights Go On Again"
"I'll Be Seeing You"
"Sentimental Journey"
"As Time Goes By," ("Casablanca")
"Long Ago and Far Away"
"I Don't Want To Walk Without You"
"I'll Get By, As Long As I Have You"
"You Belong To My Heart"
"Stardust"
"I'll Walk Alone"
"I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time"
"Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me"
"God Bless America"

Bing Crosby was in his heyday and in addition to all the nostalgic ballads, he recorded what perhaps may have been the best-loved song of the war, though a seasonal song.  Bing introduced "White Christmas," (by Irving Berlin) on his Kraft Music Hall Show, on Christmas Day, 1941. It was sung throughout the war---its mix of nostalgia, melancholy,  memories of home and better times, appealed strongly to the American people.

 "White Christmas" was at the top of the Billboard charts for many weeks in 1942, and returned a number of times in later years. Guiness Book of Records says that Crosby's  version of the song is the single best-selling single of all time---with an estimated 50 million sold world-wide. Some of Bing's lighter WWII numbers are listed below:

"Yankee Doodle Dandy"
What Do You Do In the Infantry?"
"Shoo Shoo Baby"
"Sundays, Mondays, Or Always"
"Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby?"
"Bless 'Em All"

Perhaps, of all the music, nothing epitomizes that era better than hearing a Glenn Miller swingy, catchy tune:

"Chattanooga Choo Choo"---1941
"Juke Box Saturday Night"---1940
"Elmer's Tune"---1941
"Tuxedo Junction"---1940
"String of Pearls"---1942
"In the Mood"---1940
"Pennsylvania 6-5000"- 1940
"That Old Black Magic"---1943

A number of movies of that era were named with WWII song titles. Others used the songs within the movies themselves. The quintessential example I think of, is the unforgettable opening scenes of the great movie "Twelve O'Clock High," starring Gregory Peck and Dean Jaegger. The beginning of the movie shows Jaegger, a veteran of the Eighth Air Force, who served his WWII days at an English base in the countryside. The old veteran airman has returned to visit his base, and we see him bicycling through a village, spotting an old "Pirate" figurine in a shop window, and enthusiastically purchasing it. It just happened to be the "mascot" that sat on the mantel in the officers' club during the war.

Then proceeding on his trip down memory lane, he cycles into the English countryside carrying the beloved mascot in his bicycle basket. Riding along a dirt road alongside the old WWII B17 airfield, he stops, looks out across the field, now grown up with weeds in the crevices of the concrete and along the edges. He meditates. The long-unused field is deserted...and empty...to us...

But not to Jaegger, who is seeing things in his memory---things that happened twenty years ago, in that incredible costly effort to defeat Hitler. He is hearing men's voices---far off---they are blending beautifully as only male voices can...listen, they are singing...

"We're poor little lambs who have lost our way,
Baah, baah, baah,
We're little black sheep who have gone astray,
Baah, baah, baah."
(It's the guys at the officers club, harmonizing...)

(He is hearing, again, far off...)
"Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,
Anyone else but me, anyone else but me,
Oh, no, no, no,
Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,

 'Til I come marching home!"

Suddenly he, and we, hear airplane motors cranking, far away in time, and they get louder...and louder...We are suddenly looking at what was really happening in 1944 in real time, and the movie is on!

Space forbids that we go deeply into the British people's  war songs. They had a good many "zany" and insulting songs for the enemy, such as "We'll Hang Out Our Washing On the Siegfried Line!"

Three of their most popular songs were:
"A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square"
"When the Lights Go On Again"
and Vera Lynn's ever popular: "We'll Meet Again."

"When the Lights Go On Again," is characterized as a "non-aggressive" song of hope and better times for the whole world.

"When the lights go on again,
All over the world
And the boys are home again,
All over the world,
And rain and snow may fall
From fhe skies above;
A kiss won't mean 'goodbye'
But 'hello' to love.

When the lights go on again
All over the world,
And the ships will sail again
All over the  world,
Then we'll have time for things like wedding rings
And free hearts will sing,
When the lights go on again
All over the world!"

One of the most-loved songs of the British and many of the "Yanks" that were over there  in Britain, preparing for D-Day, was:

"We'll meet again
Don't know where
Don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again
Some sunny day!"

