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2008
- 02/27/08 Uncle Percy's Take On Anger Management
- 02/24/08 Uncle Percy in Austin - Again
- 02/17/08 The Blue House on Sterling
2007
Posts: 16
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Uncle Percy's Farewell Party
25.Mar.08, 10:01 EDT
Percy's month long training with anger management in Austin finally ended this past Saturday. He's back in Crab Apple Cove now, telling stories about what all went on during the time he was staying at his daughter's place in Austin - and about all his new friends there. Yeah, he says they're all buddies now, and that would include Wanda Moody, his sensitivity training instructor, and DeWayne Dampier, his anger management specialist. Then, of course, there's Renee, Ricki, Terri, a Roxie from the Cat's Paw Tiddy Bar. Two others who came into the picture are Eddie Roy Bateman and Sgt. Lynn Ann Ross. More explanation is needed about the latter.
Well, you see, things were going along fairly well for Uncle Percy with his training sessions. Wandy thought Percy needed some exposure to the female form, thinking it would perhaps awaken some sensitivity locked inside him, and sent him to the Cat's Paw. That's where he started making friends with Renee, Terri, Ricki, and Roxie, strippers at the tiddy bar. They all thought Percy was cute, and they taught him all about titty bar etiquette. And then Percy took DeWayne, his sissy anger management instructor, to the Cat's Paw with him, and he ended up getting a lap dance from one of the gals. Percy never said whether or not his association with the gals at the tiddy bar awakened anything within him . . . but he said it did wonders for DeWayne who suddenly found an appreciation for the female form.
It was about then that Percy decided that Dewayne should meet Wanda, and so he arranged a meeting between them at the Cat's Paw. The meeting went well . . . too well, actually. DeWayne got another lap dance, and Wanda had one drink too many and ended up shucking her clothes. This didn't impress the establishment much, even though she looked plenty good naked, and the manager made her put her clothes back on. Her strip act did impress DeWayne. Percy said he had to get a ride home with Renee because DeWayne and Wanda had taken off for her place without him. And neither of them showed up for their morning appointments with Percy the next day.
Freed of training obligations, Percy decided to hit the parks, and it was at a park just off Lamar near downtown that he met Eddie Roy Bateman. Actually, Percy had met him some time before, on a previous trip to town. Eddie Roy is the homeless man who turned Percy on to foreign beer, Becks to be exact. This time, Percy found him sitting under a bush drinking a bottle of Bitbarger German beer. He remembered Percy, and before long they'd made a run down to Whole Foods market. Percy went in a bought a six pack of Bitbarger, and then they walked back to the park and sat under bush and drank it. Well, the drank most of it. A couple of bottles went to other homeless guys who drifted by.
But the beer ran out, and since Percy didn't have enough cash on him to buy another six pack, they decided to head for an intersection and panhandle some money. Now Percy had been in trouble in Austin before for doing this, if you'll remember from pervious stories. On that occasion he'd held up a sign that simply said, Need a Becks. But the cops had picked him up, and his daughter had to come down to the police jail and bail him out. This time, they set up business at a traffic light not far from the UT campus . . . and business was slow indeed. Their sign simply read, How 'Bout a Buck?
Not only was business slow, it was hostile. Several cars whizzed past, too
close for comfort, and lots of people shouted slurs, like, "Get a job, you bum!" After a while, sick of mistreatment, Percy came up with a new sign, and business picked up. In fact, within an hour they'd made fifty bucks, enought to quit and go back to the park. But that's when they met Sgt. Lynn Ann Ross. It seems that someone called the cops, taking offense at Percy's new sign. It read: A Buck Keeps Me From Throwing This Brick Through Your Windshield. Even though Percy and Eddie Roy had long since disposed of the bricks, Lynn Ann picked them up.
Percy didn't go to jail this time. Lynn Ann Ross, it turned out, was a gal with a big heart, almost as big as her two boobs. In fact, Lynn Ann was a knock-out, a number 9 at least. She even looked good in a cop's uniform, and that's hard for a woman to do. But she liked Percy's manners, his straight forward approach to the world around him, and let him go with the stern warning that he should never write a threatening sign again. He promised not to, so she drove him home. Since Percy's daughter and husband were in the yard at the time, she even got out to explain why a cop was bringing Uncle Percy home.Â
Percy's time in training was about up by then, and the gals at the Cat's Paw decided that they'd throw a farewell party for him. Since the Cat's Paw was closed on Sundays, they decided to do it then . . . and they did it at the home of the club's manager. He's a rich dude who lives in a high dollar house in the Travis Heights district of town . . . with a big swimming pool and all the trimmings (including a hot tub) in his back yard. They asked Percy who he'd like to have at his party, and he said he wanted Wanda and DeWayne. He also wanted his daughter and husband invited, and Lynn Ann the cop, and Eddie Roy the homeless guy . . . if they could find him.
The party was an afternoon affair staring just after lunch. Folks gathered, and fun was had by all . . . but not as much fun as was had after Percy's daughter and husband left. That's when the idea of jumping in the hot tub came up. No one had bathing suits, but what the hell, it's a private party and nudity is nothing to most of the people there. So Renee shed her clothes and jumped in the hot tub, followed by Terri, Roxie, and Ricki. That's the only cue Wandy needed, so she got naked and jumped in too, followed by DeWayne. Then Lynn Ann got into the act, and when she shed her clothes, the gals from the Cat's Paw applauded. She blushed, then jumped in. That left Percy standing there, looking and feeling dumb . . . and so he took the plunge. Eddie Roy was sleeping in a recliner. He'd never been around that much food and drink, so he was out of it for a while.
I'd like to be more specific here about the hot tub incident and all, but Percy isn't one to brag about his exploits, or whatever you'd call it. He did say that he found a new appreciation for hot tubs, even said he was thinking about installing one at his house. He said he had no plans of going back to Austin in the near future. The judge up in Brady gave him back his aluminum baseball bat, but he donated it to a worth cause. It's hanging on the wall of the Cat's Paw in Austin, with Percy's signature on it.Â
Percy says it looks like DeWayne and Wanda are an item now, and he's proud of that. And Sgt. Lynn Ann Ross has been offered an off duty job working at the Cat's Paw . . . as a security officer with the option of taking her top off any time she wants. She's considering the offer. Eddie Roy has a part time job parking cars, or rather directing traffic, at the Cat's Paw now. The manager even lets him sleep in storage room in the back of the club, but Eddie's a park person and likes sleeping outside in warm weather.
And finally, Percy says all the gals at the Cat's Paw are planning to come down to Crab Apple Cove to see him when he gets his new hot tub put in. That ought to start a hell of a buzz around town.
C. Duhon, 3/25/08 -
Uncle Percy's Take On Anger Management
27.Feb.08, 10:32 EST
This blog is the second part of my story about Uncle Percy's new adventure in Austin. In case you didn't see the previous blog, called Uncle Percy in Austin-Again, you might ought to read it, just so you'd be up to speed on this story. The short of it is that Percy lost his cool and beat the crap out of his former son-in-law and a meddling preacher with his trusty aluminum bat. He also gave his ex-wife a couple of whacks across her big ass, and a judge decided that Percy had an anger management problem and sentenced him to a month of training in Austin.
