Remembering Hurricane Carla

Watching the imminent arrival of Gustav this afternoon made me remember the arrival, on September 10, 1961, of Hurricane Carla. The day before it hit, we drove over to Galveston, from our home in La Marque, Texas, 14 miles away. The waves were hitting the seawall and throwing waves of water -- not only over our heads, but over the entire street that ran along the seawall. We felt a little like surfers, 'shooting the pipe'--- enveloped in a 'pipe' of water, completely enveloped by water, )except that we were standing on solid ground, and surfers have water completely around them). Water spray was thrown from the seawall onto the Galvez Hotel almost a block away from the seawall! I was a senior in high school and had never seen anything like this in my life!When the waves hit the seawall, the ground shook from the force of the water smashing into the concrete. It was awe-inspiring! We were drenched with seawater, but were transfixed by the power of the storm. The water would pull away from the seawall, just in time for the slamming of another wave into the wall. We went home, and the next day, I was outside our home and it fell very quiet. I looked off into the distance, and saw only a thin purple line on the horizon. You could hear a pin drop, it seemed, a block away. Birds weren't flying. Dogs weren't barking. It was so quiet and everything was so still. The leaves weren't moving in the trees. The purple line grew taller and taller. Then the purple line became a towering line, and we knew that Hurricane Carla was coming. Then came the wind and the rain. The wind grew and became a screaming torrent, like the rain. I could hear gravel, from the roofs of surrounding homes, hitting the sides of our house, stripping the exterior of our home like only winds of over 150 miles per hour can do so. I saw sheet metal flying down the street, hitting and then decapitating small trees. The winds were so loud that, in our home, we had to talk loudly to each other to even be heard. Finally, the eye of the hurricane arrived, and alll was calm and quiet again...for awhile. The authorities came through the neighborhoods of LaMarque and, with loudspeakers on the top of their automobiles, told everyone to leave-- immediately. We left---slowly, in our old Cadillac -- heading for Houston. We drove through water that looked like it would flood out the engine on the car. It didn't do that, but it did come into the car. We kept on driving away from the coast, heading towards Houston. Hours later, as we arrived in Houston, at the home of one of my dad's relatives, near Hobby airport, the eye of the storm had passed and the storm intensified suddenly again, with the wind now coming from the opposite direction. Ferocious winds and rain came at us again. We heard on the radio that tornadoes had been spotted in the area, so family members stationed themselves at the front and rear of the home, near windows. Below-ground shelters did not exist in Houston at the time, and they would have not been sufficient for such a huge population anyway. While we were watching the storm, tornadoes were spotted from both the front and rear of the home at the same time! We just knew that we would all be killed, but we rode out the storm safely. Several days passed before the left of the water in the street in front of the home where we had taken refuge had subsided enough to allow us to make our way home to La Marque. While we had waited for the flood waters to subside, we watched people run up and down the street in their speed boats. They couldn't get to work, so they enjoyed running about the streets of Houston in their boats!As we slowly returned to La Marque, we passed amazing sights -- huge buildings, trees, homes, cars-- that had been swept away during the hurricane and had been deposited along the highway, randomly, like so many building blocks, scattered by a child at play. We passed one home and saw a concrete and steel suspension bridge, that had been deposited in a man's front yard! We also saw men, scrambling around in the flood waters, frantically grabbing the property that belonged to other people, and claiming 'salvage rights' to what they could grab. We saw two men in a fist-fight over a large boat to which they both laid claim. When we returned to our home, there was not much left. Our home was only about 14 miles from Galveston and there were no seawalls or other protection from the high water. The high water had been in our home and there was nothing left. We had dead fish, a dead snake, piles and piles of stinking mud on the floors. The walls had gotten soaked with water and the sheetrock had fallen. The ceilings were covered with mildew. Everything was ruined. Everything of value was gone. The entire neighborhood was destroyed. Hurricane Carla slammed into our little piece of the Gulf coast as a category four hurricane (and was a category 5 storm before it hit land)-- and was remembered as the strongest hurricane to ever hit the Gulf coast.I feel badly for the people who are facing their own version of Hurricane Carla this week. My prayers are for them and all the suffering and all of the loss they will experience.

What is it with kids?

