Sunday, December 6, 2009

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town!

Dear Fellow Villagers:

Well, we barely gulped down the last of the left-over Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches, when we became urgently aware that the Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza/Ubangi Stomp/Rahmadan/Merry Merry Mistletoe and all that is in full swing! I, myself, fell into the hypnotic, holiday haze and, within a blink of an eye, I brought home a wonderful Noble Fir Christmas Tree, lit it, decorated it and basked in its beauty.

And then, as if scripted by Holly-wood, the snow came and the pastures were covered in white...(mostly sleet really, but that's a minor detail). NO GLOBAL WARMING in my immediate view.

Our wonderful Main Street in Our Beautiful Village, is adorned with wreaths and bows and you can catch the glimmer of Christmas tree lights through the windows of the houses as you drive by. You can sense the anticipation in the eyes of the children, curious and excited over what Santa will bring this year. (In some cases, if anything...).

Even if Santa does arrive, no need to be fast asleep as he comes down the chimney. You won't recognize him. As I am told, he will arrive, sporting some beach shorts and tank top. Oh, and that big, fluffy, white beard, gone. Just too hot! Ya might not want to stand in line for your little ones to sit on his lap this year because he's gonna be all sweaty and probably not smell too good. And really, why traumatize any child to sit on Ol' St. Nick's hairy legs! All this GLOBAL WARMING has altered the North pole and Christmas as we know it may well be in jeopardy, on many levels.

First off, I hear tell Santa availed himself to the Cash for Clunkers deal and swapped out the old sleigh for a new SUV; (Santa's Ultimate Vehicle). No ice, no sleigh. The reindeer are out to pasture, hoping for a bail-out. Even Rudolph's nose has gone "green". Isn't there a Czar out there somewhere that can turn this thing around? Poor old Bing Crosby must be twisting in his grave at the thought of his eternal treasure of a Christmas song being changed into "I'm Dreaming of a Green Christmas"!

Just who do we think we are that we can question the forces of nature, let alone substantially alter them? The planet Earth has been around longer than all of us, except that old man that hit my car, and it seems to have taken care of itself without help. I don't recycle and waste my time with bottles and cans and paper; that's what dumpster divers are for. Besides, if I were going to recycle, it would involve a plastic surgeon and anesthesia.

Well, I suppose I have sufficiently stuffed my stocking with enough cynicism for now. I'm going to go back and stare at my Noble fir, have some hot chocolate and pet my Dawg.

Have a wonderful Holiday season! And even though they say we are afflicted with Global Warming, where I come from, you can leave your hat on!



Monday, November 16, 2009


Now, I've been around a while. I've seen things I can't even begin to describe. But here now, I am flat out struck back and am truly considering that the collective insanity going on is my cue to exit.

EXHIBIT 1: There is actually a movement to re-invent the dinosaurs, by way of the supposed genetic creatures, found through DNA, with chickens.

First off, we are a Village of People Respecting Chickens. I would prefer that they not be scientifically morphed into Dinosaurs. Imagine the horror of the sweet Main Street Chickens, for which we all paused as they crossed, turned into repro-dinos! Not Happy!

They say they can alter the chicken gene to avail them to larger claws and a substantial tail; larger teeth and a most unpleasant nature. Talk about FOWL PLAY!

Not to put too fine a point on it, but might we consider:

Are these DYNO-MITE Chickens/Dinosaurs gonna eat us and our little pets, or can we get creative and figure out how to BBQ these queer beasts.

Think of the crossing signs on Main Street; CAUTION: DYNO-CHICKEN CROSSING. And God help the poor soul hired to feed these creatures. You'll have to search far and wide to find a Vet to tend these beasts. What if they multiply? Who will risk their life to neuter such a creature?

This is a mistake. And folks need to stop monkeyin' around with this kind of thing.

What's next? Bringing the dead back to life? No.

Let sleeping Dinosaurs lie. And leave those poor chickens alone. It's like " Here Chicky -Chicky, Come meet Herman, your Monster, He's gonna change your life!"

I'm square out going vegetarian.



Tuesday, October 27, 2009


"Knock,Knock!" "Who's there?" "Boo!"... "Boo who?"... "Oh quit cryin' or I'm not playing this game anymore!"


The time is nigh. Halloween is upon us and folks are figurin' out what to wear to the costume party. So, in the "spirit" of the season, might we bow and recall that on this occasion, it is 70 years ago that our beloved CHAPPELL HILL CAFE came to be and has provided our LOVELY VILLAGE with cheerful smiles, good food and the small town barometer of who's good and who's bad! If ever in doubt, "Are you a Good Witch or a Bad Witch?" take a seat at 70 our beloved CHAPPELL HILL CAFE and you will soon know. It will be apparent by the temperature of your coffee and how high the waitresses have arched their backs.

Now, I'm informed that 70 our beloved CHAPPELL HILL CAFE ,is, in fact, HAUNTED! A ghost's movements are captured in a framed picture that is hung on a wall of the Cafe wandering the restaurant. A friendly ghost, called "Floyd", fondly so it would seem, making sure Mikey was tending the books properly and keepin' customers satisfied. Meanwhile Floyd's keepin' the waitresses somewhat nervous. Our DEAR FRIEND EMILY (AKA Sissy) has made peace with this phantom and they have come to an understanding as to the mutual beneficial interest in the continuing success of the Cafe and marking Big Mike's behavior.

When all this came to light last Sunday after church, our collective souls proportionally saved, all things considered, the scutter began.

"Pass the salt, and we need more butter" could be heard around the nearby tables as the tales were told. Turns out, there are more than a few haunted places in OUR LOVELY VILLAGE. Eyes began to dart downwards and people were speaking in whisper. Some claim to have video surveillance tape of a ghost haunting a well known bank, and a house of fine repute, graced with TLC and refinement but sports a ghost.

I can't blame the dead. I love it here in our Lovely Village Respecting Chickens. We have more churches per capita than most towns and no shortage of cemeteries. Fertile grounds for those who prefer sheets to a pair of Wranglers. If I were a ghost, rather than a ghost writer, I'd stick around and would dang sure be rattling chains in somebody's attic. I even wrote, as a ghost writer, for a time for two retired OSHA attorneys with several publications including Chain Link Fence Monthly. It took every bit of my creativity to make that subject interesting. You could say I was the "GHOSTESS WITH THE MOSTESS".

There's a difference between being haunted and hosting a ghost. One just follows you around and the other makes you crazy for your Dirty Deeds. Either way, its a ghost and you have to come to terms with your own special spector. Its not enough to throw a white sheet over it and call it Casper.

Stop in at the CHAPPELL HILL CAFE next time your around; say hello to Sissy, Sandra and Kathy and tip your hat to "Floyd". As long as he's around, nobody will be spittin' in your tea, least not out loud! And he's keepin' Mike in line, maybe even a straight one on occasion. Emily has a friend in poor old Floyd and in spite of claims of the "super"-"natural", she is loved by all.




Saturday, October 24, 2009

SOY SAUCE!!! Mao Tse Tung-in-Cheek


A few days ago I contacted MY DEAR HUSBAND just before he embarked on his journey home from the wilds of the work force and nearly frightened him with those dreaded words, "Hey! I've got an idea!"

