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Published on 2 Comments on 50th Hits Close To Home

This post originally appeared in November 2013.

I am no different from many other bloggers in that you will see a variety of posts from me this month on the topic of the Kennedy assassination. And why not? Dramatic, compelling, mysterious, with significant political and historical ramifications - it pushes all my History Nerd buttons.

I also have a couple of extra buttons on this topic. I am a native Texan. Dallas is my hometown. I grew up in Oak Cliff, not far from many of the key events that unfolded that day.

We were not living in Dallas in 1963. After bouncing around the Milwaukee Braves farm system for a few years (Boise ID, Lawton OK), my dad decided professional baseball was not going to feed a family of four. We moved to Denver, where my maternal grandmother lived, and Dad got a real job. I was five when Kennedy was killed. I remember being highly annoyed that boring grownup news shows were interrupting Captain Kangaroo. Yes, I am embarrassed about that now, but that's my vivid recollection of that day.

Not long after that terrible day, my folks decided to move back to Dallas. Both had grown up there. They met in 7th grade, were high school sweethearts. The title of this post is not a cliche. After reading a great article in Slate magazine (which btw features my cousin Darwin Payne, author and retired SMU history prof), I realized several of that day's events were literally close to my childhood home as well as that of my parents, especially my mom.

This cheesy screen grab of Google Maps brings things into a little more focus. After Oswald left the grassy knoll, he returned to the community of Oak Cliff across the river from downtown Dallas. At the time of the assassination, he was renting a room in a boarding house on Beckley Avenue (purple pin). Beckley Ave. also happens to be the exit off I-30 one would use to get to the house I grew up in (pink pin). Much has changed over the last fifty years, but on my end of Beckley Avenue, it's still the home of Lone Star Donuts and Ripley Shirts.

Oswald's boarding house on Beckley was about a block from Lake Cliff Park. This park was the site of much enjoyable recreation in the 1950s. It had an enormous public swimming pool (long since filled in), which happened to be my mom's first job as a teenager. According to Mom, much adolescent hijinx occurred there. Part of me wants to know more. The other part has adopted a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy.

The Slate article also says Oswald walked a mile or so south on Beckley from the boarding house to near W. H. Adamson High School (aqua pin). This is the first I have heard of an Oswald connection to that school. That's where my folks fell in love. That's where my dad played basketball and baseball and earned a scholarship to Sul Ross State University. That's where they made some lifelong friends who still get together occasionally for some of that classic Tex Mex you just can't get anywhere outside of Texas. I don't know if school was in session that day. It would have been the Friday before Thanksgiving. The thought of an armed assassin strolling along the sidewalk near a school filled with students gives me the chills.

After passing Adamson, Oswald had his fateful encounter with Dallas police officer J,D. Tippitt at about 10th and Patton (green pin). Reading that really rocked my world. My mom grew up on Patton Street (yellow pin). As the eldest of six, she was married and out of the house in 1963, but some of the family still lived in her childhood home then. They lived a few blocks north of 10th Street, close enough to have possibly heard the shot that ended Officer Tippitt's life.

Oswald's last stop in Oak Cliff was an attempted escape through the Jefferson Blvd. retail district. He was captured in the Texas Theater (blue pin). I don't recall ever visiting it in my 20-odd years living in Oak Cliff. For many years after the shooting, it was considered uncouth as a Dallasite to show morbid interest in anything related to that event. The closest I have been to Dealey Plaza is driving home from downtown through the triple underpass. Never, ever, walked the grassy knoll or pointed with finger or camera lens at the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository. But as Oak Cliff residents, we certainly passed near or shopped at Jefferson Blvd. on an almost daily basis. It was home to many iconic Oak Cliff businesses, including Red Bryan's, the Charco Broiler, Skillerns Drug Store, and the Lamar & Smith Funeral Home (which I mention because the Smiths were our neighbors).

They say times have changed, that Dallas is no longer primarily known as 'the city that killed the President'. During this time of year when we are asked to pause and reflect on our blessings, that is certainly one of the many things for which I am thankful.

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Published on 4 Comments on 30 Years In The Bag

This post was originally published in 2013.