Percy moved into his daughter's garage apartment, turned Biggie and Jake, his two dogs, loose in her back yard to play with her set of black labs, and started taking his classes. His anger management instructor, or coach, is a guy named DeWayne Dampier, a social psychologist who teaches part time at the university and has a practice in Tarrytown. Percy says he's getting along with him famously, even though DeWayne is effeminate, or as he puts it, "As sisssy as whore house piano player."Â
Percy has encountered some difficulties with his sensitivity sessions, however. Wanda Moody, the instructor, is also a psychologist, but she's got a few kinks of her own. For one thing, Wanda sheds her clothes at most of her classes, and she encourages her students to do the same. Wanda is a looker, and Uncle Percy says he's having a real hard time concentrating in her class. And he's had some other difficulties. On the second day of class, Wanda instructed all her students to sit in a circle. She had them join hands, then asked them to turn to the person to their right and pass along a compliment. It could be any kind of compliment. Percy turned to the guy to his right, then told him that he had big hands, especially for a short guy. The guy said thanks, but he looked like Percy had just kicked him in the nuts.Â
Then Wanda instructed the class to turn to the person to their left and tell them what animal they reminded them of. Percy said he knew he was in deep shit because the woman sitting next to him reminded him of Petunia Pig from the cartoons. But he knew he couldn't say that, so he told her she sure had pretty eyes, especially for a fat gal. She tried to sock Percy in the eye, but he had hold of her right hand, and she was too fat to get the other arm all the way around to him. That little episode broke up the circle thing, however. The fat gal started calling Percy "an ignorant redneck asshole," and other things like that.
Wanda had to keep Percy after class and speak to him about his choice of words. She realized that he meant no insult by being so bluntly truthful, but she pointed out that sometimes being completely honest wasn't the best thing to do. Sometimes we need to be more accomodating, she said. It was a discretionary thing, she pointed out, to sometimes tell a small lie for the sake of keeping good will. Using herself as an example, Wanda then asked, "So, Percy, would you say that I have the body of a 45 year old woman?"
"No."
"Why not?" Wanda said, smiling sweetly.
"Well, 'cause I cain't remember what a 45 year old woman's body looks like, for one thing."
"But Percy, that's not my point. I go to the gym five times a week, and I eat right to make sure my body stays in good shape. Do you think most 45 year old women look like this?"
"Well, I just saw one naked 45 year old woman, and that was Nadine, the gal I was married to. And like you, Nadine was built like a brick shithouse, except maybe her titties were a little bigger and her ass a little smaller. 'Course now, her ass is two ax handles across, and her titties hang past her belly button. But I'm not saying there's anything wrong with your body. It looks plumb good to me, but I don't really have no point of comparison, other than what Nadine looked like back then," Percy said.
Wanda's sweet smile disappeared like a snow cone in August, and that's when she told Percy he needed some schooling in the appreciation of nakedness. She assigned him some homework, which was to start going to a titty bar on South Congress called The Cat's Paw.  Percy's first night at the nudie club was an eye opening experience for him. He'd been to strip clubs before, but that had been back thirty years before. If Wanda wanted him to get comfortable around nudity, her plan worked. Not only did Percy get comfortable with it, he got downright enthusiastic being around naked women.
First off, Percy didn't know beans about titty bar etiquette. He paid his money at the door to get in, thinking that was it. Then he saw all these guys with one dollar bills, and what they did with the money shocked him at first. He'd never remotely considered poking a dollar bill into a gal's g-string . . . but what the hell, it's just a buck. He ended up getting rid of fifty one dollar bills that first night. And he even made friends with one of the strippers working there - a cute Latino gal named Renee. And Renee introduced him to Terri, and Ricki, and Roxie, and all the others. All those gals thought Percy was cute, and they gave him some lessons on titty bar etiquette.
So, that's all I know up to now. He's been there for just over a week now, and Percy is hanging in there. At 75 years of age, he's hanging a lot better than most people would, especially caught up in conditions like he's experiencing. I can't say how much he's learned about anger management and sensitivity, but I'm almost certain some other folks are learning quite a bit from him. DeWayne, Percy's anger management instructor, even went to The Cat's Paw one night, just as an assessment thing, he said. Percy says
he cashed in five twenty dollar bills for ones during the evening, gave all of them away. He even got a lap dance from Roxie, and on the way home he made a comment that perhaps he'd been too hasty in making judgments about his own masculinity, or lack thereof. Percy said he didn't really know what he meant by that.
Anyway, Percy's got a long way to go yet. I'll get back to you.
C. Duhon, 2/27/08 -
Uncle Percy in Austin - Again
24.Feb.08, 09:38 EST
Uncle Percy B. Hand is in trouble again, this time over beating the crap out of his ex-wife's semi-retarded and totally worthless son Leroy. And while he was at it, he gave Nadine a whack or two, and he whacked a preacher while he was at it. From what I can tell from talking with Percy, and from the various rumors going around, Nadine got religion in the past year and got all entangled with a preacher named John L. Spooner. Leroy, the son, got involved because . . . well, it's a long story, but what it amounts to is that Percy ended up getting arrested for assault and battery.Â
Nadine went to jail for awhile for getting involved in dog fighting with her two worthless sons, Leroy and Rufus. Leroy went to prison, and Rufus ran off and has never been seen since. Nadine got involved some a holly-roller preacher named Spooner, started going to church all the time, and decided somewhere along the line that her ex-husband - that would be Percy - was an agent of the Devil. Leroy, fresh out of prison, saw a chance to get back at Percy for putting him there, and encouraged his mama to sue Percy in court to recover money for all the damanges he'd caused. Mostly, it was a bunch of trumped up crap, and this preacher Spooner ended up being a major instigator of it all.
Percy got served with papers by local deputies one Monday, and he went straightway to the local lawyer to see what was up. This lawyer told him that he'd likely have to go to court, and that really put Percy in a foul mood. He pulled his old aluminum baseball bat out of the closet, then headed up to Brady, Texas to have a talk with this preacher and former step-son Leroy. He went to the preacher first, who got insulting with him, and Percy ended up conking him on the noggin with the bat. Then he went looking for Leroy. He found him at Nadine's place, then batted him around until he hollered uncle (and some other things). Nadine just happened to be there, and he ended up giving her a good whack or two, right across her big ass. That turned out to be the court evidence that got him sentenced to a month of sensitivity training and anger management in Austin.
The cops came and took Percy to jail. A few days later at a hearing, Nadine and the preacher and Leroy showed up looking worse for wear. Leroy and the preacher had some bumps and bruises, but it was the big purple X across Nadine's ass that convinced the judge that Percy had lost his cool and was indeed guilty of battery. But he's a good man (and he always liked Percy), so he sentenced him to a month of taking anger management classes and sensitivity training . . . and the closest place to do that was in Austin. Percy said he didn't mind doing that, especially after the preacher convinced Leroy and Nadine to drop their suit against him. I think the aluminum bat had a lot to do with that particular change of heart.
