I’m on a plane. I paid for the WiFi. I’m taking advantage of it and writing another installment. I think we left off with a priest showing up through a priest hole in my closet, like Narnia but in reverse. And without the goat-man.
We emerged into the dining room to find a folding table set up against the front window of the house. Our house faces north of that means anything. I never did tell you Fr.‘s name. And I cannot remember it now. We’ll call him Fr. Chad. Upon Fr.’s request my wife produced alter linens ala table cloths. But linens alone do not an altar make. “Fr.,” I asked, “I’m no expert but I sort of am but don’t you need like a chalice or some other things for mass?” At this moment Sister walked past me with a crate of “mass supplies”, set them down, and silently returned to a chair at the back of the room.
“I gotch-u, baby,” said Fr. with all the air and confidence of a 1970’s street pimp.
Yes, it was at this precise moment that I gave up and decided simply to go along with all that almighty God had planned for me. Clearly I have no clue.
“Introibo ad altare Dei.” *”I will go unto the altar of God.”
With these words, Fr. began the holy sacrifice of the mass. As he continued on through the Confiteor, I glanced beyond him and out the large picture window over the “altar”. The snow was now coming down heavily. It really was a beautiful sight. Reminded me so much of my childhood growing up in New Jersey. the only difference here is that elm and split leaf maples are swapped with crepe myrtles. But the fresh-fallen powder on the barren branches is still magnificent.I
I have always loved the snow. I think it has something to do with the peacefulness of it all. Even the noises of the atmosphere are dampened by a blanket of snow. Everything is almost silent when it falls. People can’t venture far past their streets. Families “huddle” together. And then there’s the child-like sense of wonder in me. As a kid, I loved seeing something fall from the sky that was so beautiful. As a man, I can’t help but think back to my boyhood and the true happiness I felt when we’d get a significant snowfall. Imagine if you will the combination of a picturesque scene out the window and the eternal, super-beautiful reality taking place just below it.
“Ite, missa est.” *”Go, the mass is over.”
We prayed the Leonine prayers, took a few moments to offer our thanks to God, and headed to the kitchen for lunch. Even Sister looked pious while kneeling to pray.
By now (after our meal) it was getting to be later in the afternoon. I stepped onto the porch to see how much had fallen. It was 12 degrees. I know this is Texas and the weather is schizophrenic but this is truly crazy. I noticed about six inches on the ground. The little kid in me got real giddy. I can’t help it. I’ve been in Texas almost a decade. We never see this. I went back inside to find that Fr. had vanished. I asked him to use the door but I think he went back through the priest hole. In fact I know he did due to the presence of a draft in my house. The re-pointing of hose bricks won’t be cheap. But Sister was at least still with us. And she had set up a board game at our kitchen counter.
We rounded out our afternoon in the typical fashion. We played Yahtzee and I shotgunned a gin and tonic. Sister played the oboe (did I neglect that detail?) and the children danced. It was “Flight of the Bumblebees”. Stupendous.
Home altar. Take that, Notre Dame!”
We all drifted off to sleep this peaceful night with no clue of what lie/lay/lain ahead of us. Yeah, I couldn’t figure the correct form. Whatevs, shuge.
In our next installment we enter the darkness. Hope you’re ready.
We did not stay awake for Sister. No, my own sister, my wife, and I all went to sleep around 1 AM after the following text exchange with Sister.
–Would love to stay up and watch Dallas but we’re all beat. Use the code “XXX-XXX” to turn off the alarm when you come in. –I know your alarm code.
Sunday February 14, 2021
I rose extra early this morning. Part of me just wanted to be prepared for the snow and to assess whether or not I would actually be able to drive my sister to the airport or would have to call her an Uber. The other part of me, for there are only two parts and neither is very impressive, wanted to arrange the few Valentine’s surprises I had purchased for the family on our kitchen counter. I’ve been trying to be more attentive to little details. By this I mean I’ve been trying to shop for gifts and generally be better in the thoughtfulness department lately. Let’s face it. If anything ever happens to my wife, I’m screwed. Better get on board now with trying to copy her moves so it doesn’t resemble a complete disaster. So there was a large box of chocolates for her and smaller boxes for the kids, one for my niece who lives with us, one for my sister, one for Sister, and some Valentine’s cards I had picked up.
I had just finished placing the last of the heart-shaped cardboard containers on the counter when my sister emerged from her bedroom. “What’s the situation?” she asked. I explained that I had been listening to the weather reports and had been outside already. It was definitely going to be bad. Already the temperature was in the teens and there was a strange feeling in the air that one knows by heart if one grew up in a northern latitude. Snow was at the doorstep. I scheduled an Uber and told my sister of my regret that I couldn’t drive her personally to the airport. She understood but still it didn’t feel right. I always make it a point, ever since I could drive, to personally pick up and drop off my guests at the airport. For starters, we’ve always lived relatively close to a major airport. I joke that I like to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises. Even as a kid, though, I was always fascinated with airports. It’s the five year-old boy in me. Not to mention, this is my sister. She deserved to be seen off with a personal touch.