On a recent blog, I shared the story of Gena's 'thing' for frogs. I didn't tell the whole story...When Gena and Jeff were both very little, and had those shrill, shrieky-high-pitched voices that little kids have -- you know, the kind of voices that can shatter windows when they squeal or scream -- they BOTH learned how to use that ability that mainly tiny folks have, to acquire a skill that I have never before heard attributed to humankind. They learned how to call frogs! We have always had frogs in our backyard in the summer (I told Paula that would happen if she left the water running for weeks on end!), and the kids loved the frogs but had trouble finding them on their own. One evening, when the frogs were speaking to one another with those sweet strains that cause only other frogs' hearts to beat wildly, Gena and Jeff began emulating those frog trills. They would run back and forth across our backyard with a peculiar set to their jaws that allowed them to force the frog-trills from their mouths. Their blood veins would stand out on their necks from the effort. The neighbors -- mostly nice, quiet people, just minding their own business, probably thought we were all crazy. The frog calling went on intermittently all summer...for several summers, until the thrill of frog-calling gave way to...who knows? Who can know where this stuff comes from...and where it goes. In that respect, it's like the wind. The Bible tells us that we don't know where IT comes from, either...or where IT goes.I do know, however, that for our little corner of the world during those years, we had a huge frog population in our backyard. We found frogs everywhere...they even ended up in our pool on occasion. Not toads, mind you, but frogs --- big, green, strong-swimming frogs. This unusual congregation of frogs made me wonder if during all that 'trilling for frogs' (like 'trolling' for fish, but with high-pitched noise for bait), maybe Gena and Jeff were inadvertently trilling Woodstock-like frog-words and frog-thoughts, that inadvertently were trumpeting to all the frogs in the vicinity to come to a frog love-in! The long strings of frog eggs often appeared in the rain water on our pool cover, and this had never happened prior to the frog-trilling of Gena and Jeff.This ability to call frogs is no doubt a very unusual ability. I wonder if it might turn out to one day become an Olympic event!  Hmmm-mm! During and following the frog-trilling era at the Shoemske's home, we often went out for dinner. Invariably, Jeff, who was a little guy at the time, would often boldly speak up when the waitress asked us what we wanted for dinner, and would ask, with a serious, almost adult look on his face: "Do you have any frog legs?" He would ask this every time, although he had never ---EVER--- eaten frog legs. The waitresses would always give him a curious, blank look, before telling him that no, at this particular restaurant (hamburger joint), we don't have frog legs.  Jeff would feign disappointment but then, always a good sport, would wolf down his hamburger and fries. This has been, like all of my blog-stories, a true story. Ask Jeff and Gena. You may even get a grown-up version of a truly unique (redundant) frog-trill. Maybe you can take that home and teach your kids how to creat an amphibian rock concert event in YOUR backyard!

Gena's love affair with frogs

Back in the '80s, when Gena was a little girl, I came home from an out-of-town trip and walked into our home, carrying my briefcase and luggage. I could tell that my little family was home, but they were out in the back yard, so I headed toward the back door, calling out to Paula and the kids. Suddenly, Gena streaked past the back door, in her shorts and t-shirt. She had a huge grin on her face and the most excited look I had ever seen in her eyes as she paused for a millisecond to greet me and then raced on past the back door, holding the most enormous bullfrog I had ever seen in my life. Not a little toad, mind you, but a huge green bullfrog. She changed expression in that same millisecond, to reassure her dumbfounded dad. Her little eyebrows twisted a little, in that little-girl attempt at seriousness and grown-up-ishness as she said, very matter-of-factly: "I'm not a tomboy, dad---I just love frogs!" Then she continued running barefooted, in a generally southern direction, to join Jeff in their amphibious pursuits. All I heard was shrieking and giggling. It had been a hard week, but all the concerns of the week melted away instantly with that little gap-toothed grin, in a little face, full of freckles with blond hair, and big, bright blue eyes, reassuring her daddy that she was NOT a tomboy...she just loved frogs! You gotta love it!

Another sweet memory!