So . . . Percy went straightway to Austin and moved into his daughter's little above-the-garage apartment there in Tarrytown. She even let him bring Biggie and Jake along, partly because she had two black labs who enjoyed the company of other dogs. The yard was fenced and a safe place for them to run, so everything was square there. But Percy's first day at classes turned out to be more than he anticipated. The anger management class was taught by a psychology professor, and he was a little dweeby looking dude who looked like Mr. Peepers . . . or Wally Cox.  The sensitivity training class, however, was taught by a gal named Wanda, also a psychologist, but one with a different perspective than most. Percy was shocked to discover that her classes were clothing optional, and most of the students opted not to wear them.
Percy raised an immediate objection, saying he didn't feel comfortable sitting in a room full of naked people. Wanda suggested that he'd feel more comfortable, perhaps, if he joined them in the buff. Wanda, you see, didn't wear clothes in the sessions either . . . and Wanda wasn't your run-of-the-mill psychologist when it came to looks. Put plainly, she was a looker, a sure enough cutie with big hooties. Even a 75 year old man like Percy would've found her nudeness distracting, if not at the same time stimulating. But other people in the class weren't near as attractive naked as was Wanda. Some, in fact, were disgustingly fat and flabby. Percy said he'd strip down to his shorts, but that's as far as he'd go.
Well, you know how it goes with a deal like that. Other people in the class soon raised objections to Percy's attire, and Wanda decided he needed some special instruction to get over his fear of nudeness. She decided he needed some indocrtination and assigned him some outside work. He was to spend two evenings at the Cat's Paw, a strip club, and another two evenings at Judith's Spa, a massage parlor. Both were places where Percy would be exposed to lots of nudity, something he needed some experience with, Wanda said. Percy tried to point out that he'd been to a titty bar before, but just a few times, but Wanda said he needed to go anyway. As for the Spa thing, that was completely new to Percy.
I'm not sure how all this is going to work out for Percy. He's only been in Austin for a week now, and I call him every day or so to see how he's getting along with his training. He says the two trips to the titty bar went well, but the massage parlor deal wasn't all that great. He didn't seem inclined to talk much about it, so maybe I'll get the full story later on. And when that happens, you can bet I'll pass it along. As it stands at the present, Percy is doing his best to get past this month of training. He says the police up in Brady said he could have his aluminum bat back . . . if he finished the course and it wasn't needed for evidence in a trail of any kind. That seemed to give him some inspiration to buckle down and work harder with his anger management and sensitivity training.
I'll get back to you when I know more.
Cletus, 2/24/08
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The Blue House on Sterling
17.Feb.08, 23:27 EST
One of the most difficult writing assignments I've had was creating the still unpublished book The Blue House on Sterling. I haven't worked on that book for a year now, but it's starting to nag me. I wake up at night thinking about it, and one character from the book haunts me. Being hauted by a character you brought to life is hard enough, but I made it worse on myself by creating a guy who's damn hard to ignore. His name is Oscar Reynolds, and he's a central character in that particular novel. He may be the toughest guy I ever created, and he only lived for one year.  Yeah, just one year.
The book is actually about an unusaul man who forgot who he was, lost his identify for a year, and in fact became a new character called Oscar Reynolds. It's a story involving a disorder called dissociative fugue, a condition where the person in question just walks away from their life. In researching the disorder, I found cases of people who disappeared, only to surface with a completely new identity many miles away. No one knows for sure exactly why they forget their former identity, who they really are, but it seems that stress is partly the cause. I person can become miserable enough with their existence that they just push it aside and become someone else. Sometimes they snap out of it after a few weeks or months and go back home, but sometimes they must be hunted down and treated for the disorder. When they regain their memory of who they previously were, they never remember their identity while in the fugue state.
I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I've wanted to change identities from time to time. I've been so miserable with the person I am that I would gladly have given up any memory of my identity to have something different. But I worked through those difficult times without doing that . . . lived the life I'd always had, and ended up writing about a man who lost his real identity for awhile.
A strange thing happened in the course of that novel. I became very fond of Oscar Reynolds, the fugue state character, and we made friends in a most unusual way. He never existed, not really, but what I brought to life in that novel is now still very much alive in my head. Oscar, you see, was a make it happen kind of guy, a fellow who could step up to the plate and get a hit when you needed it. He knew how to handle hard times because that's all he ever knew. Oscar Reynolds, you see, was essentially a street person, a drifter. The man he replaced for a year was a college professor, a smart man who had difficulty in dealing with a particular crisis in his life. What he couldn't handle, Oscar took care of . . . and then he went away.
I finished that novel still undecided about some things, and maybe that's why I can't bring myself to finish it . . . to do the polish work, the last bits of research to make sure my facts are right, and the rewriting so it can go to the publisher. But Oscar comes around at night, stands in the shadows and looks at me through eyes only someone who's seen then can possibly imagine. And I wake up talking to myself. "You must finish it, you lazy sonofabitch. You've got to finish it." I'm just saying the words Oscar's eyes say . . . and I know that he's not going to go away. I know that because I made him that way.
The Blue House on Sterling is a story of recovery, and not just from a devastating stroke that nearly killed my character. It digs into the deepest, darkest corners of our psyche, takes a close look at some life changing philosophies. The book has many voices, but the one that seems to have left the most echoes is Oscar's - that common sense approach to meeting madness straight on and dealing with it. Corpus Christi is the setting for this story, for the most part. I know that city well now, and I can take you to the exact location where I met Oscar.Â
I pulled my car into an abandoned park in a bad part of town. The place even had the smell of atrophy about it, but people still lived there - poor people, people who had no way out. Not far away from where I parked, I could see an old graveyard, with tombstones broken or leaning to one side. No one had obviously been buried there for many years . . . at least, not officially. And then two men started walking toward me, just seemed to come from nowhere. One was a tall white man with grey hair, long and pulled back under a baseball cap. The other man was Latino, shorter and hefty. Both men had a hard look about them. I cranked my car and pulled slowly away, and they stopped and watched me drive off. That's when I started thinking about Oscar, and within a few hours, he was born.
That book is by far the best thing I've ever written. Keep pushing Oscar, I need to finish it. Keep pushing because readers will love you, if . . . . if . . . . I can ever give you a chance to make it to the pages of a real book, not just the hard drive of a computer. Keep pushing, buddy.
Cletus, 2/18/08 -
This Blog Post is rated Mature.
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Uncle Percy's Take on Performance Enhancing Drugs
13.Dec.07, 23:08 EST
I had to go down to the coast not long ago and stopped off in Crab Apple Cove to have a beer at Chuckie Phat's Rodehouse, and it was my good fortune to meet up with Uncle Percy B. Hand while there. He was out campaigning for a spot on the town council, and several of the folks in the bar had been watching ESPN's coverage of all the hoopla about performance enhancing drugs. The most recent squawk is about steroids in baseball. Since he's running for political office, somebody there at Chuckie Phat's asked him what his stand was on steroids in sports.