Just as I informed her that I had scheduled the Uber – two hours out – the familiar sound of giant, clanking, wooden beads came down the hall. “Why Sister,” I exclaimed. “Nice to see you among the land of the living.” “Coffee,” came her reply. “How was the conference?” I asked. “Stand out of my way please,” were the six words I was not expecting; yet they were said in an almost helpless way. “Long night?” I asked, forgetting for a moment that I had awoken at 2:15 AM to the sounds of a sub-woofer dropping the beat to “The Sign” by Ace of Base in my driveway. Life really is demanding without understanding. “Listen,” she said, “I just need a hit of the wakey juice and I’ll be good.” Then, turning toward my sister, “Oh hey! Glad you’re still here! We have so much to catch up on.” I explained to Sister that the other sister would be taking leave of us soon. Sister agreed that they must arrange a get-together in the near-future. “It will be so much fun,” she said as she slipped back into the sign language that had been absent from my life for the weekend. And to be honest, I’m not sure how both hands raised as if holding steins is the proper sign for any of that. “I just love the way you tell a story and I’m dying to hear more about the hoes.” In case anyone has forgotten, that’s a reference to the Irish dance moms from the previous installment. “Definitely have to meet up again and,” turning to me, “also I’ve arranged a priest to come and say mass in your house if that’s OK. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Figured it was the least I could do since I think all the local masses are canceled due to the storm rolling in.”
Well that was a surprise indeed! I wondered who this collared man of mystery would be. Someone I know? A priest from a religious order? Maybe a Carthusian! Maybe a bishop in disguise!! My morning had just gotten very interesting. I took a shower and got changed and then stood on the front porch. In those 30 minutes I was grooming, mostly trimming my beard, the flakes had materialized. And now there was a solid half-inch of packed snow on the road. The untreated road. The road that would not reveal its pavement for another week. Good bye, road. It was nice to see you. I stood there waiting for that Uber. In fact I had the app open and watched as the clock counted down for me.
Your Uber will arrive in five minutes.
It gave me similar messages for the next four minutes. And then… Nothing. The app went blank as though I had never scheduled a thing. Well that’s not good, I thought to myself. Let’s try just ordering one and see what happens. And… Nope. There’s the problem. There were absolutely zero Ubers on the road. It’s odd because so many of my fellow Texans own four wheel drive pick up trucks. Someone ought to be making a killing in this weather. But here we were. Looks like I would have to drive my sister after all. We checked one more time that her flight hadn’t been canceled, she said goodbye to my wife and kids, did some weird “up high, down low” high five with Sister, and we took off.
The airport terminals are fifteen minutes from my front door.
The drive took us an hour. It was bad out there. Slow going doesn’t begin to describe it. White knuckle driving is a bit more accurate. “I’m gonna’ need a Xanax” driving is probably best. I walked my sister into the terminal and discovered that she would be on the last flight out of this place today (and indeed for several days). We said our good bye’s and she slipped past security. As a parting gift, when we rebooked her flight, my wife put her in first class. As I walked away from the terminal I texted her.
If you don’t take that airline for all the free cocktails you can manage in a three hour flight, I will personally strangle you.
Another hour later and I was slowly skidding my way back into the driveway. Sister was on my front porch smoking a Camel. I know, right? She stamped it out as I approached. “I didn’t know you smoke,” I said with an impish grin. “I don’t,” said Sister as serious as a heart attack. “Fr. will be here soon. I hope you don’t mind but he only says the Traditional Latin Mass.” “Don’t mind at all, Sister. That’s what we go to,” I said. “Also there are some quirks,” replied Sister. As she said this she raised both hands in front of her face and flung out all ten fingers like they were glitter or confetti or something. As she did this, she literally said, albeit in a whisper, “Poof.”
Snow. In Texas.
I noticed my daughter had made biscuits and gravy and they were warming on the stove. I can’t turn down good Southern cooking so I fixed myself a plate. Sister slapped the fork out of my hand just as it was about to enter my mouth. “Fr. will be here SOON,” she said excitedly. In my hunger I had almost forgotten about the pre-Communion fast. Then again, “soon” doesn’t specify a time and since he was coming to my house to say mass I figured he might be able to delay the start of the mass until we were all good and ready. “Also, wouldn’t we need to have time to set up an altar, chairs, an entire chapel,” I wondered? Reading my thoughts, Sister said calmly, “Fr. does all that. Do not worry.” Nevertheless I felt it incumbent to get changed into my suit. It matters not whether it’s at home (which is very rare) or in a gothic cathedral. Sunday mass is a cause for dressing up for the Lord. I walked into my bedroom and toward my closet. Opening the closet door I just about had a heart attack. A slightly-built man in a long black cassock and a biretta to match was just emerging from the other side. I’ve learned not to ask anymore. About anything. Ever. And it’s also good I had already disarmed myself when I walked in the door from the airport.