Veda Olson Jones Boyd

I recently came into possession of my dear departed grandmother's cedar chest. Grandma (or 'grammaw' as we say in Texas) Veda passed away thirty years ago - wow, how can that be?? - and her cedar chest has been stored in the crawl space under my parents' home ever since. They downsized and asked me if I wanted it. I honestly had no memory of said chest, but it was obvious my folks felt it should stay in the family. No one local in the family wanted it, so I drove a thousand miles one-way to rescue it and bring it home with me.

The chest is nothing special from a decorative sense. It's a classic Lane model in a dark finish. The cedar lining has long since lost the battle with musty. I was told to sand the cedar to revive its scents-o-riffic powers, but this is an olfactory pipe dream. Febreze made a brave attempt, but musty it will remain.

The chest's main purpose in my house now is to serve as an intermediate level between floor and bed to help my aging Lab hop into bed with us every night. And yes, I have it covered to protect its lid from further injury from her doggy toenails.

So the chest in and of itself is nothing special furniture-wise. But it contained an interesting piece of my grandmother's life: one of her old purses; probably the last purse she ever used. Now this was something I could relate to! Like many grandmas before her, Granny Veda was infamous for her large purse. But she was a large woman, near 6 feet tall and flirting with 200 pounds from middle age forward, of sturdy Norwegian stock (a few generations back, but the genes run strong in her line), so she would look funny with a small purse!

It was jarring coming upon this purse, lying abandoned in the chest for so many years. First weird thing was the image of my dad discovering it, walking toward me awkwardly holding it at arm's length as if it were a three-day-old carp. I guess men of a certain generation still avoid being seen in contact with a woman's purse. What - do they really think we are going to think it is theirs? And of course this would mean they are gay. Very silly. Reminds me of the time the hubs and I were at some event and I asked him to watch my purse for me when I went to the restroom. I actually had to lay it at his feet, as he would not deign to touch it in public.

But I digress.

Second weird thing was its actual size. It was just an average size purse, nowhere near the Mary Poppins-size carpet bag I always envision when I think of granny purses. In fact, I have more than one purse that is substantially larger, so I am feeling some purse shame about that. Veda's was a bone colored vinyl handbag, the kind usually seen dangling from the crook of an elbow. Judging from its size compared to its contents, it is possible other contents had already been removed. For example, there was no wallet. Very fishy! Anyway, its remaining contents were every bit as 'Granny Veda' as I remembered and not a bit weird. They were as follows:

  • plastic sleeve containing several wallet-sized photos of various relatives including one of my dad (her son), one of his brother (also her son), one of my cousin (her other granddaughter), TWO of my brother (her only grandson), and exactly NONE of me 🙁 
  • small cosmetic bag containing pressed powder (Avon 'Honey'),  rouge (Westmore 'Jarol') and lipstick (Avon 'Coral'). What the heck is a 'Jarol'????
  • comb - a long, sturdy plastic number the likes of which are seldom seen now. And btw how many women carry COMBS in their purses anymore??
  • eyeglasses case including pearl inlay cat-eye eyeglasses - pretty cool!
  • #3 pencil - not a pen, a PENCIL. Not a #2, a #3. And Granny Veda was a school teacher back in the day, so she knew her pencils!
  • mini new testament , and I am talking mini - no more than 2 in x 2 in, paperback natch. Despite her Norwegian roots, Veda was raised Baptist. Big Billy Graham fan.
  • 14 silver dollars commemorating the moon landing. Score!

Naturally this got me thinking about all kinds of things, not the least of which was: what do your purse/wallet contents say about you? In my case, not much, and maybe that says something about me after all: that I do not like to be burdened with a lot of stuff. Over the past couple of years I have gone to a very lightweight cross body oversized wallet, just big enough to handle my actual wallet, my cell phone, a pair of glasses if I am too lazy to put in my contacts; some business cards, and some lipstick. That's it. No photos of loved ones (they are on my phone now), no mini bibles (although I do have a sweet handwritten note from Granny Veda tucked into my wallet that provides similar inspiration), and most of my cash is represented by a plastic ATM card. Curious that my daily purse contents are eerily similar to the picked-over remains of Granny's long-abandoned handbag. Am I subconsciously preparing for my own demise? Or just wary of the trap a larger purse represents - its contents gradually expand to fill all existing spaces? Purses, like Nature itself, abhor a void. 


