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Friday, June 30, 2006
Get Your Kicks on Rex 66!
Book blogging time, my paleo-passionate herd.
Just finished reading the "Dinosaur Travel Guide" by Kelly Milner Halls.
From Alabama to Saskatchewan, this book lists over 300 sites sure to appeal to any aspiring paleontologist, regardless of age.
In my own fair state, the travel guide suggests the Austin Nature and Science Center Dino Pit, Hartman Prehistoric Garden, Texas Memorial Museum, BIG BEND NATIONAL PARK, Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Dinosaur World, Brazosport Museum of Natural Science, Corpus Christi Museum of Science and History, Dallas Museum of Natural History, The Science Place in Dallas, Chromosaur City, Shuler Museum of Paleontology, Centennial Museum, Fort Worth Museum of Science and History, Dinosaur Valley State Park, Houston Museum of Natural Science, Robert A. Vines Environmental Science Center, Museum of Texas Tech University, Heard Natural Science Museum and Wildlife Sanctuary, Dinosaur Gardens, Witte Museum, and the Mayborn Museum (Formerly known as the Strecker). Oh, and the Austin-Texas Headquarters Office of the US Geological Survey.
Every North American state or country that boasts an interesting dinosaur destination is listed here. And included are great little side treats and tasty morsels, like this nugget:
"I was six years old when dinosaur fossils were uncovered 8 miles east of Kenton (30 miles northwest of Boise City) in 1931. The best find was a skeleton of a 70-foot long Aptaosaurus..."
Or this story:
"When you think of park rangers, you think of someone with a shiny badge who answers quesitons - someone on a first-name basis with Smokey the Bear. All that's true. But now there is a special breed of ranger who not only takes care of trees and wildlife, but also watches over fossils. I suppose your could call them 'fossil rangers' That's what I am - a ranger who takes care of fossils..."
The back of the book is veritable quarry of shopping links, publications, and interactive fun. Like this link to a great online postcard site for sending e-mail postcards. Or this site for dinosaur sneakers - so cute! (Do they come in size 8 medium ladies?)
The book will have you ready to pack your bags, lacing up hiking boots, and setting your Ray Bradbury Wayback Machine to the Cretaceous Period. Not just for the little bonediggers in the family, this gem is a treasure for any of us still young at heart and infatuated with fossils and dinosaurs.
The Dinosaur Travel Guide rocks and roars!
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Name This Band!
Anyone know the name of this Texas Band?
Los Pinche Gringos?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
What Whine Goes Good With Down In The Mouth?
Dear, dear, my good savant friend needs some git in his git-along ( or would that be wit in his git- along?)
Anyway, LS is suffering from the (big booming voice, comes in here) SUMMER DOLDRUMS. Ain't it da twooth. It's hotter than ten cats on a tin roof 'round these parts.
In his comments box, I left a suggestion - a contest, we need a contest! And, I submitted my own subject preference (see I do have preferences, 2blowhards!):
Or, heck pick your own. Wanna play?
To get the ball rolling quick, and to give me time for my brain to roll those poetic gears, I submit these limericks about Texas. I cannot claim authorship, nor do I really know whom to salute. I found them at this website. Thanks, Don!
Shoot, I will just have to top that last one. Cowtown surely can be versed much better. And we don't have that many sports teams. Someone confused us with those eastern cities - Arlington and Dallas. Drat, now I'm gonna hafta wash my mouth out with soap... *grin*.
Anyway, LS is suffering from the (big booming voice, comes in here) SUMMER DOLDRUMS. Ain't it da twooth. It's hotter than ten cats on a tin roof 'round these parts.
In his comments box, I left a suggestion - a contest, we need a contest! And, I submitted my own subject preference (see I do have preferences, 2blowhards!):
TEXAS
Or, heck pick your own. Wanna play?
To get the ball rolling quick, and to give me time for my brain to roll those poetic gears, I submit these limericks about Texas. I cannot claim authorship, nor do I really know whom to salute. I found them at this website. Thanks, Don!
Huntsville is home to the prison
Whose practice creates a great schism.
There are some who ask why
Do these folks have to die?
And others who say it’s good ridum**
Our Governor’s name is Rick Perry.
His head and his chest are all hairy.