A respected CHS classmate of mine, said to me last year, something like this: "Remembering WWII and teaching about it in school, are not popular anymore."

There is a saying: "Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it."
Someone once said: "The only thing worse than remembering, is forgetting."

Maybe just remembering the SONGS  is a way of remembering....gently.

There'll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover, Kate Smith

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDaZgUjoniY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

                            When the Lights Go On Again, Vera Lynn
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMkjKyn7NEY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

                            We'll Meet Again, Vera Lynn

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

                              In the Mood, Glenn Millerhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyxKJD-52Po&feature=youtube_gdata_player

                             White Christmas, Bing Crosby
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8swRkzkO2s&feature=youtube_gdata_player

********30*******
BY MIL
9/17/12

"THE END OF SUMMER"

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ONE MORE SUMMER IS GONE.
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"In the good old summertime,
In the good old summertime,
Strolling thru' a shady lane
With your 'baby mine.'
You hold her hand and she holds yours
And that's a very good sign
That she's your tootsie wootsie
In the good old summertime!"

(Evans/Shields, 1902)

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The old fishing holes are empty,
The old cane poles are languishing...
Barefoot little boys are back in school.

The voice of the turtle has come and gone
In our land.
The cicadas never came this year---how strange.
And where were the crickets?
Not a single cricket was heard; strange too.

Summer was truly a GRAND TIME this year,
As it always is.
But it is: "The End of Summer!"

Oh, there are still things happening---
But summer is waning.
For teen-age kids, that is no big deal,
But if one has seen seventy-plus summers, already...
It is painfully, one less.

My editor says: "Write that summer's over."
I said, "I think I will---it's poetic!"
It evokes all kinds of memories and nostalgia,
Back to even the childhood days of summer,
In the 40's---vivid memories!

After all, summer is very American!
Summer is America's  "cup of tea!"
Look at old magazine pictures---
Look at Norman Rockwell's paintings.
Look in your own mind...

Billowing thunderheads, friendly skies...
Shady swimming holes on a pond or creek...
Barefoot boys with cane poles.
Picnics in the park: church picnics, family picnics,
Fourth of July celebrations---
Softball games, volley ball games, kids playing.
Swimming pools with shouting children.

Loads of food: hot dogs, hamburgers, fried chicken...
Deviled eggs, cornbread, cantaloupe, watermelons...
Tables filled with pies, cakes, and cobblers...
Ice chests and tubs packed with ice, and
All kinds of soft drinks!

At home, digging in the soil, growing flowers
Gardening, nursing those tomatoes plants for
Those unsurpassed vine-ripened tomatoes.
Lawn mowers humming around the neighborhood.

Vacationing, hiking, bicycling...
Summer concerts at the city park or zoo...
People just out for a stroll and walking the dog.
Or vice-versa!

Yet, the days are getting shorter---the
Nights longer and cooler;
We need that extra blanket at night!
Soon the nip will really be in the air.

Yes, fall is almost here.

We've noticed a change in the past few days;

There's a new quietness, a stillness

In the air...

And a new gentleness about the light...

The light seems somehow softer.

We can already smell the cedar wood burning
In fireplaces.
Before you know it, we'll be sipping hot apple cider, and
Watching the Dallas Cowboys!

We are only a few weeks 

From the priceless Indian Summer Days

Of October!

Nature's most beautiful scenes and colors
Of the year will soon be ours, as the leaves turn
To those great oranges, browns, yellows and faded greens...
Nothing like the warm fall colors!

Still we think of all the fun last summer,
And all the past summers of our lives...
When the whole world was young,
And we realize that one more is gone,
And it's a long time 'til the next one.

Summertime, a poetic season, always
Makes me think of song:
Doesn't Stephen Foster's song
"I Dream of Jeannie" remind us of
A bright summer's day---
"I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,
Born like a zephyr on the summer air;
I see her tripping where the wild flowers play,

 Happy as the daisies that dance on their way..."

Can't you just visualize the sunshine,
light, and airiness of the season?

This sad and nostalgic Irish tune of Thomas Moore (1815), "The Last Rose of Summer," is running through my mind:

"'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh
To reflect her blushes.
Or give sigh for sigh."