Sobering to realize our eyeglasses may outlive us.

If I ever become a granny, I think my electronic gadgets will represent the Granny Purse to my future grandchildren. They will ooh and ahh over the ancient clunky phone model I refused to replace. They will find my music collection impossibly retro. They will wonder why I wasted so much space storing ridiculous mediocre-quality pix in the Photo Gallery. And just about then, they will wonder if they still make a charger for that ph-

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Published on Leave a comment on Watch Your Step

Spring in Minnesota is much anticipated for obvious reasons. Lawnmowers and fertilizer spreaders replace of snow shovels. Migrating birds return to their favorite backyard feeders. And if you are really lucky, on a warm sunny day, you can witness the emergence of the snakes. Yep, any day where the temperature is 50°F or more, watch your step. See that black caulk between the lines in your sidewalk? That's a snake. How about that broken branch lying in your garden mulch? Nope, snake. The kids left a flat bike tube out in the yard? Guess again. That's the way it is at my house, anyway.

Little did we realize our new home was aka Snake Mecca

I’m originally from Texas, where rattlesnake hunts are as common as ticks on a whitetail. But I had never seen so many snakes in close proximity to human habitation until we moved to Minnesota. They're  'completely harmless', according to my neighbors. Maybe so, but they are as deadly as a pit viper if you are likely, as I am, to have The Big One and keel over every time you see one. Our first spring here, one of our legless friends made himself comfortable in the flower beds near our front porch. We would see him occasionally, basking himself in the spring sun. He was always more or less in the same spot, and pretty shy, so we got used to him and he to us. This is good, I thought. I can handle this.

Until some of his pals started turning up in unexpected places. One afternoon my teenager was mowing the lawn. I heard the mower stop, then the screen door slammed. "Mom,” she called upstairs,  “there's a snake."

Ordinarily I would say, “That’s nice, dear,” and wait until my husband came home to deal with the little fellow. But it was one of those gorgeous Minnesota days and I was feeling up to the challenge.  Most of the lawn was shorn down to fairway level, except for a small rectangle in the center. The culprit held his ground there.

"Just make lots of noise," I said, recalling various programs I had seen on the Animal Planet channel. "They will feel the noise vibrations in the ground and clear out." Folks, I am here to tell you that this is an out-and-out lie. We made all the noise we could think of, not to mention the high decibel roar of the Briggs and Stratton mower motor. No effect. On to Plan B.

"Get a rake," I instructed. "We'll shoo him away.” Let's just say the rake was not a big hit with our friend. Who knew that a 'harmless' snake could rear up and hiss like a King cobra? I dropped the rake and Plan B.

What now? Aha! My neighbor's teenage son was shooting hoops in his driveway. In my shameless cowardice, I called, "Hey, Kyle! Can you help me get rid of this snake?" Now, Kyle is a brave young man. Snakes fear him. At least, I hoped they did. I proposed that he use the rake and my five gallon plastic bucket to relocate our slithering nemesis to a friendlier locale. By now, my younger son and his friend had heard the commotion and joined the fray. The flesh crawling on the back of my neck became unbearable, and I retreated to the safety of the indoors, barricading myself inside. That I had left my precious children and their friends outside to battle the beast mattered not.

Did I mention that I hate snakes?

Eventually my son came in to report success. We exchanged high-fives and my daughter was able to resume mowing. Of course that wasn’t the end of the snakes, not by a long shot. I wonder if the ones I see now are new snakes, or relocated snakes returning to their version of San Juan Capistrano (my front yard). I think I am going to have to come up with another plan. I am up to C now. I sure hope I don’t have to work my way to Z.

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Published on Leave a comment on Traveling Cats: 6 Hard Lessons Learned

Anyone who has traveled with a cat will tell you this is not an easy task. Cats hate transportation, regardless of type or duration. Whether it is across town to the vet's office or across the country is immaterial. As a veteran of several long-distance moves with small children and pets, I have acquired a few handy travel tips. They have come to me one by one, usually resulting from some sort of traumatic experience. 

#1. Cats Understand English.