I had this intense craving for Chinese food, real Chinese food, of which Our Lovely Village is glaringly without. Pot stickers!, Fried Rice!, Kung Pao Chicken! Spicy Orange Beef! Egg Rolls! Hot and Sour Soup! Won Tons! YUM! So, panting and salivating like a pregnant woman in dire need of pickles and pistachio ice cream, I prevailed upon him to bring home some Chinese take-out. I anxiously honed and whittled our chopsticks in anticipation of the taste and aroma. Checking to make sure we had plenty of Soy Sauce, it occured to me; Yeah, Perfect! The old Robbies could be a Chinese food restaurant! Surely, "Sum Yung Guy" could make a go of it and Hey! They could even "Wok Around the Block" for delivery to us Villagers who've been deprived of the Asian fare. It seems almost fool proof!

As we casually dined on our Chinese take-out, our momentary bliss was blown by the stunning appearance on television of Anita Dunn, the 'acting' Chief White House Communications Advisor giving an address at some sort of commencement. Now I will tell you that its just darn near impossible to get between me and my pot stickers. In fact, I love them so much MY DEAR HUSBAND and I once lured the children to our favorite Chinese haunt and we challenged them to see who could eat the most of them. Great fun! The jury is still out on who actually won, depending on who you ask.

But on this night, as we watched Anita Dunn drooling over her favorite philosophers, Mao and Mother Theresa, I must confess, I dropped my dumpling. ( much to the delight of my beloved Dawg).

First off, that is, at the very least, a really weird combination. I doubt there's a Chinese restaurant, or any other for that matter, hawking such a combo platter. Lemme see; okay, first we torture them, kill off the ones we can and then minister to them and tell them God loves them and they are precious creatures. Ms. Dunn is, shall we say, confused, at best. But because her idiocy cost me a dumpling, I am thinking more along the lines of a psychological disorder. Not only what she said was strange but her delivery was suspicious. Talk about "Take-Out"!

Now we learn that Our Fearless Leader and Champion of Change will soon be heading to Asia. There is a fierce debate over what type of souvenir there will be for this trip. Talk swirling about Mao-Bama T-shirts and posters of Obama in a communist uniform. I suppose the possibilities are endless and a few folks will most likely make a few bucks on the whole thing. But if you come across a T-shirt that suits you just right, check the tag and see if it says Made in China, it might sway your decision.

As far as the idea for a Chinese Food Restaurant at the old Robbies site, I still think it could work. They'll have to get creative with the menu..."The Mao-Bama Special", "The Mao/Mother Deluxe", "Socialism Soup with a Side of Tender Theresa". And at the end of your meal, they could provide the complimentary "Mis-Fortune" cookies.

I can't wait! But then I grew up in town where some of the best BBQ was found at a joint called Gingus Khan BBQ. No kidding. I think its still there.



Thursday, October 8, 2009


Recently, my DEAR HUSBAND and I had our humble abode repainted. A nice, fresh coat of white paint, It really spruced the place up...a relatively inexpensive improvement with a simple case of white washing.

Speaking of improvements, hats off to the new owners of the former Wichita House on Main Street. A really nice job! The rest of us VILLAGERS are hoping for an Open House soon, crested jacket required of course to visit House of Im! (Just kidding!) Besides, I checked with JC Penny, Palaise Royal and even Wal-Mart in our friendly, nearby town of Brenham and there apparently has been a run on those jackets.They were all out.

I suspect there are quite a few health care providers, pharmacists, doctors, PA's, LVN's and so on who must be finding themselves a little short on Lab Coats, given the boundless yet insulting latest effort by Our Fearless Champion of CHANGE providing Dr.'s Lab Coats to any and all attending the press conference on the Sacred Lawn in our Nation's Capital in support of Obama-Care.

This man has no shame and an unprecendented kind of arrogance thinking we could be fooled by this stunt. First off, he was flanked by two Docs in lab coats who are known to be among his largest campaign contributors. Over the top obvious in my view. Might he have considered spreading his "message" by giving out free flu shots instead? I mean, we're All For One and One For All!, right? It reminds me of when your friends or family go to some dream vacation spot and were thoughtful enough to bring you a souvenir T-shirt. Imagine its slogan: "ShakIraqADillyac went to the Press Conference for Obama-Care and all I got was a lousy lab coat".

See, now I'm feeling confused. Is it the Green House or the White House? Or are we supposed to wear a (lab)coat of many colors and try to blend in. Maybe its my bent mind, but I'm watching the coverage of this press conference and I see Mr. Obama, head held high in what seemed too close to a sea of white lab coats; KKK's minus the hoods and burning stakes. "Come on in folks! Get your free lab coat, right here! Lab coats for Lab Rats!" Of course, based on recent revelations regarding the Czarahhrea in the not-so-white house, reviewing the white jackets abounding near the rose garden, there doesn't appear to be a "straight jacket" in the bunch.

My father practiced real medicine for 55 years; often it cost him more to treat his patients than he could earn due to the Guvmint medalling in health-care. He never minded, he often accepted a crate of home grown grapefruit or tomatoes or something else that came off the patient's farm. Instead of Pro-duce, today, he might be offered an iPod loaded with "Rap Sheeets" or something. I can feel him spinning in his grave.

Some of you might remember the old TV commercial for cold medicine or aspirin or something featuring a nice looking actor, popular at the time, and he opens the ad by saying, "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV". Might've been Marcus Welby or something, but I'll go no further as to avoid dating myself other than to speak longingly towards stethoscopes, of all colors.

White paint should be reserved for picket fences and old houses, not for walk-ins on the D.C. set. I have to believe this will all come out in "the wash" in time. Then we can concentrate on stain removal.



Saturday, October 3, 2009


As a child, I can remember being afraid of certain things, mostly imaginary and did not actually reside beneath the bed or lurk within the closet.

As I aged, ungracefully I might add, I found a new fear. CROWS-FEET! Those little lines around the eyes that tell the tale of not only your years but your experience. Some call them wisdom lines, others call them laugh lines...well-earned.

Thankfully, we, in our MOST LOVELY VILLAGE Respecting Chickens, have an annual opportunity to celebrate and enjoy THE SCARECROW FESTIVAL!

How happy to see the Scarecrows stuffed and propped along Main Street in anticipation and welcome for visitors; Vendors hawking their wares and goods, folks milling about, enjoying the advent of Autumn.

However, amongst our celebration and joy of our ScareCrow Festival...Might we remember that the ScareCrow is intended to 'SHOOOO' the black crows that seek to pillage the seeds gracious farmers have sown for another year's harvest. Thus, the necessity of the SCARECROW. The Scarecrow's job was to ward off the invasion of crops by black birds. Adorned in old and colorful clothing, stuffed with hay, propped and poised to stand vigilant against these errant fowls. Our dear departed friend, Alfred Hitchcock, can remind us all of "birds pissed off".

One must wonder, how our latest "Regulatory" Czar with a faux fur Disneyesque animal rights agenda will reconcile this issue while advocating all animals must have the right to an attorney and representation in cases of alleged abuse and horrifically, the opportunity to defend and defy euthanasia. Without opposable thumbs, how will these blessed creatures be able to invoke their right to one phone call? For that matter, lacking the funds to travel to court they even lack the requisite limb to hitchhike their way to the halls of justice. Only to be tarred and feathered.

And if required to testify, will these poor creatures be tied to an interpretor that might just collapse claiming ,"I can't take it (fake it) anymore!" What will we do if we need to provide 'End of Life' Counseling in Barkology or Meowism? Further, will the sufferers of a "simian cleft" be denied treatment for reasons of genus or species?

Finally, there remains the question whether a Village Respecting Chickens can coexist with scardy crows or will there only be room for one rooster in the new regulatory regime? Just exactly who is the cock of the walk?