May all your days, even winter ones, be ever as bright as summer.

*********30********
BY MIL
9/14/12








Sent from my iPad

A WONDERFUL MIRACLE....CORNBREAD!

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AND THANKSGIVING DRESSING!
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If you think hamburgers are miracles---what about cornbread?! It is a heavenly food sent to Earth by the Creator! (Anything made of corn is good, isn't it?) Who knows, cornbread may have been the "manna" in the Old Testament. Did they have Clabber Girl baking powder then?

What if you lived overseas? Some countries do not have corn bread. You think? Yes, read the very interesting old book by actress Anne Baxter ("INTERMISSION"), about her life in Australia.

Can you imagine, in your worst nightmares, going through life and NEVER eating cornbread? I shudder to think about it! Shouldn't we Southerners send "cornbread missionaries" to our beloved (and diet-wise wayward) brothers and sisters in the North? It probably wouldn't do any good---they wouldn't believe. Come closer, my reader....(I've even heard that instead of cornbread dressing at Thanksgiving, they have a stuffing,,,a concoction...containing oysters...yes...Sh-hh-h) My wife has to make extra dressing at TG and parcel little containers out to some of her dear Northern friends, who are closet cornbread dressing  eaters!

Let me set a scene for you, which will illustrate the importance of and the necessity for corn bread. It is midsummer circa 1950 and I am up at 4:35 a.m. at sunrise. I have been plowing, driving a Wheatland (BIG) Orange Case Tractor since 6:00 a.m. on our farm near Ranchvale. I'm pulling a 22 1/2 foot one-way plow. The day, the dust, the sun, the heat, the hours, and the tractor drone on. About 11:30 I begin to get thirsty, tired, sleepy, and hungry. My face, eyes, and nose are filled with dust, slowly rising and hanging in there with me and my rig. Bored gnats, as if looking for companionship, have been in my face all morning.

Yesterday, on that farm, was "Vienna Sausage Day," you know, Ritz crackers, cheese, pickle, ketchup for dipping, a piece of onion, and maybe some pork 'n beans.

Today is the BIGGIE. My dear Mother, has cooked all morning and there she comes on the county road, dust swirling behind her for fifty yards! The world may have forgotten us out here but not my Mother. She has driven nine miles, bringing a home-cooked dinner for us, cooked as ONLY SHE  can cook! In the backseat of our four door sedan are two big white chipped porcelain dishpans "filled to the gills," with food! Wrapped, warm food! There are Mason quart jars filled to the brim with iced tea or sweet milk and floating with ice cubes! Take your choice! Sitting on the plowed ground in the shade of the car, leaning against a tire,  we are served on big tin pie plates: there is roast and gravy, new potatoes in creamy sauce, buttery stewed squash, black eye peas, pickled cucumber slices, chunks of cantaloupe, and sliced vine-ripened tomatoes! Life is good!

Wait: I forgot  the important thing. She handed each of us a COLD PIECE OF WHITE BREAD!

Oh, no, no, no. my readers, I have played a bad trick on you for illustrative purposes! I apologize! It wasn't white bread she gave us at all! Now you see the importance of CORN BREAD! It makes the meal, doesn't it! Mother handed each one of us some CRISPY CORN BREAD MUFFINS!  Dare I even mention the closing act: peach cobbler?!

It is evident to all: God planned Mothers and Cornbread...ON THE SAME DAY!

There are all kinds of cornbread. Even mixes, which I shun. You can make jalapeño or green chili cornbread; some of these recipes call for sour cream and cream style or whole grain corn, or both. Some call for a considerable amount of sugar, making a kind of semi-dessert muffin. Some (like my Mother's corn bread) is your old deep South "field hand CB"---crispy and crunchy. There is one thing I would put in every recipe---BACON---except I like the bacon crispy and it won't stay crispy.

Old farmers, not wasting anything at hog killing time, used to render the fatty sides of the pig, cut up into chunks---into lard, and then make "cracklin' corn bread" out of the leavings. It was not like grocery store-type cracklin's...it was fatty chunks and I didn't like it. Too fatty.