Our most recent feline considered herself lucky, because that was her name (ha!). Risking a gross understatement, I must say Lucky did not travel well. At first mention - not sight, mention - of the cat carrier, or the kennel, or the vet, she bolted and hid under a bed. Then we began our little game called Cat Trap. To play this game requires a long-handled item, such as a broom or a full-size umbrella (in the 'down' position). An additional player is nice, but not necessary. Begin the game by selecting any room in the house that has a door. Inspect the room carefully for your cat. Pay special attention to their usual hiding places, such as under the bed, behind the clothes in the closet, behind the curtains, and so on. Once the room is declared 'cat-free', close the door and move on to another room. Continue until said cat is located. If you have played this game correctly, you will be able to ambush the cat before it streaks off to a new hiding place, as all the good hiding places are now inaccessible. The broom or umbrella comes in handy if your cat likes to hide under the bed, smack-dab in the middle. It is useful for 'encouraging' your cat to emerge. Careful! This is a tool of persuasion, not an instrument of torture.

#2. Cats Do Not Travel Well.

The trusty pet carrier by no means insures a safe and worry-free trip. We learned this lesson when we moved from Toledo to Kansas City, our first move with Lucky. We weren't even out of Lucas County before Lucky started yowling her head off in her carrier. Thinking we could remedy the situation, we let her out of the carrier. She promptly did some extraordinarily nasty "business" on my husband's brand new jacket. That was our signal to pull over for a rest stop and exercise the animals (I know, I know - too little, too late).

#3. Cats Have Little Regard For Leashes.

We were feeling confident about a rest stop for the animals, because we had Lucky on a leash. If you have never seen a cat on a leash, you are in for a treat. Your eyes take in the leash and send the "leash" signal to the brain; but when your eyes get to the end of the leash and send the "cat" signal to the brain, the brain rebels. A cat??? That's supposed to be a dog!! Adding to this surrealism, Lucky developed a curious limping gait while so ensnared, as if trying to extricate herself from the leash one limb at a time. Her problem was solved by a jolt of the cat equivalent of adrenaline.

Once out of the car, our chocolate lab, Coco, did the Doggy Celebration Dance in her excitement to be free for a few minutes. Leaping and twisting in glee, Coco bounded over to encourage us to join her canine freedom frenzy. Already frazzled by her imprisonment in the carrier, Lucky freaked. She bolted, and before you could say “That Darned Cat!” we were all running around some park in Ohio, at dusk, looking for a perfectly camouflaged tabby/tortoiseshell cat. Thank goodness, the fuschia leash stayed attached to her somehow. My husband finally ran her down - literally! - by stepping on the end of the leash. After much huffing and puffing, we got her back to the safety of the car. Needless to say, she was not allowed out of her carrier for the rest of the trip.

#4. See #3.

Keeping this in mind and wishing desperately to avoid a repeat, we made careful plans before moving from Kansas City to St. Paul one August day two years later. We upgraded the leash to a HARNESS and piled into the car. The process of strapping it on the cat went something like a fitting a space suit on an astronaut. First rest stop, not even out of Missouri yet, and it was Lucky Escapes: Part II. Everything was going well, until our good friend Coco reprised her Doggy Celebration Dance. Lucky about strangled herself and half dislocated a shoulder doing a Houdini out of that new harness. The "escape-proof" contraption dangled loosely from my hand, mocking me. Lucky took off at light speed, heading for the thicket at the edge of the park area. At least it was broad daylight and we could see her a little more easily.

#5. Cats Have A Finely Tuned Sense Of Revenge.

My daughter was was borderline hysterical, wandering the perimeter of the thicket in a trance. My son was trying to be helpful. This consisted of him standing around calling, "Lucky, Lucky". You all know how most cats come a'running when you call their name . . .

I drew jungle duty: climbing the barbed wire fence, smashing down the waist-high weeds, and fighting off the mosquitoes. Every step produced a plume of golden pollen so thick, my clothes were covered in it. Wicked marble-sized stickers blanketed my socks and the laces on my sneakers; one ripped a gash in my bare upper arm. Every now and then one of us would spy Lucky, creeping along in the thick underbrush. "There she is!" one of us would shout. "Over there! Just ahead of you. Stay there, cut her off . . . dang it, there she goes!" and so on. It was 20 minutes of pure fun. At one point, I made the mistake of saying what I was thinking out loud. I didn't realize my son was within earshot. He said, "Gee, Mom, I never heard you say THAT word before. Only Dad."