Dad

You tell ME what they were

On a warm day in 1954, in Houston, TX., southwest of the downtown area, just outside a beautiful neighborhood called River Oaks, I had just awakened from my usual mandatory afternoon nap. I was ten years old. I wandered outside to find, up and down Elmen Street where we lived, little 'knots' of people standing in front yards and out in the street, looking up. Some people had stopped their cars-- right in the middle of the street. Some car doors stood ajar. Everyone was looking up. I wondered what was going on, so I wandered over to one of the groups of people and I too, looked up. Finally I saw what everyone was staring at. A small group of cylinder-shaped objects-- black on one side, and silver on the other side, rotating slowly along the long axis of the cylinders. They were otherwise motionless, and had no wings, no exhaust coming from them, and most importantly, no noise. No markings of any kind. They just sat there -- high in the sky, with the sunlight on them, slowly rotating---black, then silver, then black, then silver. As they rotated, the sunlight reflected off of the shiny, silver portions of the objects. As the hundreds of people stared straight up, the objects finally, with precision, and in a tight grouping, took off! They raced across the sky, disappearing from sight....again, with no noise and no exhaust. Then they raced back across the sky and sat up there again, slowly rotating like black and silver cigars. Every now and then they would take off and as they rapidly moved across the cloudless sky, they sometimes abruptly changed direction, and began moving sideways-- still in formation. They didn't inscribe a sweeping turn, as I now know that most aircraft would have to do when making a high speed change in direction. They just abruptly began moving in a different direction -- perpendicular to the direction they had been traveling. They moved at an incredible speed, often disappearing from sight within a few seconds. This went on all afternoon. People all over Houston, Texas saw the same spectacle. It was in the Houston Chronicle, of course, but there was never any explanation. I don't know what I saw. How do you explain the unexplainable? I saw it, but have no clue what tens of thousands of people saw that day. It doesn't fit into any frame of reference that I have, but I will never forget that day. Maybe YOU can tell ME what they were!

My 'dog day' of summer!

It was 1974. Paula and I had been married almost two years. After a year of being dorm parents at OCC, we moved to an apartment on Britton Road, just off Broadway Extension. It had a pool, a clubhouse and everything. We were in tall cotton! No kids, no pets, and lots of time to spend together. Life was great! Often, when the weather was nice, we would take our 10-speed bikes down the stairs and go for bike rides all over the Britton area.

During the bike rides, we often rode up and down the east/west streets near our apartment. One evening we were chased by a large dog of unknown heritage....deep, threatening growls, aggressive and downright mean. Did I mention that Cujo was unchained? He chased us for a long distance, and we could never shake him. I told Paula to ride in front of me (the chivalrous thing to do..."you go ahead, honey --- let me field the dogs!"). The hair was standing on the back of our necks. Hearts pounding, and with white-knuckles seizing the handlebars, we raced to get away from Cujo. Paula later told me that she was not as worried as I was. She told me that she knew she didn't have to outrun Cujo on her bike...she only had to outrun me! (Such care and compassion from a loving wife! Are there no bounds to this woman's love for her husband?). Anyway, we finally got away. That ruined the bike ride for the evening.

Arriving back at our apartment, I stewed in my juices for awhile before coming up with a solution. I would teach that dog a lesson. I'll fix his clock! The next evening, having oiled and tightened all the nuts and bolts on my bike, I set out for a solo mission in 'enemy territory' (the devil dog's very own neighborhood). I had saved some used large syringes from my days at Dow Chemical which I now used as 'oil cans' for tiny motors, hinges, etc. I cleaned one of them out and filled the syringe with ammonia and then rubber-banded the 'loaded' syringe to the frame of my bike and headed for Cujo's house. I waited till dark, thinking that the cover of darkness would cover my crime. I headed down Cujo's street, making noise so I would not fail to attract his attention. I was afraid of Cujo, so I was ripping along at a pretty good clip (not that I could even think of outrunning him). Just like in your nightmares, you cannot outrun Cujo...or any other monster, for that matter.

Suddenly I heard the rapid, metallic sound of toenails on pavement! Cujo was coming for me! I ripped the syringe away from the rubber bands, stuck the business end of the syringe in my teeth to pull the cap off the syringe (like I had seen John Wayne and Clint Eastwood yank the pins from many a grenade in war movies). Feeling scared but a little heroic, I yanked the cap off of the syringe while hearing Cujo's heavy breathing and 'toenail staccato chatter' getting closer and closer, coming up on me from behind. At this point I'm thinking: 'he's gonna get his...he's gonna get his.' At the same time I'm also running another loop in my mind: 'Please don't let him get me, please don't let him get me! I had a mental image of Cujo rolling around on the grass, using his nose as a shovel, trying to deal with the ammonia. The other simultaneous mental image playing in my mental theater, was that of Cujo pinning me to the pavement, saliva dripping from his fangs as he savagely torn off every one of my limbs!