Here's what you've been waiting for...Mil's famous recipes, One and Two.

                                  DEEP SOUTH FIELD-HAND CORNBREAD

1 1/2 cups of yellow corn meal
1/2 cup of all-purpose flour
4 tsp baking powder
1 TBS sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup milk
3 TBS canola oil

Mix dry ingredients, add wet items; oil last
Spray 16 muffin pan with Pam
Bake 400 degrees for about 22 minutes or until very brown and crunchy.
(Cook samples one with butter.)
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                         MIL'S ALL STAR DOWN HOME COUNTRY CORN BREAD

1 1/2 cups yellow corn meal
1 cup all-purpose flour (sifted)*
6 TBS sugar
1TBS baking powder

1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt

1 1/2 cups of buttermilk
1 cup melted butter
2 large eggs

Canola oil---I put in a little, on general principles, even with the butter.

Combine ingredients; beat liquids until well-blended.

Pour into a well-greased 16 muffin pan.
This recipe will make bigger muffins than recipe # 1.
Bake at 400* for 25 minutes or until brown and crispy.
(*Note: "Real men" do not sift, clarify butter, or separate eggs.)
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                            MIL'S SOUPY PINTO BEANS

2 to 3 cups of Adobe Milling Co. pinto beans (check for rocks)
Ham slices and/or ham bone
Rinse beans deftly five times in fresh water
Put into.pressure cooker and fill with 2/3 water
Bring to boil and "spew." Reduce heat to medium.
Time 55 minutes from first spew, take them up.
Don't mess up the great bean flavor with a lot of spices.
"Don't do nuthin' " except add water; need juicy beans, not dry.
Salt will be needed; do it individually.
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Call Mil when all is ready, and I will come by and check on you, bringing some vine-ripened tomatoes and chunks of cantaloupe. Beverage? Oh let's see: Hmmm. How about a quart of sweet milk in a Mason jar---farm style---with chunks of ice in it! And thanks for asking!

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BY MIL
9/13/12



Sent from my iPad

"THAT BULLY!"

                                             drawing by K. McSorley

Seventy years ago, there was a bunch of us little boys, attending grade school, who were constantly harassed by a world-class bully. Unfortunately, in those days there was no one speaking out against "bullyism."

Those of us who were in old Clovis La Casita School (39-45) could've certainly used some help. At this distance in time, it is difficult for you the reader to understand our misery: dogged at ever step---at every event---at any and every moment,  by a bully (we will call) "J.J." He practically ruined our lives. We lived in constant dread.

You see, all the kids who lived north of La Casita, on the streets Davis, Edwards, Reid, Thornton, and maybe Calhoun, were in his "area of operations," so to speak. He roamed.
Kids in that area were chased, accosted, pushed around, slugged and/or beaten up by this
notorious character.

I don't know how many GRADES BEHIND he was in school. I don't even remember what grade he was in at any given time.  Maybe the sixth grade ---for three years? He was thin, lanky, wiry, and hard-looking---not an ounce of fat. He was six inches taller than any of us. If you'd hit him with a hammer, I'm sure you would've heard: "CLANG!" He wasn't even your good old run-of-the-mill, down-home, garden-variety, benevolent neighborhood bully. He was mean!

We desperate kids soon developed an "escape and evade" route from our area to the school and home. It was---(now declassified) the alley between Thornton and Reid. Oh joy! We could go back and forth---unmolested!

That was the good news. The bad news was: he found out about that alley...and lay in wait--- he set ambushes! He would catch us by the front of our little shirts, push us all over the alley---like "what do you mean---being born?" Then he would slug us good--- right in the nose or stomach. I didn't have a preference---both hurt!

Catching him in the middle of a swing, we were off and running, like a bat! As they used to say about a track relay anchor-man----"Give him a two-step lead, with the race at stake, and no one on earth can catch him!" That's the way WE were. You see, we were...motivated. Our lives were at stake. We thought anyway. Who likes punishment?

Now I must explain. When I was in the third, fourth, and fifth grades, I was no Joe Louis. I was a very skinny little kid who just found himself on Earth one day. As the old saying goes, "I meant no harm." I wasn't really itching to clobber anybody. I was like Jack Nicholson in the movie "Mars Attack," when he said to the attacking Martians: "Can't we...just...get along?" (We know what happened to Jack, don't we?)