Some women will swoon
And many will croon,
“With him I’d love to make merry.”
There was a young lad from Dime Box
Who caught a horrible pox
When asked where he got it
He said that he bought it.
But allowed she was really a fox.
In southwest Texas is El Paso
Where cowboys all carry a lasso.
Some carry a gun
And it’s not just for fun--
They keep it all shiny with Brasso
Houston’s the 4th largest city
And its people are plum without pity
For Dallas that’s smaller
But has a statute that’s taller*
And cops that aren’t quite as gritty.
The Cowboys are America’s team.
To play there fulfills a dream.
The cheerleaders are fine
But when they drink lots of wine
Their outfits pull loose at the seam.
Rastus enjoyed going to Dallas
To court a young lass named Alice
She was skinny and tall
Not pretty at all
But a good place to put in his time.
Here’s to the great city, Fort Worth.
It’s filled with hilarity and mirth.
It has sports teams galore
That will run up the score
And restaurants that run up your girth.
Shoot, I will just have to top that last one. Cowtown surely can be versed much better. And we don't have that many sports teams. Someone confused us with those eastern cities - Arlington and Dallas. Drat, now I'm gonna hafta wash my mouth out with soap... *grin*.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
A Fine Southern Delicacy
Quick - what's hiding underneath that golden crusty batter?
Another Terrific Herd Member
* Of course you know, I mean no disrespect by calling my favorite blogsites, "The Herd".
Been meaning to add this wonderful lady's blog to my sidebar and make introductions, but I am mending that ol' fence now. I really enjoy myself when visiting her site and my head usually is bobbing in agreement with many of the comments she leaves in the blogdom. An added delight, lives in a very beautiful western state - Montana.
Terrific reading, git yerself over there 'rat now...
Been meaning to add this wonderful lady's blog to my sidebar and make introductions, but I am mending that ol' fence now. I really enjoy myself when visiting her site and my head usually is bobbing in agreement with many of the comments she leaves in the blogdom. An added delight, lives in a very beautiful western state - Montana.
Terrific reading, git yerself over there 'rat now...
Friday, June 23, 2006
Listen Up, DarkoV
*Personal message to the supreme DJ, Darkov of Pertinent Verge
Surely, you can have no gripe about this CD...
**For those not the know, this is an update to his post last February.
!!!!UPDATE!!!
My astute and musically inclined friend, Bill, who resides at Prairie Point has shown me a voice I think I might love as much as The Queen of Rockabilly/Folk.
Vices are expensive...
Surely, you can have no gripe about this CD...
**For those not the know, this is an update to his post last February.
!!!!UPDATE!!!
My astute and musically inclined friend, Bill, who resides at Prairie Point has shown me a voice I think I might love as much as The Queen of Rockabilly/Folk.
Vices are expensive...
Thursday, June 22, 2006
New Texas Blog
Just discovered a new blog, Mujermaravilla - written by Texan, Spookyrach:
A woman after my own heart - she loves old cemeteries, flea markets, and rocks. Stop by and say "Howdy" when you get the chance. Tell her Pattie sent ya, please.
"I live in a small Texas town, full of the wicked, the weird and the woefully uninformed. I love it here. "
A woman after my own heart - she loves old cemeteries, flea markets, and rocks. Stop by and say "Howdy" when you get the chance. Tell her Pattie sent ya, please.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Cherry Chariots
Aren't these wheels hot?
(Also taken in Waxahachie, Texas a few weekends ago)
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Futuristic Brain Scanners?
Anyone care to venture a guess as to what these little torture machines really were designed for?
(Taken in Waxahachie, Texas at the Ellis County Museum)
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Remembering Lillard's
Funny what a five year-old remembers.
Many years pass and the mental playback is still rich in full sensory depth; smells, colors, and sounds release all in a jumble. And stranger still, the memory retains the smallness of one's self; people and things forever etched as much larger than real life. Isn't it a mystery how an adult brain can wrap around a long ago event and keep the little child's perspective?
Revisiting old haunts and physical places of my past brings a pouring of memories, but the puzzle pieces aren't quite right. Surely that porch was much wider, much more shadowy in the recesses? That swing surely flew much higher? The long ago recollections contrast jarringly when viewed again with adult eyes.