Make no mistake, I love the SCARECROW FESTIVAL!!! And
I intend to be there with bells on! Come along and enjoy! These wonderful Fall days are fleeting and we need to notice its visitation. See Ya There!



Sunday, September 20, 2009


Not much in this life is more wonderful than a good night's sleep. It slips between our fingers as we age and we sleeplessly worry over a myriad of circumstances and concerns that occupy our lives and our minds. We toss and turn and finally surrender to the break of day and trudge forth again through our somewhat regular routine looking forward to the soft pillow to rest our heads upon when the day is done, and then, again move forward with an odd Blue Plate Special Combo of Optimism with a Side of Grim Palor.

This past Saturday night, I slept so very well, it was almost a crime. Slumber, peaceful sleep and an overall feeling of well-being when I awakened. What, I wondered, was the key to this peaceful sleep!, Can I bottle it, market it and make a fortune? My brow was less furrowed and my teeth less gritted. What was the source of this feeling?, this feeling of that long-gone stranger "HOPE"!

The source was, in a way, the Fountain of Youth. I had the privilege of spending some time with the Boy Scout Troop # 652, bravely camping out in our Lovely Village at the Most Admired Estate of our Neighbor and friend, in an effort to earn their bicycling badge by cycling 25 miles in one day. Also scheduled was an Archery Event, but the inclimate weather shut that part down.

Given the interruption in the programmed events, I figured it would be interesting to visit with these Future Bearers of the Torch Of Freedom about the state of our Nation. Certainly, we can make no mistake how the Boomers and Seniors feel about all this, but the Town Halls and the Tea Parties don't often put their ear to the ground on what the young folks have to say. With all the talk about 'Its about the Children' and 'The Children are our Future', and 'It takes a Village...' Has anybody bothered to ask these fine young kids what they think?! I dusted off the crystal ball and gazed into the minds of the Future Leaders To- Be- In Training. After all, the Boy Scouts is a renowned organization promoting leardership,honesty and responsibility and it would appear that those qualities will be vital to our country.

At first, I paused, and figured I would get a bunch of "I dunno" and "WHATEVER"...BOY was I wrong!

These boys, aged 12-15 years old,( actually on average 13.5 years old, as I was corrected) were not only delightful,well-mannered, informed and well-educated; but more than anxious to be heard about the condition of our country and where its going.

When I began to ask the group some non-leading questions, their individual and collective personalties emerged. None were overly influenced by the others and all seemed to have their feet squarely planted on the ground.

I queried, "What do you like best about coming out to Our Lovely Village? It was a close tie between the scenery, the hills, the variety of road-kill and, oh yeah, the Bluebonnets!

When the topic of discussion focused on more serious issues, I was frankly amazed. These kids KNOW what they're up against. When I asked, "How do you feel about how our goverment system works?" One future torch bearer and his friend gave a friendly punch in the arm to each other and said "Hey, look at us!, We're from different schools. We're rivals! I'm wearing my school shirt and he's wearing his, but we're friends! Why can't the Government work that way?" My heart swelled with the notion that these two can compete and yet find a commonality without rancor.

Daring into deeper issues, the question was how did they forsee themselves repaying the debt accrued by the government, left and waiting for the time when they are young adults and are saddled with the whole mess. How did they feel about the government mortgaging their future with about as much care as a bunch of louts leaving the cracked peanut shells on the bar room floor while feeding themselves on the free pick-up peanuts and washing it down with a cold one. Somebody else will clean it up, right? Some of the scouts were staggered by the numbers but each had a response. Some were very witty and some were rather serious...a range of ideas from "killing all the politicians", "overthrowing the Government", "Texas seceeding" and one comment from no doubt a budding young lawyer who's answer to repaying the debt was,"Simple. Sue the Government". And then there was the scout who clearly had given these topics alot of thought. His facts were correct and he had answers that were cogent and well-delivered. Not surprisingly, this scout is a leader among the troop. Tall, easy on the eye, and an air of professionalism. For a moment I wondered if we had a soon-to-be politician on our hands. So well spoken, and he gave a very straight-foward minor discertation on the evils of Socialism. His position was to stop all government spending and had an expanded view on why Socialism, or in his words, Communism won't work. He said,"A free market can solve problems the government can't". I couldn't resist asking him what he wanted to be when he got through with school. Certain I would hear him placing dubs on some public office, he surpised me. He aims to become a Vegetarian Veternarian. In a confusing way, I felt a little relieved although sharp, bright minds infused into the political arena may be necessary, particulary if the politicians are all killed. I wondered silently how he would cope with the inevitable euthenasia of an animal too badly injured or terminally ill to survive. I surmised he would not indulge in a Death Panel.

We moved on to the topic of End of Life Counseling, and the response was unaminous: "Oh my God, that is SOOO stupid". One young scout of local note declared it wasn't fair for everbody else to pay for "Some bum sitting around watching TV". (I double checked the zipper on my purse to make sure my copy of TV Guide was out of sight!).

We talked about the Cash for Clunkers program, most thought it was a failure, scoffed and laughed at the Cash for Appliances idea and one even suggested a Bucks for Blenders program.

On the issue of the 2nd Amendment, the group became more animated. They were talking mostly all at once on this point but I did catch something about the difference between a bear with a baseball bat and a baby with a spoon. Your guess is as good as mine on that one. And a comparison was made between the innocents having the right to protect and/or defend themselves but that there will always be "malfactors" and banning something only makes it more desirable and will create a dangerous underground market. One pointed out and challenged the others to remember Prohibition and what a huge rebellion it created. I asked if any had read or heard about Speakeasys. One of the younger ones said, "Speakeasy...Yeah that's when your Mom's not yellin' at you". A literal translation, I suppose, but maybe the simple truth in his world.

Anyway, the dicussion trailed off at this point but these young minds were invigorated and they began to bounce their ideas off each other. That made me happy. Its the only place to start with this generation and I hope they will continue to think and exchange ideas and formulate potential solutions for the future that awaits them.

It had been raining most the day and the day before but these guys didn't seem to mind, ankle deep in mud and short of an archery event and no bon-fire. I asked one the adults how they all made it through the rain storms. I was told the young scouts jumped on it and set up camp despite the weather.That's the spirit! As I was leaving, they got back on their bikes for another ride down Old Chappell Hill Road. The 700 or so big-time cyclists attending the annual annual Chappell Hill Bike Ride sponsored by Chappell Hill Bank were gone with their fancy bicycle stuff and their sea of spandex and brightly colored helmets that sort of make them look like a carton of Easter eggs. These young scouts didn't mind, even the one in second-hand tennis shoes with the 25 cent price tag still stuck to the toe. They carried on beaming smiles and echoing laughter and jokes and a little bit of "What's for supper?". Knowing the Host of this event, I'm sure it had something to do with Fajitas, and alot of it, painstakingly grilled, in the rain, in his lean-to smokehouse. A round of applause for the tireless Host and his fellow Troop Leaders/Volunteers!

I really did sleep well that night. With a deep sigh of relaxation I thought, ya know?...there is hope for our civilzation, society, especially with such bright, intellegent and strong young boys like the ones I met from Troop 652, poised to inherit the future. Us older ones should have confidence and reassurance in the eventual passing of the Torch of Freedom and Protection of our Constitutional Rights to individuals such as these. Far as I could see, these are capable hands, thinking, paying attention and straight as an arrow. When they do get that archery badge, we can proudly call them Arrowheads!