No. J.J. didn't want to "get along" with anybody...not us little guys...nor even the world, I suspect. What is inside that gnaws on a person like that?

He lived right across the alley from us, three houses down. He came by our house all the time down 11th Street.  One day Dad was building a rabbit hutch around behind our house---out of sight. J.J. came down 11th and I, on the edge of our lawn taunted him: "YANH, YANH, YANH! J.J. is ------------------" (Bad plan.) Well, I took off to the back yard with J.J. (who was even worse when insulted) right behind me. Oops, seeing my Dad standing there with that hammer, J.J. screeched to a quick halt; then took off in the opposite direction.  My Dad did a token chase to the alley, holding that hammer! I know---dumb move on my part and this did NOT improve my status.

Another funny story relating to this is: One night in mid-summer, we were sitting in our home, listening to the radio; it was hot and there was no air conditioning, the doors and windows were open, and kids were running around up and down the street. My dear friend and playmate (for many years), "Country Boy Bob," lived a block away on Thornton. He was messing around on our block that summer night and decided to play a prank on us. Twice he rattled our back screen. My Dad knew it was some kid, but he playfully jumped up like lightning and was out the back door faster than a speeding bullet! Surprised and scared by this sudden reaction, "Country Boy" took off at full speed, yelling "I'm NOT J.J.----I'm NOT J.J." My Dad weighed 235 and was big and scary. (Get Bob to tell you that story!)

We DID have a HERO---a tough little hombre who once stood up to J.J. I jealously must give him the credit---he risked his life. He really didn't have a choice. His dad told him one day: "Don't come home next time J.J. accosts you if you don't haul off and knock his block off!"  Something like that, anyway...

So one infamous day, in the history of "escape alley," J.J. caught our hero and started pushing him around. Scared out of his wits (of his father, or J.J.---he was never quite sure which); Arthur J. Snipes SOCKED HIM ON THE JAW, as hard as he could, CLOBBERED HIM GOOD! Caught J.J. totally off guard and while he was standing there in surprise and amazement, Art, with that proverbial two-step lead of a relay anchor-man, made it home to safety. Hooray for our side! (Hey, Art, we're still in AWE!)

J.J. never bothered Art again; he just concentrated on the rest of us!

(When we got to Junior High, we never saw J.J. again.)

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BY MIL
9/07/12









Sent from my iPad

"MEMORIES OF OLD BELL PARK"

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HOW A BASEBALL PARK LOOKS TO A KID!
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Driving by old Bell Park, a few years back, I was amazed at how something that once seemed so incredibly big to me, later seemed so incredibly small!

There's an old song that says: "How ya gonna keep 'em down on the  farm----after they've seen Paree?" Yes, that song may be true, for I've seen a number of baseball parks over the years, since the first time I saw Bell Park in 1940, and they were all bigger. Not better, however.

If you've never really noticed the mind-blowing effect of walking into a professional baseball park (any size) AT NIGHT,  do yourself a favor and try it. Take a boy with you---any age boy!

You will park in a dimly-lit drab parking lot several hundred feet away, walk up to a drab gate, also dimly-lit, walk across a drab paved area, to the entrance---up a long drab concrete ramp and reach the top walkway/aisle going left and right---and there opening out in front of you is: THE MOST GLORIOUS SIGHT! Is this HEAVEN? No, it is a baseball park!

There are LIGHTS, LIGHTS, LIGHTS---BRIGHT LIGHTS! Unfolding in front of your very eyes---is a PANORAMIC VIEW---stretching left and right... and center---so mind-boggling that your eyes can scarcely take it in!  COLOR EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK!

GREEN, beautifully manicured grass playing field, stretching all the way to the fence! Fresh white boundary lines---foul/fair--- raked sandy soil topping the infield, just sprayed with misty water to keep the dust down; rich contrast---grass and infield soil!

Players in beautiful, colored uniforms, freshly-cleaned, spiffy---no dirt or grass stains on them---but just wait! They are throwing white baseballs all over the place; balls are bouncing and rolling everywhere it seems. You think you can almost see the stitching on the balls! Little boys are in awe---they've never seen this many new baseballs at once; and NONE are wrapped in black friction tape! Somebody here has money!