Several years ago, I drove down Gould Street looking for landmarks, something to help me remember the little girl I once was; perhaps for 1959.
I didn't find either, at first. The neighborhood had changed, houses cheaply remodeled, losing all their quaint charm and warmth in the process. The faces looking back at me from the windows and doors were brown; sounds of latino music blared rudely from a garage or backyard.
My Aunt Minnie's house was unrecognizable at first. The grand old front porch with its shiny gray enameled painted floor and the low jutting brick structures lining the sidewalk were all gone. No flowerbeds full of roses (where my brother once fell and ruined his Easter white coat just as the church bus pulled up to take us to Sunday service), no fig bushes at the corners, no fragrant mulberry tree staining the ground an odd color of purple - the overripe berries polka-dotting the sidewalk, and no detached whitewashed garage secretly harboring an old Model A Ford.
By counting the houses from the corner, I could determine the one I sought. Nothing else of memory could have guided me. Parking along the curb, with the car windows rolled down, I closed my eyes. Surely the familiar scent of the old sycamore trees, their curious peeling brown bark revealing white tender trunk wood and the hard woody-balled fruits that turn to wispy seed puffs when broken up, would still be wafting on the late summer wind. No. There were no long rows of sycamores left growing next to the cracked and disappearing sidewalks.
Slowly I drove down to the corner of 25th and Gould. On my left should have been Lillard's Station. Sadly, it too had left with the sycamores, and Mr. Lillard long gone to that filling station in the sky.
He was a quiet fellow with a slow grin; his attire and his countenance matching with the weatherworn design of hard work and low wages. The old station had no concrete running underneath the tin awnings, just dirt hardpacked with years upon years of old engine oil poured on top. The hot summer sun would suck the grease up to form tiny droplets, painting the bottoms of our bare feet in a matted black ink, causing us to leave faint footprints on the sidewalk when we trudged back home. We would laugh and walk backwards a few steps, then forwards, thinking we were oh so clever. That old oil coupled with mushed mulberries stained our feet for months long into fall.
Aunt Minnie was diabetic, so the afternoon treat of soda pop usually meant a Diet Rite Cola for her. My brother and I pondered long after awakening from our regimented lunchtime nap on what we would get, maybe a Nehi or a Frostie, but more likely an RC Cola which looked like it had double the amount of pop in it. Gathering up three bottles to save the two cents deposit, we would walk down to Lillard's. Aunt Minnie sat watching from her rocker on the front porch - occasionally walking with us if we were in one of those sibling moods where one of us had to have "the last touch" and usually erupting in full-fledged fist fights. Those days she walked with one of us on each side of her, a firm grip on our arms. Sneaking looks behind her back, we would glare and stick out our tongues at each other, until my brother made some goofy face and we would start giggling uncontrollably. Either way, we were not allowed the freedom to fetch the treats by ourselves unless our behavior warranted a reprieve.
The essence of what I sought was not physically there any longer, but my five year-old self jumped up to fill in the missing colors. All I had to do was slow down and encourage her to speak up. At first it was in little childish half-whispers, until finally her impatient urging of "don't you remember?" pushed long forgotten days into recognition.
As I drove away from Gould Street, I could almost see her in the rearview mirror- skipping on the sidewalk, a soda grasped in one hand, white blonde wisps of hair sticking to the corners of her mouth, and purple feet shining back at me with each running step.
(* The wonders of the internet - I found these photos of the real Lillard's Station and they are the reason for this post. Obviously, these pictures were taken long after the closing of the old station and reflect the dereliction of the neighborhood.)
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
What Goes With Egg Salad?
Good conversation and Dr. Pepper, of course!
Today I was treated to a belated birthday lunch and the opportunity to meet Jeff and his oldest son, Andrew. Jeff plays imaginary bagpipes over at ArchaeoTexture, and belongs to an elite group of bloggers from Midland.
So nice to put a face and voice to a blogger I admire!
Thanks to two very nice gentlemen for a terrific lunch at the Purple Cow. Alas, I did not avail myself of a famous PC milkshake as I had to go back to the office. Someone might smell strawberry on my breath, and who knows what could happen next...
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
He Lived With Grace
*Update/Correction: These photos were taken in late 1995 or 1996. I have corrected my post to reflect his correct age and passing.