Oh, and if I ever have to pitch a tent in the rain, I want these guys on my side, or at least on my speed dial. I'm sorry their archery match was rained out, but make no mistake about these guys; their AIM is true! And in my book, that's a Bull's Eye!


Friday, September 4, 2009


Once upon a time, 'green' was a simple idea. When most of us were comin' up, there was only one green in the Crayola box. We were spared from the confusion, frustration and anxiety of having to discern the difference between Blue Green, Hunter Green, Fir Green, Olive Green, Lime Green, Grass Green, Green Shoots and so on.

Back then, the only words of warning and wisdom about 'green' were delivered in terms like Green with Envy, The Green Eyed Monster, "Don't get on that horse, he's only Green Broke ( which is a couple of bucks short of being broke) and that slimy stuff on whatever it was in the refrigerator that was too old to eat.

Then things changed. Plopped down in front of the color TV, us kids found a deep and abiding affection for Kermit the Frog, a charming, yet woe-begone little green frog with a heart frought with unrequited love for Miss Piggy (a diva-bankster, truly a Material Pig), through Sesame Street and sang along to the sit-com music of Green Acres. And who can forget that first or second guitar lesson where we learned the first few chords of GreenSleeves, which endures even today.

And while some of us felt empathy for poor little Kermit when he crooned "It's Not Easy Being Green" little did we know, or could even imagine, just how true his lament was to become in the case of the current Green Czarist Incarnation.

Today we find ourselves not only still befuddled by the different shades of green, but our Fearless Leader and Champion of Change has provided our country with, what does He call it, The Czar of Green Jobs? If we were to actually have a viable job market not attached to some dwindling life support system, we could call it a Green Jobs Bizarre! Used to be, green jobs meant mowing the lawn or pruning the trees, planting a vegetable garden...honest, wholesome work that would earn you a green back.

Now, not to put too fine a point on it, first off, I'm kinda uncomfortable with this whole Czar thing...(or in this case, this A**hole Czar thing). Do we really need Czars green or otherwise? More importantly, do we need or want such a Czar clearly crippled with the lack of articulation and a pronounced dependence on profanity and vulgarity when referring to others? How does such a person ascend to such a position within the Administration of Complete Salvation and Redemption, Oh, and "CHANGE". Perhaps he has climbed the political ladder or alternatively the proverbial (GREEN) Bean Stalk that Jack did. (No offense intended to JFK).

In our Nation's capital, will we soon be calling the house on Pennsylvania Ave. the GREEN HOUSE? Could this be part of the Green House Effect or is it the source of it?

Kermit was right. It's Not Easy Being Green! And now, our young school children are not struggling over which green Crayon to pull from the box but are further charged with sign painting flattering images of The Fearless Leader, composing letters to themselves on "How Can I Help The President" and memorizing the words to insipid sing-along songs exhaulting the President.

An old cowboy once said "I don't buy green bananas". Good advice it would seem in retrospect. Thankfully, in our Lovely Village, we tend to understand that being green is alot more about protecting our children, preserving our Constitutional rights, standing up for what's right and barking at that which is wrong. Perhaps the Crayola folks can come up with a new color for the box; True Blue-Green.

Listen carefully to what's goin' on. All that glitters is not GREEN!


P.S. Whatever happened to Mr. GREENspam?

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


A Cake Walk.

So much in this life happens that we wish with all our heart we could take back, change or live-down. Far too much time spent in regret, in my view, but nevertheless, its part and parcel to our "experience".

For instance, on one occasion of the birthday of my Most Cherished Mother, (the actual year of her birth we are not privy to), my sisters and I, with the treasured help of our Nanny, secretly baked her a cake. It was such an event, my sisters fluttering about and our Dear Lannie making sure the frosting was just right. The cake was completed, candles and all, and stowed away in a cabinet in the kitchen awaiting the big moment. All was going well, everyone was prepared and the four of us girls waited with grand anticipation for Mother to return home from the Beauty Shop.

We had it all timed out. Well, really and truly Lannie and my sisters had it all timed out, and when Daddy arrived, his job was to contain the "wild card". Meaning 4 year old me. He came in the front door, glee and excitement all over my sisters' faces, and he immediately scooped me up in his arms in an effort to squelch the enthusiasm. My Mother arrived home, fresh from the Beauty Shop, coifed and curled and sprayed and the moment arrived. Perched on the steps to the breakfast room and kitchen, my sisters prepared for the presentation of the cake. Daddy had a momentary lapse and failed to halt the spontanious outburst of his youngest girl: "I SMELL CAKE!! I SMELL BIRTHDAY CAKE!!!" That was it. Can never be taken back and a surprise Birthday party ruined single-handedly by a four year old.

I'll never live that one down and I am frequently reminded of it...So here's what I suggest:
NO MORE BIRTHDAYS! In fact, as Mayor, I propose a moratorium on birthdays, surprise or otherwise.


As of this date, all birthdays beyond the actaul age of 45 shall be

eliminated,unrecognized and regarded as unlawful and without merit of any sort. All good

citizens shall remain 45 years old in perpetua given the age of 45 is just sufficiently beyond

the carelessness and wrecklessness of youth and sufficiently steeped in some wisdom minus

the synicism of a more advanced age.

It is further Decreed and Declared that all Driver's licenses and passports shall be renewed

retroactively and shall report year of birth as 1964. This will eliminate the reviled, of late, so

to speak, proposal of subjecting aging and/or ailing citizens to "End of

Life Options and Counseling".

Alternatively, "Endless Life Options and Counseling" shall be made available through

qualified professionals with services including, but not limited to, "The Proper Use of

Sunscreen"; "Maintaining That Youthful Glow"; "Gray! Gray! Go Away"
(a home study

tutorial) and a special series, "The Eternal Flame: How To Keep The Love-Lamp On".(also

available on DVD with musical soundtrack featuring Barry White and Marvin Gaye).

Further Ordered and Decreed, any individual requiring attention to special needs, whether

physical, visual or mental, that are not "age appropriate" will be dealt with with the utmost

consideration and complete discretion.

With regard to Birthday Cake, no restrictions, except the number of birthday candles which

shall not exceed 45.

It is further Ordered that the actual counting of the number of candles be prohibited.

Birthday candles can continue to be "blown out".

Requests for birthdates prior to 1964 shall be considered and contemplated on a case by case

basis. For obvious reasons, this shall be treated as a request for assisted suicide, "first come, first serve", as this can be construed as a time sensitive issue.


(Ladies!, Think of the money we'll save on anti-aging eye cream and face lifts!! 75 will be the new 45! Hey, the Guvmint lies all the time, we can surely take a dusty leaf from that book and lie about our age and I, for one, will want to see proof of just how old this "counselor" is while advising me of the most cost-effective way to die! I suspect he or she will be somewhere in the neighborhood of 45-ish.

Go on and celebrate your birthdays, but don't COUNT those candles before you blow them out! Be judicious and modest or else they could wind up as simply Candles in the Wind. In this case, less is truly more.