As I pulled the syringe away from my teeth, leaving the cap between my teeth, I inadvertently pushed a little too hard on the plunger and SHOT MYSELF IN THE EYES WITH THE AMMONIA MEANT FOR CUJO!

Eyes screaming in pain, I went down, bicycle, Cujo and all, skidmarks of flesh (mine, not Cujo's) on the pavement, slamming into and then bounding right over a curb, eventually coming to a stop in someone's front yard. Cujo knew I was a goner so either he felt sorry for me or did not like the smell of ammonia that was all over me. I staggered around in the general direction of the front of the house where I had crashed, blinded by the ammonia, looking for water. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't see Cujo and I couldn't really even see the house, except vaguely. Finally locating the faucet, I turned on the water and hosed my face for a long time, flushing my eyes. Later on, realizing that Cujo had disappeared, I walked my more-or-less wrecked bicycle home. My swollen, bloodshot eyes burned for days.

Having to tell everyone I met --- for days, what I had done to myself was humiliating. What an humbling experience-- dog-gone it all!

When you get a little too sure of yourself -- or when you decide to take vengeance into your own hands, take heed--- lest YOU fall...or crash! Stunts like this only work in the movies.

Wind in my hair!

It was 1985. I had just wrapped up a sale of high tech data com switching equipment to American Airlines' Engineering Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It had taken a year of constant work and I had just put a bow on the deal -- $2.5 million of intelligent switches and 'lightning fast' 2400 bps synchronous modems. I had just earned a $60,000 commission. That was a lot of money back then (still is, I guess) and I was basking in a case of the 'terminal grins'! Driving back to my motel room, on the north side of Tulsa, I passed a roller rink. I don't know why I stopped. Impulse, I guess. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty much empty. I had always wanted a pair of street skates but had never felt like I could blow $150 bucks for something so frivolous, esp. since I had a wife and two little kids at home. At the moment, however, I was living large, due to the culmination of a great sale, and was about to burst with excitement. I spotted a pair of black 'speed skates' with lime green wheels and lime green laces. I had to have them, so I walked out with them, and headed straight to my motel room, where I strapped those babies on and went out for a test ride, on the service road of I-244 during the evening rush hour. I was at the top of a hill, headed in an easterly direction, dressed in a pair of black gym shorts and an over sized swim suit cover that my wife had made for me. After heading briefly uphill, I decided to turn around and head downhill and put my new 'ride' through the paces. Very quickly I picked up a lot of speed. I had hair then and the wind was blowing my hair back and I felt so free! I was flying downhill. My reverie was quickly interrupted, however, when I looked a little further downhill and saw pretty heavy traffic heading north and southbound at the end of my little section of service road. I wasn't worried --- yet---but lifted one skate and dropped the toe onto the pavement, to slow down. Nothing happened. I was flying downhill and going so fast that the brake was ineffective. I panicked. I couldn't do anything to slow down and I was plummeting into an imagined T-bone with a 40 mph 2-ton automobile at the light! I looked around and all I saw was my imminent death and destruction--- teeth, hair, eyeballs and my black and lime green skates, all over the street!

Suddenly I spotted -- right before the intersection (and certain death!), a pile of gravel on the right side of the street -- in a little triangular area between two lanes --where traffic could continue across the north/south street, or turn right and head south. You've seen those little piles of gravel, full of pieces of glass, bottle caps, bits of this and that. I did the only thing I could do ---I steered straight into the gravel.