#6. Cats Are Weird.

It didn't take long for me to have my fill of this. I told my daughter to forget about the (expletive deleted) cat. It was hot, I was filthy and sweaty and tired, and we needed to get back on the road. She was devastated about leaving her poor cat, but I was fed up. As I headed back toward the car, I glanced to my right, and there Lucky sat. The little devil was curled up under a dirt overhang, obscured by a tangle of exposed tree roots. She was looking right at me, still as a statue. I called to the kids to circle the wagons, made my way over to her very carefully, and picked her up just as if she was sitting on the sofa at home. All I can figure is she must have been scared stiff. I am just thankful she didn't have the courage or the spirit to run away again.

Time has passed. We are pet-free for now. But that doesn't mean the cat stories have come to an end. Quite the opposite! The family tradition has been passed on to my children. They're all grown up, with cats and cross-country moves of their own, and plenty of tales to go along with them. 

Cat tail pic by Jason Leung via Unsplash

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Published on 2 Comments on Zippity Zoo Dah

This post was originally published in 2014.

We have a pretty cool zoo in our town. They recently added a zip line course. So when my daughter and her husband visited, we decided to check it out.

If you are not familiar with a zip line, let me lay it out for you. Think of it as a mash-up of a clothes line and Tarzan's swinging vine network (if you don't know what a clothes line is, you are too young to be reading this blog). Or maybe envision a gondola ride with only one passenger (you) and no gondola car, just you sliding down the gondola cable at about 40 mph via fancy harness and cable hook.

Zip lines have been around for ages as a quick and easy way to transport goods and people across obstacles such as ravines and rivers that would not be easily passable otherwise. Zip lines as recreation emerged in the 1990s as lines originally used by scientists in the Costa Rican rain forest evolved into lucrative tourist attractions. The first zip line in the U.S. opened in Hawaii in 2002. The idea really took off 😉 Presently there are hundreds of zip line courses around the world.

We had a great time on the zip lines. If you are considering trying it, here are a few handy tips:

The Bridge Of Doom

Find out what is involved. I vaguely knew what a zip line was. I assumed it would be fairly tame. You know what they say about people who assume.

Evaluate your priorities. I was torn about whether to take my most prized possession on the zip with me. I am talking about my phone, of course. I ended up taking it, but there were some moments during the zip where I was more terrified about what might happen to my phone than anything that might happen to me since it is at a zoo; unlike, say, at a combination bungee-jumping/parachuting/cave diving facility.

I did not plan on having to climb a rope ladder to get up to the first platform. I did not anticipate navigating a rickety bridge between zip landing stations. And I certainly was not prepared for the worst horror of all, being weighed before being allowed to participate (there is a weight limit). This was in public, people. In broad daylight. Fully clothed - including shoes! They sure don't put that in the brochure. Otherwise no woman would ever do it, guaranteed.

Dress accordingly. Don't wear anything that you would miss if you lost it. Don't wear anything that might cut off circulation once you are strapped into your harness. Don't wear anything you might ruin by soiling yourself when you realize you have to walk across thirty yards of rope bridge, fifty feet off the ground.

Choose your fellow zippers wisely. Our guide said she had seen zip liners as young as 6 and as old as 80. After we zipped and were wandering around enjoying the zoo, everyone I passed, I imagined up on the zip line with me. Believe me, there were many I was thankful had chosen not to zip that day. Not sure which would be worse, the precocious 9-year-old twins who love fidgeting with the carabiners; or the white-haired thrillseekers from the local assisted living facility.

The ideal fellow zip liner: folks like my daughter and her husband. Young, healthy, fit adults weighing well under 200 lbs each, with an expert working knowledge of camera phones.  This last came in handy when I was trying to video my husband zipping toward me, but on account of my very short leash, my attempts to literally hug the tree I was leashed to 50 feet off the ground, and my hands shaking from adrenaline rush, I pushed who knows what button on my phone and all kinds of craziness ensued on the screen. Thanks again to my son-in-law, who pushed a couple buttons and got the thing back under control.

Bottom line, two thumbs up for enjoying reputable zip lines in your area. The views, exhilaration, and camaraderie were almost worth the agony of being weighed in public. Almost.

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Published on 2 Comments on So About That Resolution Thing . . .