That scoreboard out in left-center field---empty of numerals right now---its very blankness is promising at least 8 1/2 innings of exciting baseball! That kid up there is checking his numerals; I guess it's his way of "warming up." Is that a baseball glove he has up there?

The whole dark green outfield fence (aren't they always dark green?) is covered with advertisements.

That's the third base coach over there by the dugout. Is he practicing his signals or do his
nose and ear lobes just itch? Uh-oh, now he's scratching...ER, let's move on, and let him practice.

There are two players out there in shallow left field: they start all of a sudden and run side-by-side for the left field fence, full blast for about forty steps; they stop suddenly and walk back to the dugout as if they forgot something.

WAIT! There's some goofy-looking guy, with a long nose, out there, wearing an oversized  baseball shirt with a numeral, baggy pants, crazy shoes, and his cap is on---sideways! Is he a manager? He's clowning around with the "private box" fans behind home plate. He LOOKS almost like...a clown!

IS THIS AN EVENT...OR WHAT!

Two pitchers, from the Pioneers, a righty and a lefty, are in the bull pen, warming up. Who will start? We'll have to wait and see what strategy is cooking here tonight in the manager's mind. The lefty, before he throws the ball, makes a curious little circular inward motion with his pitching arm. A signal to the catcher! Wo! Get ready for a wicked inside-breaking curve ball!

At old Bell Park, your "wild and wooly" guys, (yes, our dads), sat on the hard (roofless) cement bleachers on the  first base line. THIS was "where it was at!" Your cigar-smokers, pipe smokers, and a few chewers sat there. (Who ever heard of "No Smoking" in the 40's?) There were a couple of New York/Brooklyn guys too! They were fun to sit by. You could spot them by the piles of peanut shells under them...and by their street-smart comments: "HEY DARE TOMMY, SHAKE IT OFF!"  "HEY BILL OUT DARE--- WAKE UP, PAL!" "OKAY GUYS, DIS IS OUR INNING!" "TROW DA BUM OUT!" "UMP, YA BLIND?"

Those three guys in the black suits coats (black coats that to little boys are miraculously filled somehow with an endless supply of white-stitched baseballs), have been huddling over there away from home plate for quite awhile. Hmmm. Unlike any other three American guys, there has not been a single laugh! Wonder what we are in for?

Grady Maples and R.B. MacAlister, and/or their sports guy, are ready up in the KICA booth. The shaggers are ready to chase foul balls; the scoreboard kid is ready. The smokers have lit their cigars in the raunchy-guys' first base bleachers section; the chewers have just cut a new chaw of Spark Plug tobacco (along with some of the players!) The merchants in their boxes behind home plate have their one dollar bills rolled up, ready for the first friendly home run. The New York (entertaining) street-smart guys are ready with their peanuts,,,and no doubt some pithy comments!

That important-looking ump, holding his cute little whisk broom walks out and brushes home plate. The National Anthem is played; the important ump shouts: "PLAY BALL," and the Clovis Pioneers take the field!

GOTTA GO! SEE YOU LATER!

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BY MIL
9/09/12







Sent from my iPad

MEMORIES OF GROWING UP: OLD CLOVIS DAYS

Guest Post

by Richard Drake

Your stories about growing up in Clovis brought back memories.  Here is one from my memory bank.

                Right after we moved to Clovis my parents bought a house at 405 Hull  St. The house is now gone but I have many fond memories about living in that neighborhood.  First, the block across the street had no houses so we kids built a baseball field. We used everything we could get our hand on for bases usually an old pie tin or small pieces of lumber from people's back yards.  The field backed up to the corner of Hull and Fourth Streets.  We had no back stop so passed balls required a lot of chasing.  At that time there was little traffic on Hull Street so we just ran with abandonment after each ball.

               

                We had a good supply of equipment.  I had a summer job tending the score board at Pioneer Field so I was able to keep our "field" well supplied with baseballs that were hit over the fence. Several kids usually watched the games through holes in the outfield fence so there was  a mad dash to get  to each ball. The first to the ball got "keepers".  Also, my friends were the bat boys for the teams so we got plenty of bats that had been cracked.  It wasn't until years later that  I got to use a bat that didn't have the handle wrapped with electrical tape.