The skates stopped immediately....I, however, continued forward at great speed, doing a head over heels maneuver worthy of a Bruce Lee movie. I was airborne for awhile, it seems, before landing -- then sliding on my backside through a lot of gravel and then across a good bit of pavement. Flat on my back, with the wind knocked right out of me, I couldn't move -- or breathe-- for what seemed like a long time. I thought: 'I'm dead...and I've ruined my new skates.' I thought of Paula, Gena and Jeff and just knew that I'd never see them again. Then I noticed, as I lay flat on my back, out in the street, that I was looking up at a telephone pole and wires. I thought: 'They don't have telephone poles in heaven...or hell, for that matter (o.k., maybe they do have them in hell -- who knows?). Maybe I'm not really dead...yet. Then, in the middle of my 'countdown to eternity', I was a little annoyed, and maybe a little embarrassed to hear laughter. I turned my head over to the right and a guy in a car was passing me on the right, and it looked like he was going to stroke out from laughing at me. He was not my Good Samaritan -- he laughed--and drove on. Very, very slowly, I picked my self up from the street, and by now, traffic had slowed down considerably --both on the service road and the north/south street directly in front of me. No one stopped to help, but there WAS a considerable amount of laughter.

I took off the skates and walked the block or so back to my motel room and soaked for a long time in a tub of hot water, to try to ease my aches and pains. I had torn a good bit of flesh off of my arms, wrists and 'tokus', but my pride took even longer to heal. I was so thankful that I didn't know any of the passersby who had such a great time at my expense!

This evening, Paula reminded me that those black skates with the lime green wheels and the lime green laces are still up in the attic. I'm thinking of retrieving them and maybe going out for a spin around the block....maybe.

The maniacal dance

In 1974, Paula and I lived just west of the Broadway Ext., and Britton Road in some apartments called the 'Apollo Apartments'. They were nice back then...('not so much now', as Glenn Beck would say). Paula was finishing up her degree at OCC, and I was selling insurance. One day when she was in class and I was in the apartment, the weather changed....abruptly! The sky became dark and not a leaf was stirring out the 2nd floor window of our apartment. I turned on the black and white rabbit-eared television and immediately noticed the weatherman warning people who were southwest of OKC to get out of the path of a tornado. I perked up at the warnings because I love storms (while hating the death and destruction that often accompany them). As I watched, it became apparent to me that the storm was ambling in a direction that was generally toward the Apollo Apartments. Not yet alarmed, I got dressed -- sort of-- in cutoffs and a t-shirt and flip-flops (yes, Gena -- yes, Paula, I have now quit calling them 'thongs' :). Then it became apparent to me that I needed to leave the apartment at once. I grabbed the keys to my car, opened the door and ran down the stairs in a blinding rain. It was raining so hard I could not see well and I got into the wrong car! I found my car, started the engine and headed out east on Britton Road. By now the gray green swirling clouds were hanging low over the television station on the south side of Britton Road. Then I saw it! The tornado was moving up and down, like the horses on a merry-go-round, as the tornado headed in a generally northeast direction. My hair felt like it was standing on end (yes, I still had hair then!...sort of) and I headed east on Britton Road. Then I turned north for a mile and then east and then north and then east -- you get the picture. I was trying to follow the tornado. Every now and then I came close to intersecting the tornado, so I slowed down a little -- wanting to follow it and get as close as possible, but, safely-- behind the tornado! The tornado continued in this generally northeast direction until, out east of Edmond, as I raced eastward along a rain-washed road, rife with potholes, I found myself looking over my left shoulder, directly at the tornado! I was so close to the tornado at this moment that the rain, which had been obscuring my vision stopped! I could see clearly. As I flew down that muddy road, looking ahead on the road and then stealing a glance out the driver's side window, I watched in fascination as the tornado continued its wobbly dance, up and down, looking like a child's 'Slinky' on steroids!

All at once the tornado touched down on a barn that was directly in its path. I glanced at the barn -- then looked at the road ahead, dodging tree limbs and trying to dodge potholes. An instant later I looked back and the barn was gone--completely! Like it had never been there! The ground was scraped clean! The tornado continued toward the old 2-story white clapboard farmhouse. Like a giant meat cleaver, it neatly hacked off about a third of the house! The tornado continued to the east edge of the property and there it ripped a huge cottonwood tree out of the ground and send it sprawling across the road that ran north and south along the east side of the property. I wanted to turn north and run a mile north before again heading east to try to intersect the tornado once more before it ran its course. I could not get past the cottonwood tree, as it completely blocked the road. I got out of my car and stood there, where, moments before, the tornado had passed. I could still see the tornado, receding in the distance, still dancing the maniacal monster dance. It disappeared over the hill, leaving me in the middle of the road, with not a sound around me. I could hear my breathing, from the excitement of the moment. I smelled the smell of ozone. I was shivering and tingling with excitement. Suddenly, things began to happen --- I heard a crash...then another crash, and another.