“You must be Father?” I said half stating the obvious and half out of genuine curiosity. The answer, the words that came back at me… I have a beautiful voice. I’ve long been told I should do voiceover acting. I’ve done some radio spots. I love to read to people. I sang in a choir. This voice? If Barry White and Perry Como had somehow spliced their genes, they couldn’t have made a more perfect voice. Deep, relaxing to the point of inducing torpor, spellbinding. And that voice said simple, “Yes.” So the obvious next question was “Why the closet when we have a front door, Father?” To this my closet cleric said simply, “These are dangerous times. Sister gave me a coded map. I followed it. It led to that opening over there.” He said this as he pointed to the daylight pouring in from behind my linen suits (for Summer). I walked over to inspect. Sliding the suits over on the bar I could see clearly what was taking place. “Father,” I asked somewhat hesitating, “Did Sister create a medieval ‘priest hole’ on the back wall of my house?” I completely ignored the questions of how she got in there and cut through plaster and brick as quickly as she had. By the way, kudos to her. The small 3’X3′ square was cut with such precision as to be easily placed back without any notice. And this is what Father and I did promptly. You know, because it was snowing and it was also a load bearing wall.
On our way out of the bedroom (I never did get changed into my suit) Father and I talked briefly. “What are these ‘dangerous times’ of which you speak?” Father, who appeared in the light to be somewhere between 40 and 85 years-old, leaned in close. “Masks,” he whispered. “I don’t wear one and the people who seek me out don’t either.” “So let me get this straight, Father,” I asked. “You’ve made a cottage industry catering to Traditional Catholics who wish to remain maskless?” “Oh my son, it’s more than that.” He had better be closer to 85 if he’s calling me “my son”. Father paused briefly before adding, “But mostly that, yeah.”
And that seems like a good place to leave off for now. Come back for part 7 where the Hill of Calvary and Elizabethan England somehow merge in my dining room in Texas.
I received a message today from a friend who informed me that her mother was “on the edge of her seat” awaiting the next installment. I will take that as high praise from a reader and offer to you now the fourth installment. NB: These “parts” might cover more than one day at a time as we go forward.
Thursday February 11, 2021
Sister came out of her room this morning and poured her morning coffee. Mercifully for her, the convent had not taken that simple ritual away from her. She lifted the mug to her lips, took a long draw, and then slammed the coffee cup onto the counter. “Hooooly Mutha! That’s some damn good java,” she said. I believe Sister had found her voice. Sister then picked up her small, black copy of the 1962 Roman Missal and stepped out onto the front porch to pray her morning prayers. I mean, I do have heat in my house but whatever. Meanwhile I mulled over our options for the day. I needed to be back at the homestead by 9 PM to pick up my sister from the airport. “Perhaps,” I thought, “I can one day make a movie and I’ll call it When Sister Meets Sister.” I had gotten as far as making them detectives and pairing them with a quadriplegic man servant (comedy gold right there) when I remembered that Sister had wanted to travel to Waco. If you thought she had a JFK obsession, you should ask her about the Branch Davidians.
Sadly for Sister, neither a trip to the Branch nor to Magnolia nor to the Dr. Pepper Museum (a very real place in Waco) were in the cards today. You see, an ominous weather event had swept through overnight. No, it’s not the fabled blizzard you tuned in to read all about. Patience. Rather this was that blizzard’s harbinger. And what a tragedy this brought with it. I started to look at news on my phone and was stunned at what I was seeing. Apparently every school district in North Texas had closed for the day due to weather. I looked out my window assuming that Sister might have gotten buried in a drift. Instead of a blanket of white I saw a white woman in a white habit under a literal blanket of white. Sister had grabbed a fleece on her way out the door. But not a flake in sight. I went back to my phone. Turns out this system had produced patches of lethal black ice. Here I must state with love that Texas drivers are not good drivers in decent weather. Also, the local governments lack the equipment to treat the roads as they would have been treated where I grew up. Rather, towns will send out police in squad cars to park at the bottom of highway entrance ramps in a blocking fashion. This does not work, though, when someone is already on the road when it gets closed. Sadly, that morning 135 vehicles were involved in one of the worst mass accidents ever just to our west in Fort Worth. Several people died. Please say a pray for them.