Friday, August 14, 2009


When I was just a kid, my Dad used to tug me out of bed at the un-christian, yet crisp hour of 3:00 a.m. to go fishin'. He always made me eat a peach in an effort to stave off sea-sickness. It never worked and without going into detail, it is the reason I cannot stand peaches. Even today, lo these many years later, the sheer sight of a peach or the scent of a peach flavored candle can send me to the rail. But by the time we got out of the bay and into the Gulf of Mexico, all was right again with the world. Great therapy; lapis blue water, endless sky, a nice fishin' pole and rod n' reel, a can of worms and some chum and hours to spend with my Dad perfecting my cast. I got pretty good at it, the casting and catching part, but deferred to my father to do the scaling and all that other surgical stuff. "I'll catch 'em if you clean 'em" we used to banter back and forth and it always made us chuckle. Sometimes, if luck was on our side, we'd catch enough to snack on Ceviche with some Saltine crackers. We'd get back to the bay house and my mother would complain about how sunburned I was and fussed my Dad to hurry and shower to get that fishy smell off of him. Best fish dinners I can ever recall.

But, nowadays, goin' fishin' has taken on a more decidedly sinister meaning. We are now apparently supposed to report any communication, by e-mail or an off-hand comment made at the grocery store or by any other means anything that might be "fishy" with regard to the policies of our Guvmint ; turn that hapless person into some Guvmint agency, providing them with email addresses, content and identity. WHERE ARE WE? That this notion could even be bandied about is pretty frightening. WHAT IS THIS? Some Maritime version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"?

I smell peaches, where's the rail?!

I am reminded of the one time my fishin' trip with my Dad turned ugly (not counting the peach ritual). We were way out in the Gulf, and since my Dad had caught a beautiful Blue Marlin and had it mounted, I wanted one, too. At last, I hooked a big one! I pursed my lips and gritted my teeth and fought that fish for what seemed like hours. My arms were tired and heavy but the dream of a Blue Marlin was motivation enough. Well, that and the fact my father wouldn't let me quit. That rascal fish darted under the boat more than once and my fear was my fishin' pole would snap. Exhausted, but exhilerated, I got the fish to the surface and Daddy lept to the side of the boat with the net. I had gotten lucky because the fish had swallowed the hook and had no escape but to break the line or the pole. Daddy reached down and netted the fish. Mopping sweat, I was sure my eyes were foolin' me. That fish was no Blue Marlin. In fact it was the ugliest creature I had ever seen; a Hammerhead Shark. Daddy cut the line and said " Maybe next time". I curled up and cried all the way back to the bay.

Anyway, I guess I tell you this because I am concerned with all this reporting of anything "fishy". Sometimes what you believe is a Blue Marlin is actually a Hammerhead Shark. Don't take the hook, I say, and by all means don't swallow it.

But if you find yourself 'wishy to report something fishy' , remember the old sayin', "A fish stinks from the head down". Start there.



Saturday, August 8, 2009



I'm sure you all have been watching and/or reading about the TOWN HALL phenomena moving across our Nation over this Healthcare business and our Congress responding to our right to free speech with schoolyard name calling the fine folks an Angry Mob. I, too, have been covered with it like Grandma's Smothered Steak and at one point, I really thought I had had enough. But even with all the redundant reporting, it began to stir up something else and it got me to thinkin'.

Why can't WE have a TOWN HALL? Do we have to be incorporated to have a TOWN HALL? We have Banquet Halls, Fellowship Halls and have oftentimes used the Catholic church, Museum and Rock Store for occasions of import for our citizens. We can't have a City Hall, but couldn't we have a TOWN HALL, as long as we don't stutter and accidently call it a City Hall? A place for gatherings, a source of pride and, well, dignity, a symbol of substance. We could use it for all kinds of things and events, meetings, classes, presentations and so on. And, if our Great Villagers should decide decades from now that they do want to incorporate, it could be converted into a City Hall! UH-OH. ( Simmer down, I'm not tryin' to open old wounds, I'm entirely nuetral on that issue). We could hold fundraisers to help get it off the ground; and we all know how successful our Wonderful Community is at fundraising. ( just ask the CHVFD and my Dear Husband).

And really, truth be told, haven't we all deep down, secretly wanted to be part of an real Angry Mob? Ya know, a real Rebel Rouser, a Freedom Fighter...somewhere inside all of us want to be "The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance"; righting wrong despite the name-calling. I know some of you remember the 60's and 70's, well, maybe you can't remember everything, but I'm bettin' you were out there protesting something, civil rights, war, women's rights and so on. Lookin' back on it, it was kinda fun, being part of a movement. We wore P.O.W. bracelets, developed the peace symbol, slogans and songs forever memorializing the culture. And some women even burned their bras! (In my view, that's a real bail-out! One alot of us could get behind, or wait, in front of, no, wait....oh nevermind!).

Oh well. I guess we'll have to make do with the media coverage. Unless.....How about a Virtual Town Hall? With a Virtual Angry Mob, sleeves rolled up and fists all balled up in a collective effort, non-violent, of course, to alter this slow slide down a razor blade into a pool of rubbin' alcohol; refusing to ride shot-gun down the avalanche. A civil but unignorable act of defiance. We could get us a Virtual politician to come our Virtual Town Hall meeting and we could ask Virtual and poignant questions and maybe get some Virtual answers. All in one most appropriate Virtual structure in a most appropriate Virtual location.

At the end of the day, I am still completely content to live in our Lovely Village Respecting Chickens, with or without a TOWN HALL. We're good folks and life is too short to shout. Besides, think of all that Virtual BBQ we'd have to impose on our friend and neighbor, the Royal King of BBQ and his wonderful Queen to prepare for such a Virtual event. And I'm guessin' Virtual beer isn't too tasty.


Saturday, August 1, 2009


The intersection of Hwy 290 and FM 1155 has become so mercurial, quick and changeable, it is difficult to understand what is going on.

First the advent of the Mighty Shell station buzzing with commuters and Kolkhorst fuel trucks filling the pumps as fast as they can, the wonderful blended aroma of diesel and hamburgers hanging stagnant in the hot summer air and a bank.
Speaking of empty tanks, Robbie left town but left his butt-ugly building behind much to the delight of the daytime drunks, hobos and others applying their somewhat dubious skills in sales. Not only is this fossilized former fuel stop and C-store an outright eyesore but a hazard to our Lovely Community.

Now, I genuinely understand the owners of that corner wanting to hold onto the lot, but what, pray tell, intrinsic value is there in that run-down building? Guys! Robbie is gone! He's not coming back! Even Robbie didn't want that hunk-a-junk building and it had his NAME on it! At the very least, I would've taken my name off of such a disgrace before leaving town. Or maybe it was Robbie's way of thumbing his nose at the Shell 24-7. A most noted resident, who possesses an acute observational acumen, reports that as of this very morning the name Robbie's has been painted over. A beginning I suppose, but better to have let the name fall into debris and rubble during demolition of the whole rat-hole. Have they even vacuumed out the old fuel? I guess its another case of GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. Or perhaps in this instance its gone AND forgotten.

I remember the slow and painful death the Mexican food restaurant suffered there where the Shell etc... now resides. Plans were made, deals agreed upon, handshakes, all fell through and it took years to resuscitate that corner. We just didn't know it would come back to life with such a Belch! For some reason, the street urchins, at least not to my knowledge, never adopted the abandoned Mexican restaurant. There must be some kind of magic at the empty Robbie's because the stoop is filled with "the regulars".

I just don't get it! There are plenty of possibilities for that corner, saving another gas station or bank or burger joint or cafe or meat market. Okay, so there aren't plenty of possibilities but surely another "visionary" will emerge and do something! (Save your rotten tomatoes folks, we might need 'em if another visionary shows up with a bad idea!)