Momentarily puzzled, I finally looked up, looking for the source of all the noise and saw that the sky was full of fence posts, barbed wire, boards, hay, and sheets of corrugated metal roofing! Then the rain started again. I jumped back into my gold Ford Torino and beat a hasty retreat, hoping that my car wouldn't be decimated by the large objects raining from the sky! As I backtracked down the road I had just traveled, I passed the farm house and looked closely at what was left. There were pictures still hanging on the walls of the upstairs room that was left intact! Amazing!

I stopped to see if anyone was home at the partially destroyed farm house. There were no cars there and no one was home. I hoped that no one had BEEN home when the tornado struck. When I got back to OKC, I found a pay phone and called to report the damage. I watched the newspapers and fortunately, no one was killed or injured.

This is the closest I have ever been to a tornado...ON PURPOSE! (More later on two more tornado 'episodes'--- in Dallas during the famous 1957 tornado in Oak Cliff, and on the Gulf Coast, during Hurricane Carla).

Chasing storms is crazy, but it definitely raises the adrenalin! I will never forget the awesome power of a tornado -- when it is up close and personal. God's power in this physical world is a sight to behold!

Here, kitty, kitty....kitty!

"Here, kitty, kitty...kitty"

The following letter was written during the summer of 2008 when Frances Sawyer, a friend for over 40 years, and the sister of my best friend, Phil Johnson, asked me to send her one of my stories from the days when Phil and I were both single and ran around together. Frances put together a book of memories for Phil, on the occasion of his 60th birthday party in Knoxville, TN, and I was honored to have the opportunity to tell about a funny time from our past.

A word of explanation: Phil and I had nicknames for each other. We weren’t, and aren’t very imaginative people, and the origin of the nicknames is lost in the ‘mists of time’, but we have, for over 40 years, referred to each other as ‘hack’…or ‘hacker’…or ‘hackeroo’. Lesser forms of the word also included ‘hackeroosky’ and the even less common ‘hackerola’. We also tagged other friends with these dubious nicknames. I assure you, they are worthy recipients of the grand name. You may know Randy and Tommy Heath, or Bobby Rowley. To this day they respond well to any of the different forms of the name ‘hack’, and the use of one of these names will invariably bring a smile to their faces! Since I am incapable of continuing with the etymology of the word ‘hack’, I’ll get right to the story….


Hey, Hack!

So, you’re hitting the big 6-0! (Oh, to be 60 again!). It seems like just the other day….we were both single, and it was likely a Friday night, about midnight. We usually met over at your little rent house on Rhode Island, in Edmond – a place we both called ‘Roach Haven’. It was a tiny cinderblock place that you temporarily called ‘home’. After our Friday and Saturday night dates with beautiful young women at OCC, we often met at your place to unwind and talk about the wonderful evenings we had just enjoyed with our dates. Ah, those were the days!

One particular evening, we were sitting on stiff-backed chairs at Roach Haven, with our feet off the floor, and both of us wielding fly swatters. You’ll remember that our feet had to be kept off of the floor to avoid getting in the way of hordes of strange insects that were constantly marching across your floor. The flyswatters were used to ‘bat’ out of the air, some of the flies, mosquitoes, moths and wasps that were in abundance. Due to the unbelievable quantity of insects, there was also a corresponding and amazing variety of spiders, which had also taken up residence in Roach Haven, and which fed on the smorgasbord of bugs.