He was never rich, except in spirit; he was never famous, unless you count being a much loved local legend; and he never put in a less than full day's work all of his adult and most of his childhood life. My great Uncle Vernon was the real deal, a working cowboy who toiled long and hard all his life on the ranches of others, but never owned his own spread or herd.
I truly regret not taking the time and effort to get to know him better, to hear all his stories and life experiences. He passed away in 1996, at the age of 89. There was ample time, and then there was no time.
As a young man, Vernon loved living "the cowboy way". He delighted in dressing the part, and perhaps even considered the rodeo circuit. Amazing to me is the similarity in the shirts, comparing the long ago young Vernon to the present-day elder Uncle Vernon, it is not inconceivable for it to be the same, but impossible knowing how hard he worked. The shirt would have been reduced to paper-thin rags.
He married late in life to Marie, his best friend, his soul partner, and sadly outlived her by several years. (This photo is with a cousin, not my Aunt Marie.) He always seemed like a lost calf separated from the herd without her. They had no children, but loved each and every nephew and niece that came along.
This pensive pose was taken on the Regency Bridge, near Locker, Texas. On this same day another photo was taken of his younger brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law, Willis and Ava, my grandparents. I don't even know if Uncle Vernon stood in as my grandfather's best man - perhaps he did; it would have been exactly something he would have deemed very honorable.
A few years ago, another cousin shared a short letter written by one of Uncle Vernon's employers - more friend than boss, the man's words spoke of the passing of a unique and steadfast gentleman, a man whose earthly departure would weigh heavily on those who loved his cornflower blue eyes and crinkley slow smile.
Uncle Vernon was the real deal...
Friday, June 02, 2006
Gettin' That Old Psychic Feeling...
Do mothers and children have a certain kind of psychic bond? Does this connection extend beyond the toddler years?
I have no definitive answer, although I will say that on more than one occasion I have felt a special intuitiveness regarding family members and close friends. Some are the old vanilla standard sort of deja vu and others are more dream related. I can't command this power, it comes unbidden and unannounced. Partly why I think "official" psychics are frauds. Too bad this talent is so fickle, I might have taken the road less traveled (as opposed to the nicely paved highway to Hell that I appear to have preferred over the years past).
And forget about relying on that Tyco Magic Eight Ball - the little floating triangle always came up with "Better not tell you now", or "Reply hazy - try again" whenever I relied on it for infallible answers to life's thorny questions, like "Is Marvin going to ask me to go steady?" The Ouija Board was worse, the stupid plastic triangle thingy jerking around the board like it was at a junior high dance listening to old Eric Burdon tunes. Maybe my board genie flunked Psychic Spelling Class.
(What's with triangles in this post? Is it a secret message from the other side?)
My oldest daughter and I both work downtown Cowtown in twin glass towers. We go to lunch on occasion, and our bosses are friends, so we have lots of visiting opportunities. It isn't all that unusual to pass her in a corridor, or in the small sandwich shop in the first tower even though we work in separate buildings. Our offices close at different times, so I seldom catch her on the way to the parking garage.
Today, everyone had vacated our offices early and I decided to get a head start on the weekend, especially since I had to drop off some documents at my boss's house on my route west to home.
The mail drop in my building is just around a corridor corner and beyond it is the skywalk over to the other tower. The building mezzanine floors are a lovely pink granite stone that carries the sound of footsteps well, especially hard-soled shoes.
I was at the postal box, dropping in the day's outgoing mail when I could hear someone walking towards the mailbox area. The wall has a jutting corner, making it impossible to see around if standing at the dropbox. For some reason, I hesitated, waiting just a few seconds to see who was about to round the corner. The footsteps had immediately brought to mind my older daughter. I remember thinking, "Those pitterpatters sound like E-dogg".
Just as the mysterious person came into view, I could also hear a voice. I knew positively now it was my daughter.
When I related my brief intuitive experience, the coworker walking with E-dogg looked less than uber impressed and said something about mothers having more than just eyes in the backs of their heads.
Well sure, we also have invisible antennas attached to our ears, didn't you know?
Oh, and you'd better consult your local voodoo priestess, the all-knowing seer with the purple and gold triangles dangling from her turban, if you had a suspicion this was me blogging...