Percy's been watching television and like everybody else had developed some opinions about what should be done about performance enhancing drugs in sports. He suprised me by telling the questioner that he was in favor of performane enhancing drugs . . . in sports or anything else. And then he went on to explain why.
He stated first off that he thought we ought to keep a close eye on it at the high school level, but he said above that, he didn't give a damn what the players took. If they were dumb enough to take the stuff, then they deserved the bad shit that happens to them when they get caught doing it. I should have expected a common sense answer from him, but I didn't expect him to have thought it out so well.
He cited some examples of how stupid it is to ban performance enhancing drugs. Take steroids for instance, he said. There's some evidence that it causes injuries, but these guys play rough and dangerous sports to start with, so who gives a shit? And if taking them makes you more able to play a rough game like football, again, who cares if there's long term damage? If you're dumb enough to put your health on the line for money, then you should suffer the consequences. The players had choices to make, and if they decide to use steroids, then more power to 'em. As for bicycle riding, he really hooted at that one. So they dope up to compete. So what? It's just a bicycle race . . . and there's lots of money at stake, so let 'em take any damn thing they want to. It's just business, right? And think what you want about performance enhancing drugs, they make the game (whatever it is) more fun to watch. Players get paid more, team owners make more, fans are given great performances, so what's the beef?
In fact, Percy says, we ought to use sports as a great training ground for performance enhancing drugs. Instead of banning them, we should encourage them and then keep a close eye on what's being used. That way we could pick out the best ones, and when we found through some serious testing that they really did cause long term ill effects, we could discourage using them. On the other hand, when we found a drug that did the job and didn't cause problems down the road, then go for it.  In other words, these athletes would be lab subjects for us. If they worked on them, enhanced their performances, then we might ought to consider giving them to people in other walks of life.
Percy says the American auto industry has suffered in recent years because they can't turn out good vehicles anymore. We just don't have workers skilled or dedicated enough to build good cars like the Japanese do . . . so maybe we ought to consider performance enhancing drugs for auto workers. And what about people in the medical businesses? Instead of letting our doctors turn into drunks, we ought to give them injections of performance enhancing drugs. Even the people working at fast food restaurants might benefit from a shot of zip juice every now and then. Wall Street would prosper, as would education from top to bottom. The military would work at peak efficiency, and . . . well . . . you get the point, right?
And best of all, we could start giving performance enhancing drugs to the folks who need it most of all - folks who actually run the government. Yeah, we need to have a law requiring all Congressmen to take regular injections of it, and all those folks who fill up the government administrative offices could sure use it. Most of all, Percy points out, we need to inject the president himself . . . that if we could pump his dumb ass full of performance enhancing drugs, he might not start any more wars before he leaves office. Percy went on and on about how we could improve performance at all levels of government, business, education, medical services, the military, and lots of other things. And when and if that happens, we'd owe it all to those athletes who got out there and showed us just how good (or bad) performance enhancing drugs can be.
Besides, he said, sports ought to be good for something other than just entertainment. Considering how much money we spend on it, there's got to be something worthwhile we can actually get out of it. In short, Percy says we need to rethink the steroids thing for baseball . . . or any other performance enhancing drug used by athletes. In the end it might be some performance enhancing drug that saves all our asses . . . and then you'd have to thank a jock for that.
And you know, if I lived in Crab Apple Cove and voted there, I'd sure as hell vote for Uncle Percy.
C. Duhon, 12/12/07 -
Miss Maddie's Kick-Ass Christmas Fruit Cake
04.Dec.07, 11:56 EST
The story I'm about to tell needs some cover, so the town in question shall remain anonymous. Names have been changed to protect the innocent . . . or what few innocent folks were involved. This is a story of a sensitive and serious nature. It's about a sweet little old lady named Madeline Hightower, called Miss Maddie by locals, who baked a fruit cake from hell and took it to a church social. When it was all said and done with, all sorts of things came into play, sex and politics included.Â
The church social in question is a big shindig at St. Francis Catholic Church just off main street. Being as how half the population in town is Mexican/American, the Catholic Church is the biggest in town . . . and perhaps the most active. The purpose of this particular church social was to raise money for local Christmas charity. Most of the money went toward buying toys for needy children in the community, so people of all religions pitched in and supported the event. It was held each year at the St. Francis Community Hall the first Saturday of December, and the biggest feature of the social was the cake auction.
A word or two needs to be said here about cake auctions and fruit cakes. The auction had always been a big success, but the 2005 auction set records and stirred up some keen competetion among the cake bakers. In all, the auction brought in over $5,000.00, with one cake auctioning for $770.00. Want to guess what kind of cake brought that kind of money? You've got it - a fruit cake, and it was baked by a lady named Bonnie. Everybody around town knew Bonnie because she owned the local bakery. But, the winner of the 2004 highest selling cake distinction had gone to Miss Maddie Hightower, just as it had done in many previous years. She took finishing second in stride, but it was a long stride, I'm told because she was plenty pissed about losing to Bonnie.Â
And why would a fruit cake sell for so much? Most people don't like fruit cake, unless it's doctored up a little. And Miss Mattie always doctored her cakes with just enough whiskey to make them taste just right. Her recipe was a carefully guarded secret, even down to the particular type of whiskey she used in the cakes. But Bonnie came up with a powerful fruit cake the year she toted off the prize for the highest selling cake, and that made the competetion between the two women even keener. They never had liked each other much, even after Bonnie married Maddie's oldest son Hank. That marriage ended when Bonnie got caught having a big affair with a local bank President named Handsome Hough. That's right, he was so good looking that everybody called him Handsome, and lots of women in town had taken a run at him over the years - including Bonnie.
Well, Hank and Bonnie divorced, and that gave Maddie even more cause to dislike Bonnie. The feeling was pretty much mutual, and nobody in town would've enjoyed beating Maddie more than Bonnie when she had the highest selling cake in '05.  And guess who was the winning bidder on the cake that year? Yep, none other than Handsome Hough. Maybe he figured he owed Bonnie a little something, being as how her husband had divorced her and all. Who knows, but that's where the politics of the deal comes in. Hank Hightower owns the local tractor sales place, and he came to the 2006 cake auction determined that his mama wouldn't lose to Bonnie again. Some others in town felt the same way, and lots of talk went around about the upcoming cake auction. The only event in town to draw a bigger crowd that year was the homecoming football game.
And what about the cake itself? Did the winner take it home and hoard it like gold? Not on your life. It was customary for the winners to cut the cakes right there at the big social and share it with as many people as it would feed. That's just a generous gesture the winner always made . . . and it nearly turned into a disaster at the 2006 social. In years past, only a few fruit cakes were entered at the auction, but with all the talk about how much money they brought, lots of fruit cakes showed up that year - about 20 in all. Yeah, 20 big fruitcakes, all doctored with lots of good whiskey.