It's that time of year when we all pretend we will make life-changing improvements and 'really stick with them this time'. From sad experience, I estimate this pleasant fantasy will disappear faster than the last Yeungling in a cooler full of Bud Lite. On about Day 6 we will wake up, go about our day, and not until about 3:48 p.m. remember the resolution(s) we had completely abandoned up until that point. Resolution may or may not be attempted depending on what it is. If your resolution was something like 'watch less TV' or 'read more books', don't despair! All is not lost! If your resolution was 'no more drive-thru', but this only hits you as you are cleaning the lunchtime Taco Bell bag out of the back seat, ruh roh! On Day 7, it will occur to us around 9:30 p.m. On Day 8, no sighting. Day 9, about 8:40 a.m. we will remember that we completely forgot all about our resolutions during Day 8. Day 10 =  'what resolutions?', and that will be that until next January.

I am completely cheating on resolutions this year due to a couple of factors.

1) Like 92% of us, I usually fail at this resolution thing. I am trying to learn from past experience. You know what they say about the definition of insanity. So I have adjusted my resolutions accordingly (see below).

2) I like to think I am getting older AND wiser about some things in life. I have stopped waiting until January 1 to make lifestyle improvements. Sort of like how I now shop for myself. I don't wait until special occasions, make subtle requests and hope people take the hint and gift me with things I like. I just buy them for myself, whenever I want (budget permitting). It's just easier that way. So when I see some aspect of my life that could use some improvement, I don't wait until January 1 Resolution Mania. This is turning out to be a pretty good strategy. Specifically, I successfully eliminated drive-thru meals (you don't even want to know how bad I was getting - or how fat!) and diet soda (Coke Zero, it was fun while it lasted) from my diet, as well as improved my writing habits, so yay me. The main disadvantage of this strategy is that all the big resolution topics are no longer available on January 1, as I have already tackled them!

On to the cheating -

I have two resolutions this year. One is personal; one professional. My main resolution this year may not seem like much, but since the Big Three are already undertaken (diet, exercise, productivity), you see how that limits my options. Here it is:

WHEREAS, I am the offspring of a 1950s era baseball pitcher; and,

Dad pitching for the Milwaukee Braves farm team 1958

WHEREAS, baseball is a noble and entertaining activity; and,

WHEREAS, I enjoyed playing and watching the game as a youngster and adult until other less worthy pursuits diverted my attention; and,

WHEREAS, 'tis the season for rectifying wrongs both personal and professional;

NOW, THEREFORE, I, Lissa Johnston, do hereby proclaim 2018 the year I revive my lifelong interest in baseball and all related activities thereunto appertaining; vow to celebrate the glories of real grass, outdoor stadiums, and wooden bats; and resume giving our national pastime the loving devotion it deserves forthwith. Go Rangers!

The cheating comes about because there's not much happening in baseball right now other than a few trades and hiring/firing rumors, so I don't really have much pressure regarding this resolution for a couple more weeks when spring training gears up. And therein lies the danger - remembering the resolution!

 

The original version of this post first appeared in 2014.

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Published on 4 Comments on Do You ‘Christmas Eve Gift’?

A version of this post originally appeared in 2012.

My grandmother Winona Louise Miller Nichols 1915-2004. She was a delightful little scamp (just like in this picture).

My grandmother Winona was a pistol. Born in 1915 in Marietta, OK, Winona was part Chickasaw. It was a little bitty part, but her Native American heritage shone through powerfully in her jet-black hair and tan-friendly complexion. If tanning had been popular in her youth - which it wasn't - she would never have burned or freckled. Granny Winona was a sprout compared to the long, lanky type she married and the six offspring they produced. She topped out at around five foot two, the Mighty Mite of the Nichols family. I was fortunate to be able to spend a lot of time with her in my youth and have many fond memories of her.

One of her more memorable legacies to her descendants is resurrected every year around Christmas (not Easter!): the 'Christmas Eve Gift' greeting competition.

Have you heard of this? It's one of these traditions lots of people practice but sort of on the QT - everyone thinks their family is the only group of weirdos on the planet that does it, so they don't talk about it much outside family to avoid appearing, well, weird.