Sister and I drove to mass at a local oratory that had been kind enough to host us all week. Normally we would have gone to our parish but Sister knew some of the members of this particular community. I noticed that the roads were indeed slick but I wasn’t too concerned. I wasn’t getting on any highways. We arrived and went in for mass. In the quiet of the chapel I attempted to meditate on the Passion. The door swung open. The door slammed into a crucifix on the wall. That crucifix fell and hit me on the head. Meditation complete. Our Lord ALWAYS hears our prayers. The door had been flung open by the children of a mutual friend to Sister and me. The family had come to join us for mass. Afterward we all went out to lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. Sitting at the table I asked Sister if she wanted a drink. It was lunchtime and we were at a place known for their margaritas. Sister locked eyes with the waiter and spewed something at him in flawless Spanish. I picked up something about a drink, a chimichanga, the Argentine Dirty War of the 1970’s, and bull castration. My Spanish is a little non-existent. Juan, our waiter, turned pale. He fumbled with his pad and pen. In his eyes, a glaze of sheer terror. Sister lifted her head back up (for she had dipped her eyes back to the menu) and said calmly, “¡Andale!… or should I say… Raus?” Juan backed away swiftly from the table, never turning his back to Sister, and then ducked into the kitchen. I had no idea she was a polyglot! What fun! Before I could say burrito Juan had returned to our table. He was now dressed in finery. Deep red velvet bolero jacket with tassels. Golden embroidered sombrero. His hair was now white so there was that. He was attended by three similarly dressed servers carrying trays of the finest selections of chips and queso. I honestly thought it all came from a food services truck. Each of the servers had hair blonder than mine and the bluest eyes. The last of Juan’s assistants handed Sister an envelope. “Third Secret of Fatima,” she said. “Can’t reveal until the year 2000”, as she tucked the envelope into her sock clearly having buried the Millennium in her subconscious.
Not quite what my trees looked like this morning. Photo by Simon Berger on Pexels.com
I think something happened to Sister when she put that new hat on yesterday. I think it unlocked something of her youth. I think it tripped something within her personality as if her brain suddenly said, “Sister, it’s OK. You don’t have to be scared anymore. You can come out and play. You do you!” Or maybe it was the Yankee Candles.
I returned home to get my daughter ready for choir practice. Sister remained with friends a while. She may have had Juan arrested for some old Nazi war crime. Perhaps she just got more queso. Some things are better left unthought. Unfortunately for my daughter, choir practice was canceled due to ice that had already melted away. She and I had our own choir practice at the piano. A few scales for warm up and then we rehearsed the song “Dance Ten, Looks Three” from A Chorus Line. I don’t know if it will ever make it into the Latin mass rotation but it sure is fun to play on the keyboard. Don’t worry, I had her hum over any “colorful” lyrics.
I looked around my house and noticed it didn’t like quite as “fresh” as it had a few days ago. Should I call Alma again? No, not enough time. Instead I went around and swept, mopped, cleaned toilets, etc. It’s kind of what I do. I gravitate to my own kind. That’s why I spend time cleaning toilets and taking out the trash. Because I am garbage. After I finished I put together another gift basket to place in one of the bedrooms. This one was very special to me. It was a basket of Texas goodies and other treats for a very special person who was coming to Texas for the first time. In fact, if it weren’t for her I wouldn’t be in Texas to make this gift basket. Truth be told, I wouldn’t be anywhere but in the ground. When I was a young boy of 4, my older sister saved my life by tossing me from the second floor of a burning building. This part is 1000% true in case you were wondering. I’ve always been close with this sister and I was so happy she could make the trip to see us. Sadly, her husband died a few short months ago. He was one of the absolute best human beings you would ever want to know and we have all been saddened by his loss. I hoped that in bringing my sister for a visit, she might be able to see that there is fun in life still and share some of that fun with us.
I headed out to the airport and waited at baggage claim with a sign that said “Welcome back from rehab!” She slapped the back of my head when we met. We drove home. Out came the cheeseboard, crackers, and bar cart. We were celebrating life. Sister asked my sister if she wanted a Yankee Candle. I explained that whole mess to her. She stuck to her rum and coke. After a while my sister began to regale us with a tale of her children who are champion Irish dancers. They frequently attend competitions that take place in hotel ballrooms and the like. “Sister,” said my sister, “You don’t know what this shitshow is like. You got these older, I don’t know what you’d call ’em, ‘dance moms’, right, Sister? These ladies use these dance things as their night out on the town, ya’ know, Sis? Know what I’m sayin’?” Sister was intrigued. I could see her attempting to formulate into hand symbols my sister’s flawless Jersey. Then came the phrase that pays. “Sister, nah, Sister… listen to me. We’re talkin’ hoes on heels here.” Sister couldn’t find the right symbols for that one.
And then we all went to bed.