Miss Maddie went to the auction in high hopes and great expectations because she had come up with a new whiskey for her cake - a Kentucky five star whiskey that cost almost $100 for a single bottle. Bonnie anticipated this move and had done some research and come up with her own special whiskey, a brew that cost $150 a bottle. Another woman had done her cake with a fine rum, and there was even a wine cake offered for auction.
Father Rodriguez always served as auctioneer, and the auction started about six o'clock that Saturday evening. Most of the other cakes sold quickly, and the crowd steadily grew as the time drew near for the big fruitcake auction. Then it came, and the first cake sold for $150.00, a good start. And then they started selling fast after that, and one nice cake went for close to $500. Finally, it came time to do Miss Maddie's cake, and it brought an unprecedented $925.00. The last cake to go was Bonnie's, but it sold for just $850.00, mostly because Handsome's older brother threatened to kick his ass if he bid on a cake again at the auction. Too much ill will had been caused by his winning bid the year before, so he put the quietus on Handsome's bidding. To support the auction, Handsome bid on a cake that finished third. Yeah, politics had reared its ugly head at the church auction, but probably in a righteous cause.
Well, the twenty cakes at the auction brought in over $10,000, a new record. Then the cakes were taken to a big table where the cutting and eating started . . . and that's when the excitement started. Fruit cakes aren't cooked with whiskey, which would cook off most of the alcohol, but are rather soaked in it. This means that a couple of pieces of really good fruit cake can give you a bit of a buzz, and three pieces could make you sure enough frisky. The four pieces Maurice Hadley had made him frisky enough to feel up Patty Duncan. That got him socked in the mouth by Dave Duncan, Patty's husband. Maurice is about 75, and Dave is at least that old.
Two high school kids got caught sneaking cake outside to a bunch gathered in the parking lot, and the cops had to haul off a couple of them for getting naked and making obscene gestures as passing motorists. A couple of middle aged women got into an argument inside, and father Rodriguez had to break that up. A group had gathered around a piano and were singing bar songs, like "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall." One young lady gathered a crowd when she started showing off her new tattoo - a big heart on her right boob. Off-color jokes were being told in small groups of men, and women had broken off into gossip groups where a few arguments developed. By ten o'clock, a time when the social was usually just getting going good, Father Rodriguez was asking people to go home. He had seen enough . . . but he didn't like fruit cake and had not eaten a single mouthful.
Church services were held the next day but hardly anyone showed up. Almost everyone who had been at the social were either hungover or sick with the morning after quick step. Yeah, all that whiskey soaked cake was doing a number on a number of people's digestive systems. And the folks who didn't get sick were worn out from the night before. Old folks who hadn't had sex in years had overdone it big time, and some had indulged in activities they'd never tried before. Worse yet, there had been some outright infidelities, like sexual indescretions that developed when single people had paired off. Several cases of adultery happened, one involving a wife swapping deal. Father Rodriguez's counseling schedule doubled over the next few weeks, and confession had never been so busy. He even ran out of candles that week, and by mid week couldn't talk at all.
But . . . the social will be held again next year. Rules changes are being discussed, I'm told. Maddie says she's retiring from the fruit cake business, and even Bonnie says she might not enter. One weird twist that came of the affair is that Hank Hightower got back together with his ex-wife . . . and that would be Bonnie. Somebody said the tipsy teenagers outside got entertained watching Hank and Bonnie get it on in the back seat of Hank's car. Cops ran them off, then made Hank and Bonnie move somewhere else . . . so they just went home together. Maybe that's why Maddie won't bake any more cakes. You just never know what's going to happen when you start eating a sure enough good fruit cake.
C. Duhon, 12/04/07 -
This Blog Post is rated Mature.
-
The Adventures of Biggie and Jake
09.Nov.07, 12:00 EST
I don't know yet what I'll call it, but I'm starting to outline a story about a couple of dogs - Biggie and Jake. Since they belong to Uncle Percy B. Hand, he'll undoubtedly be writing about them on his new blog, but he's not quite ready to start writing just yet. He's taking typing lessons from a widow woman down at Crab Apple Cove, and then there's the writing class he's taking at the juco. According to the course description in the catalog, anyone taking the class should have a notebook, so Percy showed up the first day with a Big Chief notebook and a couple of pencils. That got some chuckles, I'm sure.
Anyway, the teacher explained to Percy that he needed a laptop computer to enroll in the class, and then suggested he stop off at a store and get one before he came back to class. Shopping for a computer opened up a whole new world to Percy, being as how he didn't even know how to work an old typewriter, much less a fancy gizmo. But he went to Walmart and started looking at their small offering of laptops. When he saw the price on them, he damn near passed out. But he still had to have one, and so he went to his old pal Elmo Gibson and asked for help. Elmo is about the closest thing you can find to a redneck digihead, at least around central Texas.
Well, Elmo gave Percy the bad news, which was - there is no such thing as a cheap computer that works. He could find a junker, he said, but it wouldn't do what he needed for his writing class. He said 300 bucks would be about the best he could do for a used one, so he encouraged him to go ahead and bite the bullet and buy a new one. He'd go with him to San Antonio, and they'd get a computer . . . if that's what he wanted. Percy didn't have a thousand bucks to spend on a computer, and his recent divorce from Nadine had put him in somewhat of a financial bind. He got out of the marriage without having to pay alimony, but he had to start all over from scratch. All he had was a couple of suitcases full of old clothes, a worn out recliner, and couple of shotguns that had belonged to his grandpa.Â
Then Percy remembered a favor Dudley Frost owed him. He went to the bank where Dudley was president and asked for a note to buy a computer. Dudley nearly fell out of his fancy leather chair when Percy told him what he wanted the money for, but he couldn't refuse him. The favor he owed Percy was that he'd got caught diddling Wanda Sue Fraley down at the Lone Oak Inn south of Leakey. Percy went down to get some cypress wood and just happened to walk up on Dudley and Wanda Sue doing the big nasty in the woods behind the Inn. And it wasn't so much that he'd caught a married man humping his secretary that made Percy's silence such a big favor; it was what he caught them doing.
Percy likes walking, and he'd parked his truck up near the highway and had started walking and giving Biggie a chance to run in the woods. He'd seen some cypress trees in the distance, thought maybe he'd walk down to the river and take a closer look at them. Dudley and Wanda Sue had been sitting around the Inn drinking wine and nipping cheese, then got the idea to take a blanket and go to the woods for some playful horsing around. They took an extra bottle of wine along, and that was their undoing. When Percy walked up on them, he found a blanket on the ground with several bottles scattered around . . . but no Dudley or Wanda Sue. He stood there, looking around and wondering what was going on, and then he looked up. There in the tree above him, he found the two lovers, partially naked but clad in each others clothes. Yeah, Dudley had Wanda's underwear on, and she had his on, and they were up in a tree trying to carry on some hanky-panky.
Percy's a fairly broadminded guy, so he just shook it off as a case of two folks getting drunk and frisky. And he promised not to say a word about it, and he kept his promise. Well, he did tell me, but that was in confidence, and I seldom break a confidence . . . unless it's worth a good laugh. Anyway, I changed names and places to make sure nobody is implicated in anything. The point is, Percy got his loan, and at a really good interest rate too.