Maybe there have been some ideas tossed about; perhaps the terms were too tight or could be the reticence on the part of investors given the disappearing dollar and its mystical way of cloning itself into more worthless paper. I dunno, but I, for one, am sick of looking at it and watching it decay along with its unfortunate evolution into the decadent haven it provides for the unsavory characters that "hang" there. It is downright irresponsible to do nothing.

Also still empty, is the once highly anticipated business going in the new building just down from the Chappell Hill Cafe and Meat Market. Our Beautiful Village was all a twitter with the rumor of a new BBQ spot, complete with sausage and jerky and baked goods, maybe even some dry goods. A lot of us Villagers already had imaginary BBQ sauce on our shirts and could visualize ourselves workin' on the fourth napkin. But alas, we still are waiting, clinging to our smoked, grilled dreams. We think we know one thing about this endeavor and its possibilities. Judging from the color of the structure, it must be the dream of a Longhorn fan with grace and welcome extended to Aggies and all other Alma Maters and current co-eds from any and all institutions of higher learning. I hope it succeeds and I know some, including my Dear Husband, imagines he could purchase the steak of his choice at the Chappell Hill Meat Market, then walk it next door and have it grilled at the BBQ place. What a deal that would be!

But keep your eyes peeled, maybe something good will happen there at the old Robbie's, maybe not. Just don't peel your rotten tomatoes! It’s always good to have a back-up plan.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Big Cloud No Rain

There's an old sayin' "Long summer without rain". It means different things depending on the context. For those of us living in our Beautiful Village, it is quite literal. Trees are dying, even the commercially irrigated ones, and the land is so dry its practically barren in some places. Average temperatures have been well into the 100's for more than two months now. And the heat index even higher, 105-110°.

Seems like alot is drying up, in the landscape of our Lovely Community as well as the seemingly Evergreen Landscape of our Nation's Lawn. Things once alive and well, made worse by the Drought, now being pulled up by their their withering roots, like unemployed auto workers. All the hope and promise will die on the vine, and the next elixir or snake oil won't make anything grow, no matter how much "watering" gets done.

Gardeners will become rich and most of us won't be able to afford Re-Landscaping. We'll probably have to try to do it ourselves and run the risk of getting sick from the heat. With some luck, we'll have a friendly neighbor nearby with some ice water to soothe our scorched throats and burnt skin. Its good to know who your neighbors are, and for that matter who they aren't, you just never know how far this can go, this Drought, and we all know that the longer the Land is stressed, the more likely an opportunity for a GRASSFIRE. In some places, crops are frequently burned intentionally to kill off the weeds, bol weevils, grasshoppers and insects to eliminate pests and promote proper growth.

Perhaps next go-round, we should put a Weatherman on the ballot...not necessarily a Meterologist, that's just too elite. No, just a good old fashioned Weatherman, totin' a Farmer's Almanac. Seems predicting the weather is a somewhat more "exact" science than predicting the Atmospheric Conditions in our Guvmint and the wind-shears and the pop-up twisters that exist there.

Contrary to the empty promises of "Blue Skies" as far as the eye can see we hear so much of, the Weatherman will say with considerably more dignity, honesty and reliabily, "20% chaince of rain with partly (not to be confused with party) sunny skies, Tuesday, 30% with thunderstorms likely in the evening".

Ya know, now that gives ya some time to get your livestock and equipment moved and such. I think I'd rather listen to the Weatherman than some bloated dignitary tellin' me how its gonna be. Shoot, Bang! All you really have to do is look out your window or walk outside to get the view of it; use your noodle, assuming its not overcooked. Its "right there",as I tell my Bird Dawg. He uses his nose and finds it everytime.

Seems the forecast in our Nation's capital of late is almost never good and I don't know anybody who appreciates havin' to scramble with little, very little, notice that the weather is going to CHANGE, dramatically.

I am reminded of the Wizard Of Oz; those poor folks hunkered down in the storm cellar with their potatos and such while Dorothy braves the impending storm for her beloved pet. Then it comes, the Big Twister and some weird, wild-eyed woman pumpin' those bicycle peddles with "dawgged" determination, "And your little Dawg, too!" All in pursuit of those RED shoes! (who wears those kinda shoes anyway? they cramp your feet and will leave you crippled. Best to go with a nice, attractive FLAT).

'Course, that whole saga began when a House fell and a glass of water melted the threat. But I digress.

Anyway, GRASSFIRE can be a force to be reckoned with because it can result in a HOUSE-a-fire! And I guess its better than being stuck in a storm cellar eating potatos, hoping the storm will pass.

We could sure use some rain, the real kind.

Support Your Local Fire Department.


Saturday, July 11, 2009


Fellow Villagers:

Of late, it has come to my attention that along the asphalt pathway to our lovely community, (otherwise known as Highway 290), we have many more Watermelon Vendors than ever before. Of course "ever" assumes a lot since during the last depression, AKA The Great "Water Melon Depression" (WMD not to be confused with the WPA) the price of Watermelon was undoubtedly controlled by the FDR Administration. Just like today, the "Big Melons" are protected by the GuvMint while the small ones are spit out like seeds on the side of the road. But back to the current depression, the 'back of the pick-up' Vendors keep a polite distance from each other, respecting the other's space, (much like the starling birds packed "wing to wing" on a wire just before their migration south on a fall evening gathered around busy intersections all over the west side of the Big How-Town,) thus providing their adoring customers ample opportunity to slide to the side, inspect, thump and purchase the melon of their choice.

Serious competition. Some Watermelon Vendors have become quite creative in their marketing of this juicy, summertime melon; out-manuvering the competition by moving to the other side of the asphalt pathway in the afternoon to catch the evening commuters. Clever. Madison Avenue would be proud.
Especially of the Vendors hawking additional products such as tomatoes and the ever-present berries. Nothing wrong with thinking outside the box...or in this case, outside the bed of the truck.

But I must say, there they sit in this heat, with their beach chairs and umbrellas and Watermelons. This kind of heat melts memory and vigor much like butter on a BBQ pit and as such, Chappell Hill looks more like the Golan Heights in the deserts of Israel than the verdant hamlet so often covered by Texas Highway magazine and other media. But who can blame a guy for doing whatever to make a buck these days...well, not really whatever, but Watermelon, far as I know, is still pretty wholesome, and hey, what would July be without Watermelon!

In our wonderful Nation, Watermelon transends all cultural boundaries. From the White House to the itty-bitty grocery stores, banks and merchants, almost eveybody sports a Watermelon and there is seldom a complaint.

Having said that, I do have to wonder how those fellas on the asphalt pathway feel about it...what is this "bumper-to-bumper" crop of Watermelon doing to the price they're getting? Is Our Fearless Leader and Congress going to have to bail them out as well? Might be another pet project or The Socialization of Watermelon Small Business vendors.

At any rate, be careful in "them waters"(melons) are slipping to the side impulsively to grab their Watermelon and without alot of warning.

I am reminded, as a child, the local swimmin' pool would have a "Fun Day" for us kids. One of the games we played, to the hilarious delight of the adults who saw it coming, the "Lifeguard" would get a large Watermelon and grease it with Crisco, throw it into the pool and blow the whistle signaling the children to "go for it". Whoever captured the Watermelon won a ribbon and a Fudge Ice Cream Bar.

Now, trying to grab a greased Watermelon in the deep end of a swimmin' pool is just about impossible. Most of the time, the Lifeguard would have to come fish us exhausted kids out of the pool and then go get The Big Net for the Watermelon.