In tomorrow’s installment we’ll get my sister’s take on JFK and we’ll venture into a genuine Texas bingo hall. B-I-N-G-O, friends, Bingo was his name-o.
In our last installment, we took Sister, an ex-nun from an order I have not mentioned because I’m not sure it ever existed on a tour of Fort Worth, Texas, the Gateway to the West. We recalled the famous beef industry commercial, I cowboy-ed myself to the nines, and we drank a few more Yankee Candles. Ready for your next sip, fella’?
Wednesday February 10, 2021
Sister is a delicate flower. She is wounded. She is scared. She has been scarred by her experience. The girl can drink all of us under the table. Amazing. Delicate? Yes. Years of living under a canonical vow of obedience to a Mother Superior, all the while not being able to communicate using her words and then being “asked to leave”… Tough times but who hasn’t been there? If you’re nodding your head and saying, “Yeah, man, I totally get that”, then find another blog. Now.
Today it was time to take Sister to the place the city of Dallas is best known for – the assassination of the 35th President of the United States. I may have just inadvertently placed myself on some kind of government watch list. Before her time planting and tending to vines that were already dead, hoping for some kind of Cascian miracle, Sister was a huge history buff. In her dorm room in college, she proudly displayed a 1″:1′ scale model of Dealey Plaza complete with strings marking the trajectories of Oswald’s shots. Keep in mind such a model would have taken up three-quarters of a standard dorm room. And she had a roommate. Her thesis was titled “JFK, Blown Away. What else do YOU Have to Say?”
But here’s the thing. Dallas isn’t exactly proud of that moment. For years after President Bush (41) retired to Houston the running joke was “Houston: Where Presidents come to live.” The mood around the rest of the country from that fateful day in November 1963 and for many years following was that Dallas was a lawless city, filled with backwoods thugs who would kill any Northeasterner they could find. And then I moved here and all that changed. I seem to have a way with these people. In reality, and hard as it may seem to believe, it was the TV show Dallas (premiered in 1978) that finally turned around that image. But for 15 years Dallas was hated. And Dealey Plaza, an art deco masterpiece of a civic monument, was at the center of that hatred. It wasn’t until the late 1980’s that the city finally found the municipal will to take over the sixth floor of the old Texas School Book Depository building and dedicate a museum to the events of that day. I, too, am a history buff. Having lived in this area for almost a decade, I have visited the Sixth Floor Museum (real original, huh?) dozens of times. It really is a very well curated museum. I thought our history loving ex-nun would love the self-guided tour.
We set out around noon. On our way I noted two things. First, Sister is also a fan of fast food. “Whataburger?” she said making a “W” with her thumbs and index fingers as we backed out of my driveway. “Sister, we had that the other night. How about something different?” A quick stop at the Jack in the Box and we were on our way. The second thing I noticed was that the forecasters on the radio were telling of an impending winter storm while I scanned the dial. “Sounds ominous,” I said to Sister. Sister said nothing. Forgetting that she was now permitted to speak for a moment, she began gesticulating wildly with her fingers making a motion of snow falling from the sky. Forgetting that I shouldn’t speak the quiet part out loud I said, “What the fu*k?” We laughed and laughed. Then we verbalized our feelings and shared our thoughts in a productive way. I assured her that her flight on the upcoming Monday would indeed take off. And then I laughed. “You’re going to be stuck with us a while, Sister,” I said. “I’m from New Jersey and I can attest these folks don’t know what to do with a half-inch of snow, let alone the six they’re calling for.” “It will be OK,” said Sister, smiling. “But to be sure, do you have enough liquor at home?” She had a point and I made a mental note to hit up Wine Totalé on our way home.
See what the artist did there?
Within 20 minutes we were coming out from under the famed Triple Overpass, the same one a bleeding JFK was raced through on his way to Parkland. “Oh my! It’s splendiferous!” said Sister. Splendiferous? I guess one has ample time to memorize the thesaurus in a cloister. We parked, entered, and quickly ascended to the sixth floor. We walked through a timeline of the life and times of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The museum does a good job of refraining from political comment and all the exhibits are laid out in a matter-of-fact way. No matter what your thoughts about Kennedy, one cannot help but feel a sense of emotion, especially as you approach the sniper’s perch in the corner window. We looked over Elm Street where the open-top limousine made that hairpin turn. We could see the “X’s” painted on the road surface where bullets had felled our leader. The sky was gray and dank. There was a chill in the air. As I wiped away a slight trace of a tear from my cheek, I noticed Sister raising her arms ever so slowly. She, too, must be feeling the terrible weight of that day, the anguish on Jackie’s face climbing over the back of the limo, the distress of the crowds jumping to the ground, the, wait a minute, what’s she doing? Oh dear God, Sister was raising her arms to clasp her hands together in the manner of a .45 caliber handgun and pointing them toward the road surface below. Have I mentioned yet that she still wears a full pre-Vatican II habit? “I suppose Oswald could have pulled it off but not from this window,” she said. And then she returned her finger gun to an imaginary holster next to her four foot wooden rosaries hanging from her belt, and skipped to the next window bay only to draw and line up her next shot. Although I’m sure it’s not the strangest thing the docents here have seen, I have personally never witnessed this and I’ve seen a helluva lot. Four windows later and I remembered that Sister was also a ballistics expert from her time in the Marines. Why shouldn’t she draw on her favorite interests in this place? I hid in the interpretive theater and may have wet myself either from fear or laughter.