Anyway, Percy got his laptop (with some help from Elmo) and started his writing class. He learned to peck out words on the thing, and he learned how to do some fundamental things with it. In fact, he got to where he loved that laptop more than he did his old shotguns, and he was naturally highly disturbed when it malfunctioned the first time. Well, maybe it was Percy who malfunctioned, but something went wrong and his computer ate his third writing assignment. And he didn't have a backup. Elmo had to lecture him then about losing material to a computer . . . a lesson almost everyone learns.
But finally, Percy got handy enough with his computer to get through the first course, and now he's almost finished with the second. His note at the bank's all paid off, and he's starting to learn typing instead of pecking. And so I asked him a while back what he planned to write about when he started his own blog, and he said he wanted to devote it to doing common sense things. He said he might write about all the important things a man can do with baling wire and duck tape. He allowed as how he doesn't have enough experience with tall tales writing to do justice to a dog story, so I'm taking up the slack.
Biggie is a mostly Chihuahua dog that weighs about 5 lbs. He's trim and athletic as all get out, and he spends a lot of time riding on Percy's shoulder. He prefers the left, but sometimes he goes to the right shoulder. And then Percy went to an animal shelter and found this cross-bred hound named Jake. It was love at first sight, and so now Percy has a pair, and they are quite the pair too. The two dogs took to each other right off, and now they're pretty much constant companions. About the only time you see them separated is when Percy goes inside a building where Jake can't go, and that's not too often. In fact, Biggie is great at mooching a ride . . .so good at it that he rides on Jake's back a lot of the time.
Percy bought a little house about a block away from a trailer park. He's got a fence around his back yard, but during the daytime Biggie and Jake run loose in Crab Apple Cove like most other animals do. Watching animals has been a passtime of mine for a long time, and if you ever read my stuff you know that I'm always drawing comparisions between animal behavior and human behavior. Not they are all this distinct, since we're all animals. I'm just talking people versus critters here, that's all. Anyway, I've taken an interest in Biggie and Jake, and most of the stories I know about them come from Percy. You'll be seeing them from time to time in blogs, but the main adventures will go into a book. Who knows, maybe I'll just call it The Adventures of Biggie and Jake. Works for me.
C. Duhon, 11/09/07 -
Bubba and Big Zip
31.Oct.07, 09:55 EDT
There's a saying down here about how there's something like 10,000 varieties of spiders in the world and 10,001 of 'em live right here in Texas. I believe it 'cause I've never lived around so many creepy/crawly critters than we've got around here in the hill country. I'm getting used to insects, if for no other reason out of self-preservation.  There's no way to keep them out of the house, so you can't afford to panic every time you find ants or wasps or even scorpions in the house.  I get stung several times a year by scorpions, which is about like getting a sting from a wasp, and I get stung by wasps quite a bit. Â
I've acquired a healthy respect for some stinging and biting insects, especially the spiders. We've got 'em all, the black widows, fiddlebacks, recluse, and even tarantulas. I don't worry about them, but I do keep an eye out. A sting from a black widow , fiddleback, or recluse can send you to a doctor, and we all like to avoid that whenever we can. My partner, Bubba Espinoza, doesn't respect spiders at all - he's terrified of them. Never in my life have I run across anyone with a more unreasonable fear of spiders than him, and sometimes for no reason at all. The spider that scares him most of all is the big zipper spider, and I've never known of that spider hurting anyone. They don't sting or bite, to my knowledge, and they're perhaps the most beautiful insect around.
In case you aren't familiar with the zipper spider, it's the long-legged arachnid that weaves ornate webs, and usually in places you can't miss them. In fact, they'll build a web right in your doorway so fast that you don't know it's there until you've already walked right into it. They're fast workers, and I've always enjoyed watching them weave their magic.  These spiders are colorful, and not just in how they look. If it's possible for an insect to have character, they've got it. We had a spider at the barn one year (I called him Big Zip) that ended up causing a helluva big incident around here. Bubba wanted to kill the spider, get rid of it, but I wouldn't allow that 'cause I was having too much fun watching him build his elaborate web. Besides, Big Zip was one of the biggest zipper spiders I'd ever seen before. Â
Well, the summer went along fine until we decided to do some painting at the barn. Bubba went to town and bought eight gallons of barn red paint at the hardware store, then went about painting the front of the barn. He took the paint inside and placed the buckets on a bench where they'd be out of the way. Then he opened three cans and poured them into a big five gallon bucket so he'd have to make less trips back and forth getting more paint. I took care of other chores while he painted the barn, then joined him later. By then he'd pretty much gone through half the paint because the barn was soaking it up like crazy.  And what the barn wasn't soaking up, Bubba was.
"We're going to need more paint before long. I'll run to town and get another eight gallons. Besides, it looks like you're getting as much on yourself as the barn," I said, just looking for an excuse to get out of painting. Bubba didn't say a word, just looked at me and grinned. He had paint all over him, partly 'cause he was using the biggest paint brush I'd ever seen. It must've been a good 6 inches wide, and he already had paint all over his right arm and face.
My trip to town after paint took a good two hours. I didn't get in a hurry, since the longer I was gone, the more painting he'd get done . . . which meant the less I'd have to do. At least, that's what I figured. I expected to find him half done with the front of the barn by the time I got back, but when I pulled up in front of the barn, he wasn't half done by a long shot . . . and he was nowhere in sight. I figured maybe he'd gone to the house to take a nap, but I decided to check inside the barn first to see if he was getting more paint or something. That's when I found the mess, the one that started the series of events I was about to unravel. Â
I walked over to the bench where he had put the paint and found a bunch of empty buckets. His big bucket was a few feet away, turned on its side. On the ground there, I saw where several gallons of paint had spilled out on the barn floor (which was dirt). The spilled paint was all swirled around, like somebody had rolled around in it. Then I looked up and saw a big human imprint of the wall . . . a chubby imprint with arms straight out. There on the ground by the imprint, I found Bubba's big paint brush. I was starting to get an idea of what had happened, so I went back to the bench and looked around to see where Big Zip was. His web had been about six feet past the end of the bench, well out of Bubba's way . . . but now it was gone. And so was Big Zip . . . and Bubba.
I knew then that Bubba had stumbled into the web, went nuts, and then must've kicked over the bucket and slipped and fell in the spilled paint. Then he ran into the wall. Like I said, he went nuts when he encountered a spider like that. I found three more imprints on the barn walls, but I finally followed red footprints out of the barn and found where Bubba had left yet another imprint on the side of the concrete block well house. There was another imprint on the side of the house (the one we live in), still with arms spread wide but this time a fainter color. I found another imprint about fifty feet away on the side of a storage shed, then a still fainter one another hundred feet away on the side of an outdoor stable. And that's where I found Bubba, laying flat of his back and out cold as a cucumber. He was all covered with red paint, dirt and dust, and there was no way I could tell how bad hurt he was without dragging him to the well house and hosing him down. I turned on the water and sprayed him off good, and that sort of brought him around. Â
I got some old towels and cleaned him up as best I could, then decided he at least had a broken nose. That's when I took him to the house and stuck him under the shower for a few minutes. Once I got him dressed (he was still too groggy to do it himself), I hauled him to town to a doctor. His nose was broken, for sure, and he had a couple of broken fingers to boot. And he was so sore he could barely move for a week . . . and all over a spider that couldn't hurt him. I pointed this out to him, of course, but he just called me names that cast reflections on my family background . . . so I let it go and didn't say anymore about it. Well, not to him, anyway. I told everybody else, though, just so he'd have to explain it to everybody he met for the next month. I did that mean little thing 'cause I had to finish painting the barn.