                Since I was one of the smallest boys I did not get play in the field during our pickup games.  During batting practice I was assigned the job of standing on the edge of the infield and relaying balls to the pitcher.  On day, one of the big kids hit a line drive just over my head.  It was a blast worthy of the major leagues.  I had only time to jump and grab.  It was pure instinct  but I caught the ball much to my surprise and to all of the others.  From that day forward they let me play in the field.

                Another game we played was a three corner baseball game with  a triangle infield -  not square. It was played across Fourth Street.  The back stop was the Shultz's garage.  There was a first base and third base  next to the alley way.  A number of livestock pens and chicken coops were in the yards across the street.  The rules evolved over time.  A hit into the yard just over the fence behind  first base and third bases were singles.  One driven into the second row of pens was a double. One into the third row was a home run.  A hit down the alley was all you could get. This game taught us how to use bat control which came in handy in later years.

                At the time everyone was afraid of polio. The prevailing theory was that if one got too hot and tired you were more likely to contract the disease.  We were not allowed to play in the hottest part of the afternoon and had to go home and take a nap.  But we could go out and play in the evenings when it was cool.  Only problem were the mosquitoes.  How things have changed. The favorite game for the evening hours was cops and robbers played with rubber band guns made from rubber inner tubes.  (They were made from real rubber in those days). We would take a long narrow board and carve notches along the top edge. We cut one-half inch wide rubber bands from an old inner tube We tied a long string from front end of the gun to the grip at the other end and stretched the rubber bands from the front end to each notch. Just aim and pull the string and BAM. We would hide and ambush our opponents.  I made a gun with eight rubber bands.  It was a "machine gun" that could deliver a lot of hurt.  I was the most feared kid on the block until others copied my design  which I had copied from a magazine.  One night I got real sneaky and climbed up on the roof. I learned that if you missed you were an easy and open target.  I  am not kidding when I say I got shot off of the roof.

                One of the treats from living on Hull Street was we could sit on our front porch and hear Norman Petty play his organ. His recording studio was on Seventh just past Hull. No one had air conditioning  so windows were kept open to catch any breeze. He would play for one to two  hours on most evenings.  He was so talented.  We thought we had it made over the rest of the world. Now occasionally, I will hear "Mood Indigo" while listening to the "Oldies" station and I am immediately sitting on that porch listening to every note.

by Richard Drake for Mil's Place

Richard is a CHS graduate of the class of '53

Thanks, Richard!

"THE ICEBOX"

When I was three
We had one!
Made of wood,
Nice wood!
Door at the top,
Door at the bottom.
Top lined with tin
Was for the ice.

A BIG event---
Twice a week
a funny-looking
(to a little boy)...
Long wagon,
Pulled by a horse
comes down that
sandy West Texas street---
It had no curbs;
It was sunken, blown-out
by years of wind.

The Iceman stops his horse,
Gets off his wagon...
"Hello boys," to seven or eight
Wide-eyed kids!
(This is  a happening!)
All the kids watch

his every move.

Wearing a strange rubber
cape thing, over his
right shoulder, and grabbing
His Ice Tongs,
He looks at the card in
the window: "fifty pounds."

The kids cluster around
the back of the wagon...
almost in his way.
He throws the several tarps
Back, and there's the ice!
As the cool air from underneath
hits the kids in the face!
Ooo-oh! Feels Good!

He grabs a fifty pound block
of ice, with those awful-looking TONGS,
hefts it onto the rubber thing
on his shoulder, and away he goes
and into the back door of the house.

Bored little kids...
(Seems like nuthn' ever happens, anyway...)
Hang  around watchin' with wide eyes;
He's back, and guess what?
He takes his ice pick
and chips nice little blocks
of that cold, delicious, wet ice---
from a big block---
and gives a chunk to every kid!
Oh, life is good!

Frigidaires came
A year or two later;
But they never were
as much fun for the kids...
As seeing that horse and wagon,
And the friendly Iceman...
And feeling that cold air coming out
from under that tarp---

And having a thirst-quenching
Chunk of ice,
Handed to you---by the Iceman Himself

 In that little sandy West Texas town

In the hot summer,

 in 1937.