Really? Give it a rest already.
Surprised not to have been asked to leave, we exited after our timed tour and met up with another friend of Sister’s who lives nearby. We found a nifty little restaurant and had a drink. The weather was turning now. I’ve been here long enough to know a tornado sky from a snow sky and this was definitely the latter but it was struggling to burst onto the scene. “Still a few days off,” I said to Sister as we sipped our cocktails. “Great,” she said. “There’s a western wear store right next door. She slipped inside and emerged a few minuets later with that hat she had wanted. Placing it over her wimple, she glanced around the skyline of Dallas. “Which one is the Ewing Oil Building?” she asked. “JR needs a picture.”
I could tell you about the rest of this day but other than dinner at one of our favorite barbecue spots, it ended exactly as you should have known it would.
Yankee candles around the fire.
That snow was coming but we still had a few more days of calm before the flakes would fall. Oh, and my nephew was still in town. He and the college girls had gone to a local bar. When they returned home they recounted how they had been offered coke by another bar patron, and not the fizzy kind. They didn’t accept (thank God). He looked at me slightly puzzled when I asked what set of circumstances would have prompted this. “You know, it’s like you’re in a bar and someone offers you coke, right?” Again, I’ve seen a helluva lot but that’s one I’m filing under a big, fat NO.
Where was my wife this whole time? I know you’re asking… She was working. See, friends, as a homeschool dad and all around man of many interests, not to mention a great conversationalist because I’ve seen just about everything and I have a knack for making everyone around me feel comfortable, I am the designated tour-guide in the family. That’s right. The Jersey Boy can tell you all about Texas because it’s now what I do. And in our next installment I will tell you all about when Jersey’s sister, that is, my actual sister, arrives. Oh yes, this party is just getting started.
In Part 1 of this adventure I introduced you to several characters. There was Alma, the Salvaruvian housekeeper who pulled a “Mary Poppins”. There was the liquor store lady who introduced me to a swirling mess of crap in a glass new cocktail. There was Airport Drunk who clearly wasn’t paying attention during the safety video. And there wasSister, the gregarious ex-nun who chose to spend her vacation in the warmth of our Texas winter. Now I should like to tell you about Sister’s adventures proper. Buckle up.
Tuesday February 9, 2021
I awoke to find the highballs from our Yankee Candles (the bijou cocktail lest you forgot) sitting in the sink, and a few empty bags of Whataburger in the trash can. It was like the aftermath of a frat party where Mother Teresa was the pledge. Now it was time to show Sister the sights. My wife prides herself on being able to find the most unusual places to visit. These are places that exude just the right amount of local flair without seeming too “kitschy”. And every visit to Dallas should begin with a trip to… Fort Worth, the “Gateway to the West”. That reminds me of the first time I visited Detroit as a television producer. I found myself in the driver’s seat of a rental car driving a 92 year-old black woman around town on our way to our location shoot. Struggling for small talk because I’m apparently not down with the swirl, we found ourselves discussing the local flavor. After a few moments of silence I said to my guest, “Oh, I went over to Windsor [Ontario] last night and saw a few bars and casinos.” To this the old lady replied, “I’ve been livin’ here almost a century and I always said the best part of Detroit is Canada.” And then she pulled out a guitar and sang three verses of the folk tune Freight Train. And then she died. And what might be in Fort Worth, you ask? For starters, we went to a pickle museum. No, that’s it. A literal showplace for pickles, nature’s cruelest joke right after progeria, that disease where children rapidly age. I did not know such a place existed before this day. I did not know that an entire room, let alone 10,000 square feet, could be filled with the wonders of pickles. There were pickled food products such as cotton candy (gross) and, well, basically that was it other than the actual pickles. For the record, I despise pickles. A pickle once tried to kill me. I did take a picture with a mock-up of a pickle though. It’s called facing your fears. Sister seemed to enjoy the place, though, so it was cool. And they had a gift shop! My daughter bought a shirt with a pickle on it that side something like “I like it dirty” or something.