I never saw Big Zip again, of course. For all I know, Bubba smashed him against a wall somewhere. And I've never seen another zipper spider that big, or that beautiful, or that could cause as much of a ruckus as he did.
C. Duhon, 10/30/07 -
Uncle Percy's Take on Shelters
12.Oct.07, 16:01 EDT
If you've been keeping up with the blogs here at Crab Apple Cove at all, you're already aware that Uncle Percy B. Hand has been taking a juco course in creative writing. It's just a rumor, but I hear that the juco is now considering changing the name of that course to Writing 101, being as how Uncle Percy showed them just how expansive the word creative can be. In other words, Uncle Percy showed them a whole new look at language - a look the instructors had sure never seen before. But Percy is coming around to actually being able to speak and write a little standard English, and the big news is that he's enrolled in Writing 202 now, an adult education night class. I reckon you'll be hearing from him in person before too long. Until then, I'm still his voice.
Percy B. Hand has been hanging around Austin some, and that constitutes a cultural clash paramount to placing a duck in a pen full of penguins. About the only thing they have in common is that they both waddle and like water, and that's sort of how Uncle Percy is in the city - he looks and walks like everybody else, but that's about where it ends. This story starts when Percy went over to the animal shelter (it shall remain nameless) near the lake, just to browse around and check out the dogs. He took Biggie along, of course, being as how Percy hardly ever goes anywhere without Biggie, his constant buddy Chihuahua. I should mention about now that Biggie is an unusual Chihuahua in that he's about as laid back as a dog can get without being unconscious. He usually rides on Percy's shoulder, sorta draped there like a stuffed toy, but sometimes he rides in Percy's overall's front bib pocket.
Well, on this particular day Percy decided to wear overalls when he went out and about town, and Biggie ended up in his bib pocket with just the tip of his nose sticking out. Like I said, Biggie was laid back, so he usually went sound asleep in the pocket and hardly anybody noticed him. That's good 'cause Biggie tends to be a little grumpy when you disturb his nap. So Percy went to the shelter and parked, then went inside and started looking around. This particular shelter is a big place, and going through it takes quite some time. Percy was poking along, walking along the cages and looking at the dogs and stopping now and then to pet one through the wire. Biggie slept through all of this, never waking up once . . . until an employee, an animal cop who happend to be walking though the place, noticed Biggie's nose sticking up from the bib pouch on Percy's overalls.
Cops just being cops can be amusing sometimes, and this turned out to be just such a situation. He boldly walked up to Percy, spun him around, and said, "Sir you are in violation of shelter policy. No dogs are allowed in here." Percy stared at him a few seconds, then pointed at a dog behind wire and asked, "Then whut the hell is that?" This particular officer was young, too young perhaps to know that old people are often blunt. But being a cop who often has to listen to smart-ass remarks, he took Percy's remark as just that - smart-ass. "That dog is housed here, but the dog in your pocket is not allowed inside these walls."
Uncle Percy stared down at Biggie, still asleep, then said, "OK, then we'll just leave." The cop shook his head and said, "Well, it's too late for that. You're in violation of city ordinance DA456-2A, and I will have to detain you. And, you'll have to turn that dog over to me." Percy started getting his hackles up about then. "You ain't taking nothin' from me, boy," he said through clenched teeth. That wasn't smart, of course, 'cause the cop went into the how-dare-you-defy-me mode.  If you've ever smarted off at a cop, you know this mode. Uncle Percy had smarted off at lots of cops, so he knew what was coming, and maybe that's what caused the big grin to start growing on his face. If there's anything a cop can't stand, it's a smart-ass smirk, even if a 75 year old man is wearing it. This kid cop took it in stride, meaning he took a big stride toward Percy, saying, "Give me that dog!"
This is about when Biggie came into the picture. The cop grabbed for Biggie, woke him up, and suffered the consequences. Biggie bit the shit out of him. The cop screamed out in pain as Biggie proceeded to gnaw his way from his thumb to his elbow, and then up to his nose. Yup, he went right up his arm leaving bite marks, all the way to his shoulder where he lunged at his nose and clamped down. The cop started flailing at his face, smacked Biggie loose, and then went tearing down the sidewalk toward the office. Biggie hit the ground hot after his ass, biting him on the heels as often as he could. The cop even ran out of one of his shoes.
Uncle Percy finally got Biggie caught and settled down. He picked up the cop's shoe and went looking for him, hoping to sooth things over. The cop, thinking for sure he'd been attacked by a rabid dog, was screaming his head off at a couple of uniformed officers outside, wiping blood off his nose at the same time. He was telling them about being attacked by this vicious dog when Percy walked up holding Biggie. "That's him! That's him!," the bleeding cop said, and that's when the two cops he'd been talking to broke down laughing. That didn't help matters at all..
Percy went to jail again. Even worse, so did Biggie. The cops hauled Percy downtown for getting out of hand when they tried to take Biggie from him. He spent the night in lock-up this time, but his daughter bailed him out the next morning. No charges were filed, but Biggie was incarcerated at the animal shelter, undergoing tests to make sure he wasn't rabid or otherwise crazed in some fashion. When the people there discovered that he was really just a laid back, loveable, little Chihuahua (unless you rudely disturbed his nap), they turned him loose. The cop, too embarrassed to press charges of any kind, wrote his run-in with Biggie off to experience. How could you ever go to court and claim a Chihuahua did all that damage to you? He knew no judge in Texas would buy it, so it all ended up being pushed aside in the cause of common sense.
But . . . Uncle Percy is now a crusader for animal rights. The last I heard, he's joined up with people who are trying to create no kill shelters for animals. And he's working toward bettering the conditions inside shelters to where they aren't so much like jails. Uncle Percy knows a little about jail conditions, and he says no animal ought to have to be treated that way . . . especially some poor hapless stray who got caught by the animal cops. Uncle Percy never has been too fond of cops, but now that he's getting to know so many of them, he's decided they're not so bad after all.
And, oh yeah, he's got another dog now. He went to an SPCA place and found a mutt named Jake . . . a cross-bred something or other hounddog. He said Biggie likes him, that they took to each other right off - so he adopted him. You'll be hearing more about Jake and Biggie later, I'm sure.