So, if you are so inclined to pull over for a melon on our the asphalt pathway, just remember one of the chants from my cheerleading days, when I was young and limber;


'Course, we were always ahead in the game when we used that cheer. But be careful of those cars suddenly don't want to get hit (on)! Although I'm sure our Fearless Leader already knows who's behind is whose. Those G8 summits are so productive.


Monday, July 6, 2009


As our Wonderful Village Respecting Chickens prepared for the festivities and parade down our metamorphasizing Main Street, I had a most unique vantage point, given my Most Powerful Political Position as D'Mayor.

First off, it was really hot (like ya'll need to be told that), and yet the organizers, vendors and friendly Bankers set about, tossing beads, making lemonade, coolers full of ice, local merchants quick with a smile and many of our fellow Villagers turned out with their lawn chairs and beared the heat in strong support.

Donned in my coveted cap, I toted a bucket of Jolly Ranchers and Dum-Dum suckers up "The Hill" to board the new fire truck.

Let me just say this; Those fine firemen DESERVE that new fire truck (except it doesn't have a music box), but as a community, those guys are often our first responders. They are skilled and fearless, true Patriots, and are pleased as punch with this new vessel. The navigator of this new engine had a gleam in his eye as we began to move in line. Much like Washington crossing the Potomac...only wrong time of year!

We were informed we could not toss the candy during the parade...apparently the children are want to jump in front of the fire truck to retrieve the sweets, thus creating potential liability. Unlike the big corporate moguls undaunted and and unafraid of throwing themselves at the ever increasing engine of the Guvment to pick up a few treats. Meanwhile, we hold our breathe, and hope noone get "squshed", 'specially the little ones. (Sound familiar?) My Dear Husband only had to go out and seek these Jolly Ranchers and Dum-Dums at the 11th hour! (Sound familiar?).

Moving through the motorcade, I spied many friends waving, cheering, waving flags; but mostly, I was moved by the young kids, sitting curbside, less affected by the heat than us, shall we say, more mature ones, with unjaded hope in their faces. That lifts me up.

What also lifts me up is that fact that our Fine Volunteer (yes, Volunteer, don't forget that!) Fire Department has a wonderful new Fire Truck thanks to all of the hard work they put into serving the community, and the wives and craftsmen who donate goods for the fundraising efforts...And thanks to ALL of you who support them. Please continue to do so.
Now, I happen to know there are plenty of Jolly Ranchers and Dum-Dums still available. And, if you wish, you can go to the White House or Congress to see which is which...But I think we know.

You are a beautiful and graceful community. Special thanks to the Imperial BBQ King and his devoted Queen for the entertainment and for the indigestion my DEAR HUSBAND happily endured following. Very Generous.

And a special thank you to MY DEAR HUSBAND for the roses! I am just so dad-"BURN" lucky!

PS: Can we pitch in and get a CD player for that fire truck? Maybe we can scrap one off of GM.


Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Full of Hot Air

Its that time of year. People are bbq'n and spittin' watermelon seeds. Another hallmark of the summertime for the "beautiful people" is the fascination with Hot Air Balloon rides. Not content to float aimlessly over their sylvan suburban nirvanas oohing and ahhhing over the "Lawns of the Month", instead they choose to "drop in" on those of us who have sought sanctuary from the omnipresent rows of McMansions and Burger Kings, OOPS! Perhaps this explains the absence of Hot Air balloons over Czar-Town, there simply isn't a vessel sufficiently sized to contain the volume of hot air (AKA gas) emitted from the hallowed halls of the Foggy Bottom.

I can remember in our beautiful Village one year when I was startled at the anxiety and furious stampede of our horses. Rushing outside to determine the cause, I spied a couple of HOT AIR Balloons floating over the place carrying "This Is My Oyster" aviator wannabes who most likely paid a substantial amount of money for the "adventure".

I got the gun and contemplated a well calculated shot at that Balloon but quickly realized the fact that I had been overcome with the "fear of fliers", a concern that would surely pass, albeit slowly. Ultimately, I contacted the appropriate authorities and advised them to "cease and desist" the stampeding of our horses by this HOT AIR cruising over our property.

You might think that a "small town Mayor" would know little about this ancient form of travel. If you do, you would underestimate the breadth of experience a Victoria childhood can bestow. I've been in a Hot Air Balloon only once. That was enough. Knowing little of the dangers or finer points of navigating a sack of hot air towards a preferred destination, one late afternoon in May, we piled into a hot air ballon basket with our south Texas survival kit of Brie, Caviar and Champagne and set off from the McCann ranch after the Polo Match. Something went terribly wrong because while we set off from McFaddin, Texas we found ourselves barrelling at a disturbing speed and finally landed in Brownsville. Full of seriousness on the outside and laughter on the inside, Mr. McCann sent cars to come and pick us up and bring us back to the launch pad.

We were "wind-blown" and rattled, but educated and informed to know that there is nothing to gain by investing in HOT AIR and that those who so travel are probably not the sort you would want herding horses.


Sunday, June 21, 2009

Small Change: The Dawnings, The Yawnings and The Awnings

The early mornings in our lovely Village glisten with the kiss of sunlight and history, a history wrought with war, a women's college and a downtown that just won't die quietly. Many of us regard the Village as a treasure, perhaps even a National Treasure. Given the recent "interest" in our lovely town, from far and wide, you'd have to be taking long siestas under the Brazos River Bridge to not bear witness to some "changes" that have recently befallen Main Street.

Now, "Change" is not necessarily a bad thing...ask any woman over 50. Its not easy, but it happens. The question is about BALANCE.

Change in Chappell Hill has become a more frequent event than the nations "top" Banksters holding out their tin cups before a spineless congress for the People's (and their grandchildrens') largess(t). Some of the changes have been good and others, well ask the Banksters.

Our charming Main Street is "changing". What happened to the Awnings that once adorned the old buildings? Will they be replaced, renewed, or I dunno, re-elected/erected?

Have we become complaisant to the value of history or perhaps sadly, just tired of it? Or is this just more "CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN".

A most regarded and respected resident remarks that once landscape and architecture is altered it could require a somewhat heroic effort to restore an adversely impacted land-mark to its original design character without considerable care and cost.

For instance, take the Constitution and the Bill of Rights of our great country. Think about all the CHANGES it has been through. As our Founding Fathers are spinning in their graves watching the ticker-tape of Czar-town morphing from a Republic to a Banana Split Republic, one can hear the whispers of warning drowning silent the past acts of Patriots. It required bravery, faith in mankind, dedication, sacrifice and open-mindedness to create such documents; but I doubt any of those fine men would sit by and be satisfied with the bunch of us asleep at the switch, dozing and yawning, only to awaken, dizzy-headed enough to complain about these CHANGES.

Now, you can change your clothes, change the color of your drapes, you can even go through the "change of life", if you happen to be female; you can change your mind, several times, it keeps it clean.

What we can't change is nature, Mother Nature, that is, and according to the Farmer's Almanac, we're in for a hot, dry summer where the only "rain" we are likely to see will be that of Federal Reserve notes pouring down on the Nation like confetti on a national championship parade, the dawning of a "new age".

Try not to become the proverbial Cat On A Hot Tin Roof particularly on a cigar store awning. Simmer down, sip some lemonade and think about what, and how much, you want things to change. Take in the beautiful dawnings we have out here, yawning if you have to, but combine it with a good morning stretch, and as for the awnings, I guess we'll have wait and see whether they symbolize something far greater, like, well "change". It is, after all, still unfolding.