Here's how it works, in our family anyway: the goal is to be the first in the family on Christmas Eve to greet other members of the family with the phrase 'Christmas Eve Gift'. My mother remembers when she was very young, her grandmother Tina would play the game in person with Winona and family when she was at their home visiting for the holidays. Each of the six kids was greeted this way as soon as they woke up on that special day. Tina's mother Cinderella lived with Tina in her final years, and she also participated and enjoyed the game.

My great-grandmother Launa 'Tina' Wolfenberger Miller 1893-1971

In my era this has mostly been done by telephone, often at irritatingly early times in the morning. I have had more than a few of these disconcertingly early calls, especially in the days before cell phones and caller ID, when we all jumped to answer the phone rather than let it go to message. Shoot, there was no 'message' to go to! A pathological sleepyhead, I was one of the slow ones to catch on - I never remembered to get up and call, I never remembered it was Christmas Eve until the caller 'got' me. Suffice to say I was easy prey, the Biggest Loser in this game.

All these years I honestly thought it was a Granny Winona thing and had no idea other people did it, until one year when my brother's attempt at CEG was foiled by cell phone technology and his failure to keep up with current events. He awoke early and made a CEG call, excitedly shouting 'Christmas Eve Gift!' into the ear of the person who answered. Who was a complete stranger currently in possession of a recycled cell phone number. My brother was mortified and apologized profusely for the pre-dawn interruption. The groggy recipient said, 'don't worry about it - my girlfriend's family does it, too'.

Great-great Gran with the fabulous name Cinderella Arnold Wolfenbarger 1867-1943

Now this was news! Like learning there is life on other planets! Turns out this is not exactly a widespread tradition like champagne on New Year's Eve, but plenty of families do partake. Origins appear tied to the days of slavery, when the master often gave a small gift to the servants or slaves first to greet him thusly. This explains why it is more of a southern tradition.

This has been going on in my mom's side of the family for 70+ years. I will admit I have not exactly been a staunch supporter of this game as I always thought it was a little silly and I was always too lazy to get up and make the calls. It's funny how things change when you get older. What once seemed goofy now is now charming and sentimental, especially when I remember the joy my grandmother got from playing this game.

I am honored to perpetuate her family-oriented tradition, especially one that is so light-heartedly cheerful. My cousins will be getting a shock on Christmas Eve. I am the last person they will expect to 'get' them on that early morning call. But not too early . . .

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Published on Leave a comment on Baseball, Baby!

Cliff 'Red' Jones
My dad, Clifford 'Red' Jones, pitching for the Alpine Cowboys ca 1956

Soon we will be rescued from two months of ho-hum televised sports viewing with opening of the baseball season. Huzzah!

I know, I know, baseball has an image problem. The fan base is shrinking. Many consider it boring. You know what? I don't care. I feel the same way about certain sports, so, non-baseball fans, I share your pain. You watch your stupid boring sport, and I'll watch something worth watching. How anyone who watched the final game of the 2016 World Series thinks baseball is boring is beyond me. But I digress.

Okay, full disclosure: I have powerful, sentimental motivation to follow a sport that admittedly can be a bit of a slog if you're not familiar with the game. My dad was a multi-sport athlete in high school and earned a baseball scholarship to Sul Ross University in Alpine, Texas (my birthplace). Alpine is out in the far west mountainous triangle-shaped frontier of Texas. Back then it was just a wide spot on the road. but it was a real baseball hotspot due to the obsession of wealthy rancher Herbert Kokernot. Dad played for Mr. Kokernot's Alpine Cowboys until he was signed by the Milwaukee Braves in 1956. He pitched for the Braves in their farm system for a few years before realizing the baseball biz wasn't likely to support his growing family. Oh, how times have changed.

Opening Day always opens the memory floodgates of our family baseball lore. There's the tawdry yet amusing shenanigans of baseball wives (told by my mom - about other wives, natch - Dad claims no knowledge of any such goings on). Mom does wish we'd quit telling about the time she dashed out of her seat to dodge an incoming foul ball tip, leaving me behind, an innocent, gormless infant,  blissfully unaware of the 70 mph cowhide-wrapped bullet of death about to rain down on my head. Handy tip: foul tips are possibly the lone disadvantage of players' wives getting those great seats behind the home dugout.