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BY MIL
9/6/12








Sent from my iPad

WANTING TO DO A POEM ABOUT "SAND!"'

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"THE ANSWER IS BLOWIN' in the WIND!"
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Oh How Much!
Oh, how much,
oh how much
I've been wanting to do a poem...
ABOUT SAND!
(Have you ever tried that?!)

Four, five, six times I've tried,
And written stuff---
It just didn't have
That poetic FEEL, that impact---
You know: that "Whammo"
That I want, that makes people say
"Wow, is THIS a poem, or what?!"

(Some will say:
"Well, no wonder! It's hard to get
'Whammo' out of 'sand!'")

That recent post, about some adults
Who "edit out" ninety-percent of their
Surroundings, and spend life seeing
Only the ten percent---
Well, sand may be part of that ninety;
SAND IS A MIRACLE.

And like many of us,
It is more loved
when it stays still---
and doesn't blow.

Poems are hard to do...
Writing is hard to do...
A noted editor says:
"The main thing in good writing---
is to have PASSION."

I'm going to try to muster
Some. (Passion.)
And finish my
Sand poem.

*********30**********
BY MIL
9/02/12



Sent from my iPad

VEAL CUTLETS, SHOPPING, AND CHICKEN FRIED STEAK!

WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!

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Yes, I know, the title above reminds us of Johnny Carson playing "CARNACK, the Magnificent," on his nightly TV show, and wearing that silly turban and holding a white envelope up to his forehead and saying: "Veal cutlets, shopping, and chicken fried steak!" Then Ed McMahon repeated it.

Actually, I will explain it. Do you mind if we reminisce---back to the time when my wife and I were dating?

Well, it goes kinda like this. On our first date in 1955, we went to Roswell from Artesia, because they had a great miniature golf facility there. My future wife beat me. I still have the score card. (Humiliating.)

Then not too much later, we packed a picnic lunch and went out into the boonies to an old dump and had some revolver target shooting practice---at tin cans. She outshot me! Humiliating again, but instructive---I realized that I needed this girl (anyone that could shoot like that!) to protect me the rest of my life!

Now, here is the cute thing---during these early days in our relationship, whenever we went out to eat, she always ordered a "veal cutlet"---always; it never varied. "Er, I'll have the veal cutlet," to the waitress.

So she went off to Wayland college that fall semester wearing a diamond on her left hand. It's a good thing I did that too, or she would have been grabbed by somebody! Getting very lonesome, working all time, and with her away, I went up to Wayland one weekend to see her.

She decided we would "go shopping" and then get a late lunch. She knew of a restaurant that served "great veal cutlets," and that's where we ate. (Later on our honeymoon, that's what she ate---a veal cutlet.)

Sometime later on---she discovered that veal is actually (gasp) baby calf!  My friends, from that day to this, she has never eaten another veal cutlet.

Now back to that shopping trip we went on that afternoon while I was in Plainview. I was an innocent twenty-one year old "boy" and had never been shopping with a woman. And as the saying goes: "I never meant any harm." So I tagged along unsuspectingly, ignorantly, but proudly---anticipating this event, and thinking to myself: "How sweet and sort of homey this is--- shopping family-style with my future woman!"

WRONG!

It was murder! And I was the murderee, I think. Though at age 21 I was a tough tennis player and a college ping pong champ, my tongue was hanging out by late afternoon. We had hardly bought a thing (we didn't have any money anyway), though I thought we had tried on half the women's clothes in town.

I wasn't even married yet but that was my LAST TIME to ever go shopping with a woman. Okay, I'll admit it---it's just not in my genes. I can't help it. I lack that special talent that our marvelous women have---which allows them to wring some kind of joy and happiness from walking into stores and trying on stuff...ad infinitum.

You want to know the truth? I haven't MISSED SHOPPING.

And guess what? My wife has NOT MISSED VEAL CUTLETS! She just shifted over to...CHICKEN FRIED STEAKS.

With gravy.

*******30*******

BY MIL

9/1/12

Sent from my iPad