Right next to Pickle-o-rama was a Western wear outlet. Surprisingly we found nothing that we liked. But the seed was planted. I’ve lived here close to ten years and have yet to embrace this local attire. True, many people in Texas actually do dress like cowboys. Some of them actually are cowboys. I am a Northerner who has never truly felt like I belonged here. But my children have insured that I have little hair left on top of my head and I’m a sucker for a nice hat. Sister wanted boots. She tried on 1200 pairs, turned to my wife and me, and said, “Nothing fits. What’s for lunch?”
After a lovely meal, we ventured into the Fort Worth Stockyards. We listened to Sister’s eclectic selection of music. How a recently kicked-out ex-nun has any music on her phone is beyond me. It was mostly pop music and some classic country which I’m totally cool with. The Stockyards is an historic district just north of downtown Fort Worth. It is famous for housing an honest-to-goodness cattle market. Apparently cattle need daily exercise so twice a day a group of cowboys “stampede” about 12 sickly longhorn steers down Main St. to the delight of the tourists. I took out my phone and played the Aaron Copeland symphony Rodeo. You might remember it from the old beef industry commercials. One of the cows dropped dead. Sister and I laughed. As the song finished we both said in unison, “Beef: It’s what’s for dinner.”
After failing to find anything more than another bar at the Stockyards we headed to the home of other friends who have know both my wife and Sister for years. Along the way we stopped at another Western outlet. This time, Daddy found what he’d been looking for. Say hello to my new black felt Stetson. And they had my size too! It’s hard to find a 7 9/8. Possibly another reason I don’t fit in here. My father always told me I had a larger skull to accommodate a bigger brain. Sister’s hat size is even larger. She did not find a hat. I was sad for her. To alleviate my grief I also bought a pair of jeans and a graphic tee with a picture of an oil derrick that says “I like it crude”. My wife now officially hates me.
Remember that lovely lunch we ate? Yeah, something about the spices they used at that Mexican joint wasn’t sitting well with me. I had been uncharacteristically experiencing heartburn all afternoon. We forgot to stop at Walgreens for Tums on the way home so I asked my wife when we walked in the house if we had any in the medicine closet. It really wasn’t that bad, just an annoyance. Also I’m 43 and now believe that every minor malady is a heart attack. Welcome to maturity! “Honey,” she said, “just take one of these,” as she handed me a prescription bottle. I must state this off the bat. I ALWAYS trust my wife. For some reason this time, however, I did not. I took the bottle as she walked away and quietly slipped into the pantry where I Googled the medicine’s name. My wife believed in her heart she had handed me an antacid. In fact she had even written the word “antacid” on the bottle with a pencil. But drugs.com said otherwise. Staring back at me from my phone was the following.
Lysteda (tranexamic acid) is a man-made form of an amino acid (protein) called lysine. Tranexamic acid prevents enzymes in the body from breaking down blood clots. Lysteda is used to treat heavy menstrual bleeding. This medication will not treat premenstrual syndrome (PMS).
“Sweetness,” I called into the other room. “Um, you know these ain’t Tums, right?” I showed her the website and she just about died laughing. Wondering what was so funny other than that she had tried to give me, a MAN, something to stop a nonexistent yet heavy menstrual flow, she said, “I’m pretty sure I gave those to my sister’s husband like three or four times on different holiday gatherings.”
Our laughter was only interrupted by two words I never thought I’d ever hear in my house, certainly not in such an elfish tone.
“Yankee Candle!”
With that I dutifully returned to my bar to whip up a few bijous. And all were happy.
In Part 3 you will travel with us into the heart of Dallas’ obsession with the 35th President of the United States and discover the moment when Sister finally finds her hat. Don’t worry. The snowstorm and blackout eventually show up.
One of the Psalms saieth something or other about how “at least the honest man can get a good night’s rest.” Well friends, I’m tired. I’m not sure that speaks much to my honesty or not but it’s been a long day. The dog (pictured above, my schizophrenic Jack Russell) and I are headed to slumber town. As I tell the kids, “Don’t forget your night prayers and for heavens’ sake, BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”
I think I was last writing about some existential crisis in my life or other. OK, you got me. It’s been a long time since I wrote anything on this page. Here’s the story in a nutshell for those who still follow…
In the past year I quit my job as a vice principal. Yes, it’s the same one I bitched about wanting for years. I did it because I wanted to teach my own kids and because COVID. I started another blog and a YouTube channel. Did that go anywhere? That’s a big fat NO but not for lack of trying. You see, just as things were heating up we had a death in the family. One of my brothers-in-law, a man who will forever be remembered by those who knew him for his extraordinary kindness, died three weeks ago after a long illness. Forgive me for taking some time off. Also, did I mention COVID? I think the last few times I posted on this page I was detailing how I had finally gotten in really good shape after years of struggling with my weight and lack of athleticism. COVID hurts. I think I had it at one point early on but who can say? But what I can say is that about a year ago I stopped doing anything physical and completely let my diet go to hell. I’m blaming COVID Try to stop me.