I'm thrilled to be able to show you the hilarious grainy video of the players milking cows on the mound as a publicity stunt. Luckily for my dad, he was a country boy born and raised. He knew his way around a set of udders just as well as he did a baseball diamond.

I am able to share with you an example of the requisite yellowed newspaper clippings like the one here, bragging up my dad as 'the big righthander' and 'fireballer' and the pitcher of not one but TWO shutouts in post-season play as a highschooler. Ain't no thang. Just two shutouts. In two appearances. Probably in the same week. Yawn.

This is why, at the Jones household, we understand why the baseball pitcher's arm is considered the most valuable body part in professional sports. This is why the Rangers' devastating loss to the Cardinals in the sixth game of the 2011 World Series still gets me a little choked up (we will not speak of this *sniff*). And this is why I'm so freakin' pumped for baseball season to start. Got the hat. Got the shirt. Got the remote. Let the games begin.

Dad and I paying homage to another Brave Eau Claire WI 1999

A version of this article first appeared in the 2016 A to Z Blog Challenge.

Published on Leave a comment on Farewell, My Tasty

As Lent is upon us, I have been interested to learn what people are giving up in this season of abstinence. It is no surprise to me that the item most often abandoned is some sort of food. There are a few iconoclasts who do without tobacco, or alcohol, or shopping. I never got beyond the idea of renouncing something edible (I gave up chocolate). To many of us, foregoing food is the ultimate sacrifice. There is only one person to blame for my epicureal preoccupation: my mother.

Mom is the last of her line in a fine tradition of southern cooks. She grew up in a large family. Her own mother, my grandmother Winona, had to satisfy nine healthy appetites for the better part of two decades. Winona had no microwave or dishwasher as helping hands in the kitchen. It is no wonder, then, that as the oldest of six children, my mother soon found herself the number one kitchen assistant, and thus learned to cook at the apron strings of the master.

It is difficult to recreate the multi-dimensional majesty of my mother’s cooking

Mom at age 80 still frying cube steak like a boss

via the printed word. Thanks to Mom, if I ever find myself on death row and they ask me what I want for my last meal, I am ready with an answer: my mother’s chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans, and her homemade yeast rolls. Her home-brewed iced tea is the perfect accompaniment. As is the case with most meals, the meat is clearly the star.

Chicken-fried steak is a southern specialty, often confusing the uninitiated. Is it steak? Is it chicken? Deep-fried or pan fried? Some are surprised to learn it is only the humble cube steak, pounded into tender submission before being dunked in milk to allow the flour coating to stick. Then the palm-sized portions hit the hot grease of my mother’s black cast iron skillet with the initial hissssss to rival any McDonald’s French fry operation. Once they have turned a toasty brown and filled the house with the intoxicating aroma of fried meat (my apologies to vegetarians), they are ready to eat. When that first batch hit the paper towel-lined serving dish to make room in the skillet for the next, my father could always be found skulking about in the kitchen, stalking stray nibbles of steak that had become separated from the Pangaea of the bigger portions. Done properly, as my mother always did, chicken-fried steak requires nothing sharper than the side of your fork to divide it into bite-size pieces.

The side dishes pale in comparison to this pan-fried glory. They are there for the sake of upholding tradition; and in the case of the potatoes, upholding my mother’s cream gravy.

Never in all my classroom hours of chemistry or math did I ever approach the level of timing, precise measurement, and pure artistry required to duplicate Mom’s cream gravy. Making gravy from scratch is my culinary Holy Grail. I have tried and failed more times than the Jamaican bobsled team. There are just too many things that can go wrong. The grease must be of the correct temperature (hot) and quantity (equal to the flour). The flour must be stirred into the hot grease vigorously, so that the dreaded lumps cannot form. Then, and only then, the correct quantity of milk is added. If you do not own the little pink crockery bowl my mother uses for the milk, you will never be able to get the milk quantity right. I do not own one of these bowls, as they have not been made since 1960.

This is why, when Lent rolls around each year, giving up some sort of food is the worst suffering I can imagine. When I am feeling contemplative, I wonder how something so harmless as a good meal in good company should be something I should try to control; avoid, even. Then I look at my last cholesterol test results. I suppose setting aside one of my favorite edibles is the least I can do for Lent this year. If I had any guts, I would have given up chicken-fried steak.