I suppose looked at another way, rather than an horiffic expression in Spanish or a moment in the earth's rotation, Dawn is just another case of "close but no cigar"...

The "Dawn" always brings something to wonder about.In the words of Mae West, "Step aside small change before I spend ya".


Sunday, June 7, 2009


Friends of our Lovely Community:

I am sure you are all aware of the resurgence and interest in growing, raising our own food. Of recent interest is the "rearing" of GOATS. Good meat, I guess, my father's last words to me, before he died, I was telling him that my Dear Husband had procured a herd of GOATS; I wasn't sure Daddy could hear or understand me, but the the last thing he said to me was, in a faint whisper, "Oh Cabrito!".

Okay, I went along this goat thing my Dear Husband desired, but made it plain "I don't do GOATS".

Then, of course, we had to have a DONKEY to protect the GOATS. My Dear Husband found a Donkey, very unattractive, and was delivered to our our lovely home. Now, this Donkey only speaks Spanish, so we fondly named him DONKEY-HO-TEE.

That didn't work out too well because the Stallion out with the mares resented the fact that the Donkey was still "in tact" and disrupting his 'bisness' with the mares.

Okay. My Dear Husband decides we need a DAWG; an Anatolian Dawg, in fact; so we acquired an Anatolian DAWG. We call her Annie Tollie. She's doing a pretty fair job, save the one GOAT she had to take to task over his aggressiveness.

So far, I think I'm doin' okay. But for SOME REASON, my Dear Husband saw fit to send me pictures and a video of GOATS IN TREES....(NO KIDDING, pun intended).

Now, where I come from, and growing up in a church-goin' family, ANYTHING with horns and a tail and hooves, sittin' up in a tree looking at me is nothing but the Absolute Devil, Satan!!!

When I inquired of My Dear Husband, "Uh, I'm a little uncomfortable with this GOATS in the tree thing, he replied, "Don't worry about it, those GOATS are from Morocco.

Those GOATS could speak Greek, Vietnamese, or Yiddish!! I don't care. If they can sit up in a tree and stare at me, I'm breakin' out the Holy Water!

I won't sleep too well.


Monday, June 1, 2009

The Tail Waggin' The Dawg

All's well that ends well.

In the midst of our community despair over that little,lost white Dawg, wrongly profiled as a black Chihuahua, St. Francis himself, came to intervene. The little Dawg in fact was the beloved companion of one of the most noted young men of our community, and after a series of inquiries, the young man and his dear Dawg were reunited, joyfully. There wasn't a dry eye in the truck.

Laughter through tears; what a great see a boy and his dog reunited and a well-respected Pastor and friend slouched in the the bed of the truck holding the little dog as we drove home.

And for good measure, we had a wonderful word of prayer.

God is Great! And God spelled backwards is Dog.

Don't give up! There is a home for everyone.

Thank you to everyone who are willing to take the time.


Read it and Weep

I am now commissioned by the D'Man to revise the latest installment from D'Mayor regarding the Grand Opening of the Lazy Mule. The Jack-Ass leading the Jack-Ass. ( draw your own conclusions).

Brought to my attention is that I should use this forum to get folks to "Come Together" and emphasize the "bouillabaisse" of our lovely spot on this planet.

Personally, I think we are all VERY aware of our differences and our commonalities...and not too surprising, we seem to all get along pretty good. There are some truths in this life that are impenetrable; and that is the innate goodness in us all, I don't care who you are, but the fact is, we DO care.

Sure, on occasion, somebody felt slighted, ignored, insulted...but more often we have experienced mutual respect and grace and have always responded to a neighbors cry for help, whether it be a cup of sugar, or "Hey, can I borrow your tractor?", or "Can you meet me at dawn in a thunder storm to help retrieve my stolen horse?", Or, "Ya Know, I don't feel so good, I think its the heat, can you check on me in a little while, I'm out here by myself".

Point is, when push comes to shove, these people out here in our lovely community CARE. And whether or not you feel put off or snubbed, all that goes away when it gets down to the "lick-log", as my Dear Husband would say.

That's what makes Chappell Hill such a wonderful place. Its the GRACE,the grace with which we all walk and express to each other. I mean, even the old man that totaled my car opened the door for me at the post office. It was his fault, but we walk with grace.

At the end of the day, we all put our pants on one leg at time, as my father would say...Unless, of course, you happen to be wearing a skirt with a bunch of smoke billowing under it.



Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Once again, I have been blessed with the unexpected arrival of a Dawg. Kind of like waking up after a long night only to discover you've been locked up.

Too many times our lovely home has been the haven for Doggie Dumpers. In one instance, seven puppies dropped at our gate on a very cold New Year's Day morning. Found homes for all of them. Happily ever after.

Yesterday, at the shank of my evening, I'm in my pajamas and bathrobe and my loving husband inquires,"Where'd you get that new Dawg?". "What new Dawg?", I replied. He said, "The one sleeping out there in front of the tack room".

A cute little Dawg, white with little brown spots and sporting a blue collar with a tag. So, I went out to see what I could do. My dear husband helped entice the Dawg into a crate by use of a hot-dog. Okay, now I have sticker-burrs in my bathrobe. Unpleasant.
As responsible animal owner, I did the right thing. I contacted the Vet and asked if she could run the tag ID# to see if the Dawg had been lost. She complied, even though it was a Sunday, (one of the perks of being Mayor, I guess).
When the Vet called back, she reported that this Dawg was a black Chihuahua and the purported owner's phone had been disconnected. Unless the Dawg has been sharing performance enhancing drugs with Roger Clemens and a bleaching booth with Michael Jackson, he's definitely wearing stolen plates and is not a Chihuahua. Another case of Doggie-Dumping.
Being fairly well full-up here, I enlisted the help and assistance of a neighbor; the proprietor of a beautiful Estate, complete with an available kennel. least for overnight until I could make arrangements for the Dawg.
My husband reminded me this morning that the Dawg matched the description of a "dream Dawg" a sweet friend of mine has been pining for and in need of since the demise of her loving pet.
I contacted the spouse of my sweet friend, a powerful man of substantial prominence. He seemed interested. I then contacted the Heroic Estate owner to give him the news of a possible ideal placement for the Dawg.
When I rang the estate owner and inquired about the Dawg, there was a pregnant pause. "What's wrong?", I asked. He replied, "I've LOST THE DOG"! She jumped the fence and was gone. Now, this esteemed gentleman has a robust and colorful past when it comes to Dawgs, and several times I have been dispatched to help him find his LOST DOGS who have "jumped the fence(s)". I asked, "What happened?, I thought you were going to put the Dawg in your kennel overnight!!".
He replied, "No I didn't want to put the Dawg in the kennel because she would "defile" it and aggravate MY Dawg".
The good news is the Dawg was found and hopefully on the way home to a nice place where it is not apt to defile, at least not to another Dawg.
A most noted resident remarked to me that because of the economy, this really is becoming a big problem, this Doggie Dumping, and while cat-napping is in decline, doggie dumping seems to be on the "up-tick".

As Mayor, I intend to bring this issue before City Council and recommend that we need a "Bone-a-Fido" Dawgcatcher and heavy fines for the dumpers.
Oh, wait, right...we don't have a City Council, we don't really even have a Mayor, not to mention a Dawg catcher. Maybe this is all just going to my head.
But think about it folks...we're standing up for chickens, we should stand up for the four-legged ones as well.

Okay, gotta go..its a sticker-burr thing.


Da Mayor