In a nutshell, I am now a homeschooling dad with a failing YouTube presence and a gut exceeding the size of the state of Montana. But as anyone who knows me can tell you, I do eventually get back up, get back on the proverbial horse, and strive to achieve some semblance of “not-suck” in my life.
A few days ago, following Thanksgiving and my 43rd birthday, I decided it was time to try something new. Or something old, who can really say? Back to writing? Perhaps. A renewed interest in my media presence? Possibly. Trying to shed 20 pounds of excess fat and get a few of my once-visible abs to pop again? BINGO!
Long time readers will remember a character I introduced years ago known simply as “the Trainer”. Trainer is a friend of mine who is the envy of every man half his age. He’s now 40 years-old and still in phenomenal shape. As he touts with the excitement and nervous embarrassment of a five year-old boy, “I have ab veins,” whatever they are (and don’t tell me you haven’t Googled that one.). He’ll hate me for writing this but it’s true and he should shut up and take the compliment. He is a very holy and very humble man who trains his body not for vanity’s sake but because it is a temple of the Holy Ghost. And boy is he good at it. He runs like a demon out of hell. He does all kinds of body weight exercises because he can. He’s inspiring. I am not him and have finally realized in the past few years that I never will be him. But I realized that I am me and with some determination I can be a pretty good me. Two years ago I started taking my fitness and health seriously and by one year ago I had gotten into the absolute best shape of my life. This was in part inspired by the Trainer. After years of hearing his words I finally understood them. He wanted me to forge my own path and discover the secrets of training for myself. I’m happy to say, that thanks to his inspiration, I essentially did just that. It’s never been a competition but if I had to compare I think I may have given him a run for his money (said with a wink). I was in my early 40’s and pretty well defined, conditioned, doing things I’d never dreamed of doing. And then I let it go. But it’s not as if I am an extremely insecure man who’s always doubted whether anyone actually loves me and you can all stop laughing now.
So who did I turn to when I wanted to get back in condition? You guessed it. Last week I reached out to the trainer the day after my birthday and asked him if he could write up a program for me to get back in relatively good condition. I was straight with him. I said I was really concerned mostly about good health and overall conditioning, not necessarily my physique, although I understood that if I followed any decent plan I would achieve that as well. And he showed up at my door the next night with a plan. Unfortunately that plan was heavy on the one thing that he knows I have hated doing since he first tried to train me years ago – running. Aside from the fact that I have to quit smoking, I just hate running. But I committed to it and I keep my commitments.
Last night I worked through Day 1 of his reconditioning plan. I died. This is my essence typing this post. It’s pretty on the other side and I thought that years or bitchy sneakiness about ALL my neighbors would have merited a more fiery afterlife. Tonight I texted him to let him know I was sticking with it, despite my recent death. Do you know that he texted back he was on his way to run it through with me? As in, no joke, he came over and did my workout with me! He is a good man and I appreciate his presence.
Tonight I found that I didn’t cough up a lung. It was still hard as hell but anything worth doing is. I wonder if he gets that part of why I want to do this – especially now that he’s involved – is to impress him. I really want to show him that I admire his dedication so much that I want to do well for his sake – so he can look and say, “I did this to this corpse of a man. I turned him into something resembling me.” That’s not a bad thing. And I hope he sees my admiration and affinity for him for what they are. He is dedicated. He is strong. He is in good condition and that didn’t happen by accident. And I hope to be that too.
In 9 weeks I’m supposed to be able to complete a “Murph Challenge” which is a one mile run followed by 100 pull ups, 200 push ups, 300 squats, and another mile run. This guy thinks I can do it. Until last night I hadn’t run in four years and haven’t done a single pull up in at least a year. The push ups and squats were fine. It was humiliating to demonstrate these facts to him tonight but I showed him I wouldn’t give up. I’m grateful he thinks I can do it even if he did chastise me for having difficulty with the 1/4 mile sprint. Look I already died last night so it couldn’t possibly happen again, right?
Tomorrow it’s on for three sets of the same. I hope and pray it really does get easier. If not I’ll be completing this Murph from another realm.
Bottom line: I love this guy. He’s always been willing to lend his own time and experience trying to get the unseemly of this world like me to be more seemly. Prayers for increased lung capacity are always appreciated.
Folks, I got off all that social media nonsense a while ago. Sorry but I'm not on Twitbook, Facepalm, YouHu, WingWang or any of the others. Maybe an event will happen to make me change my mind like Peter and Paul coming down with flaming swords and commanding it be so. Until then, read the blog and if you feel a comment is in order or you feel like sharing a tip or suggestion for a topic, email me at harvey@harveymillican.com.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 