Sometime well after midnight, while we were still regaling each other with unforgettable stories, we noticed the rather insistent ‘meowing’ of a cat. Although we tried to ignore it, the howling persisted until we got a little bit annoyed. We went ‘outside’ (which was just like the ‘inside’, but with trees, cars and the mailbox). We picked up some pieces of bricks, and started softly calling ‘Here, kitty-kitty….here, kitty, kitty!’ The ‘kitty’ was persistent with the howling, but elusive. We started throwing rocks and pieces of bricks, and, when that didn’t work, began lobbing full-sized bricks at the source of the noise. The cat did not let up, and the howling got louder and louder. We then noticed that the cat’s howling was now coming from high up in a cedar tree in your front yard. We started heaving bricks up into the tree. The cat climbed higher. We now viewed the cat problem as a challenge! You picked up a large glass bottle from the yard and threw it with all your strength, high into the tree. You missed, but the bottle found its mark, on a neighbor’s steel fence post, and shattered into a thousand pieces! Enraged, you leaped into the tree, and climbed maybe fifteen feet up the tree. When you reached for the cat, you were met with a very loud ‘ROWWWRRRRR!’…and a near-miss from the cat’s lightning fast, slashing attempt at ripping your face off! Suddenly you almost flew out of the tree—panic and fear in your voice as you fell to the ground, tree limbs all-a-breaking! I was safely on the ground, laughing so hard that I had trouble breathing! My laughing at you, and the cat’s vicious decimation of your ‘bravery’ made you only madder. You ran into Roach Haven and grabbed your ubiquitous green Army jacket (you remember the one…the one that you were wearing in all photographs taken of you for twenty-plus years). You wrapped the green jacket around your ‘Lion-Taming Arm’ and, with something of a John Wayne swagger and set to your jaw, headed back up the tree. (Stay with me here…it gets better!).
I wish I had a picture of you, heading up that tree, with the kitty howling and YOU saying some very, very unkind things to – and about – the poor little ‘kitty’. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the action (or your demise). I was standing more or less directly under you and the cat. When you got near the cat, you grabbed the cedar tree and started waving it and the cat back and forth with vigor borne of rage! Again, the spectacle had me roaring with laughter, and I tried to ‘egg on’ both you and the kitty, to prolong the fun. This was beginning to be a LOT of fun!

Suddenly, the cat got sick…at both ends…simultaneously. I was looking up at you and the cat and never even saw what hit me square on top of my head, but, from the smell and semi-liquid nature of it, I knew what had happened. In a tenth of a second, in abject horror I yelled ‘AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! …and ran into Roach Haven, heading for the bathtub. I yanked on the screen door so violently that I tore it off of the hinges. I rushed into the bathroom, stuck my head into the bathtub and began trying to clean the CATastrophe off of my head! I used a lot of bar soap and shampoo, and a number of available bathroom cleansers – Lysol, Comet cleanser, among others -- in a vain attempt at ridding my head of the smell and the mess. During my discomfort, you climbed down from the tree and came indoors, and all I could hear, over the roar of the water in the bathtub, was your convulsive laughter.

Later on, sometime after 2 a.m., after we had exhausted all the jokes at each others’ expense, we went back outside, loaded up with bricks, as before, but this time, the quiet calls of ‘Kitty-Kitty, were much lower in pitch and very ominous as we once again called out quietly in our best Marlon Brando-ish Godfather voices: ‘HERE, KITTY, KITTY,…. HERE, KITTY….KITTY…KITTY…KITTY.’ We did not find the cat this time, but, as we searched the area around the front of Roach Haven we noticed that the street in front of your home was sprinkled with dozens of large rocks, bricks and pieces of bricks…it looked like a war zone.

Phil, I don’t remember the names of the girls we were dating back then, but I won’t EVER forget the ‘NIGHT OF THE CAT’. We’ve been buddies since about 1967, and I have never had a better friend. This is one of a thousand stories each of us could tell about the great times we have shared as friends.

Thanks for being my friend, Phil. You are the best buddy I have ever had and we have waded into and through a lot of the best that life has to offer. I treasure your friendship!

I love you, ‘Hack’!


Gene Shoemake
Edmond, Oklahoma

Kickin' the tires on this new blog

My daughter, Gena Alexander, has been on my case for quite awhile now, wanting me to save for posterity, some stories from my past. Okay, I promised I would do that...someday. I read her blog and the blogs of some of her friends, and was impressed. They all have a gift for expressing themselves --- and, their stories are funny. Some of my stories involve other people, who may not want the notoriety of the eternal, printed word. I will try to be careful about that, so that I don't whittle down the list of people who still, today, look at me as a friend. On the other hand, some of the stories will involve people who, despite their being good friends, are co-conspirators of mine. Since these friends are complicit in some of these events, their involvement also needs to receive the cleansing light of revelation. These stories will come randomly, with no attempt to put them into any sort of chronological order.