C. Duhon, 10/12/07 -
Heelers
11.Oct.07, 11:52 EDT
I'm a heeler person, and what we're talking about here ain't just dogs. You know about heeler dogs, right? You know, those Australian cow dogs that have become popular around farms and ranches. In case you don't know what they look like, scroll down to the bottom of the D&R Ranch page and take a look at Greta, my Queensland heeler dog. She's a long way from being a cow dog now, but that's what her breeding is all about. I love heelers. I love the way they look, and even they way they behave, which isn't always easy to deal with. Â
I found Greta in an animal shelter, all screwed up and needing some TLC real bad. I knew she'd be a challenge when I brought her home because I've had heelers before. They're smart dogs, but they've sure got a mind of their own. They are often high strung dogs - very intense and hard workers when they're doing their thing, which is tending to cows. But taken away from that and put in a family home, the heeler dog retains its instinct to herd. We've also got a cocker spaniel, and Greta thinks her job is to herd Sophie. If you know anything about cockers, you know they're sometimes a little grumpy. Sohpie would attack anything . . . even Greta, and attacking a cow dog is not smart. They're quick and have powerful jaws (goes back to the dingo in them, I guess), and they will bite you if provoked. Some will bite just for giggles and grins, depending on how they're socialized. That's what this blog is about - socialization.
I can empthaize with heelers because I'm a biter too. Yup, mess with me, and I'll damn sure leave some bite marks on you. I do that because it's the way I've been socialized. My mother was about as completely nonviolent as a person can get, hated physical combat of almost any kind - but she would, if provoked, bite a chunk out of your ass. I know 'cause I've got lots of her bite marks still on mine. It seems to be my lot in life to be associated with women like that, even Rojo Grande, the gal I'm married to now. Like my mama, she bites. Unlike my mama who hated physical violence, she'll also sock you a good one . . . if you really piss her off. Redheads are like that, you know . . . or at least the one I'm married to is. Â
We're all victims or beneficiaries of our ancestry when it comes to behavior - but only to a degree. Yeah, we might have a genetic tendency to get mad easily, but socialization has more to do with it. I'm living proof of that. I got chewed on some by my parents while still living in their house (even some after I moved away), but I'm a product of careful social manipulation. I don't know what caused it, but I was born with a burning desire to be absolutely worthless. My guess is that I would've ended up just as worthless as I wanted to be, had it not been for their efforts to turn me away from it. And it took a lot of money, time, and patience because I was a reluctant participant in any movement toward my betterment.I won't bore you with a bunch of pointless bullshit about what a rowdy kid I was, but here are a few examples. I spent five years and three summer schools in high school, only to get kicked out just two weeks before graduation. My parents had to hustle around and get me in another school so I could graduate and go to college. Actually, my mother used her influence as an educator to get me into a situation where I made up high school work while I attend college as a freshman. A year later, my dad missed Sunday morning services (he was the pastor) getting my sorry ass out of jail - arrested for DUI and other charges. A car crash a year after than nearly snuffed me out, and that cost them a small fortune. But I finally settled down - when I was forty. By then, I already had 15 years of college teaching under my belt and had a good career going. Then I ended up in rehab for alcohol and drug abuse, got divorced, and started a new life as a sober adult. Â
Did I say adult? Shit, I was forty. Do you know how hard it is to go through puberty in your forties? And my poor mama had to live through that with me. My dad died when I was forty-two, so he missed out on yet another life crisis for me. When I got married again at the age of 48, my mother looked at me and said, "I'm not coming to any more weddings, got it?" She loved my first wife - a lot - and was terribly disappointed in me for giving up on that marriage. But she never said a word about it. She knew that some people just don't respond to bites, and she did what she always did for me and that was to love me through it. I think she really believed that you could love a kid through anything, that nothing was too bad to overcome love . . . if you had enough of it.
Dealing with a rowdy dog takes something out of you, just like it does dealing with a rowdy kid. And I do what I'm socialized to do. Yeah, I can bite when I need to, but I've also been socialized to love. I have a dog that still gets into trouble sometimes 'cause she's rowdy, but she's never more than a few feet away from me. She's my buddy, my sidekick, and she loves me unconditionally. Dogs don't give a shit how much of an asshole you are, as long as you treat them well. It's a simple lesson. Treat a dog with love, and it responds with love. They don't think about it, just do it . . . and that's something people can't do. We try to reason our way through life, and that means we've pretty much lost the ability to love unconditionally. Â
There is a bond between the person and the animal that's special, and there's much to be learned from it. If we paid better attention, we'd see that. Animals are dependent upon us for quite a few things, but it's not just a one way street. We get something back from them that's very important because we learn something about ourselves . . . if we pay attention. My love for a dog is not wasted in that the dog gives back what I give it , and more. My love for my children and grandchildren and friends is likewise not wasted, even though at times it seems to be. It takes time for love to make the circle, come back to us. If my parents were alive today and could see me surrounded by people and animals who love me, they'd see how their plan for me worked out.
Better late than never, huh? I won't live to see my investment in people come full circle, but that is of no consequence to how the deal works. I don't need to see it. I just need to believe it works in the long run. And you see, that's what makes me a heeler person. And sometimes, I'm not bad with people either.
C. Duhon, 10/11/07 -
Uncle Percy in Austin
25.Sep.07, 11:18 EDT
I've done my share of traveling and know that America has lots of nice towns, and finding them that way sometimes came as a surprise to me. We all get images formed in your heads about what a town's like long before we actually see it, just from what we've heard from other people or perhaps seen on television or read in magazines or newspapers. I don't travel much outside of the southwest, but a guy could spend his life just going around in Texas and never get all the towns visited. Like most states I've visited, Texas has it's share of real dumps . . . you know, what my daddy used to call a shithole. What we're talking about here is a town that almost anyone would agree is bad. Maybe it's bad because the place is unattractive or downright ugly, and any oil town runs a risk of looking that way. Some towns are bad because the people who live there are pretty much a bunch of jerks . . . but that's rare, in my opinion. Most towns have a little of both, the easy to look at parts and the hard to look at parts, and how people feel about them depends upon who you ask. Ask me what I think of Houston, for instance, and you won't get a glowing report. Lots of people love it, though, so I have to accept the fact that my dislike for Houston is not shared by all.
So . . . what is it about a town that makes you feel one way or another about it? This could be a list of almost endless things, but what it comes down to in almost all cases is a matter of personal preferences. Some places leave me with no sympathies one way or another, which is what I get from San Antonio. I don't like Dallas much, or Oklahoma CIty, or for that matter, any big city. I do, on the other hand, like Austin despite the fact it's big. It has all the things I don't like - traffic jams, people in a hurry, big crowds everywhere you go, long lines at restaurants, and even more of it than you'll find in many cities. But I love Austin . . . and I still don't know exactly why. That's OK because I love a lot of things without knowing why. I'm a country boy who gets along well in cities because I've been there so much. If you can pick up on the pulse of things, you can get along.
Uncle Percy B. Hand decided to go down to Austin and visit his daughter, and when he told me he was going, I figured he'd come back within a few days all hot and bothered with city life. I figured on getting an ear full of complaints, but that's not what happened . . . exactly. His revelations about his trip to Austin kept me giggling for several days, so I thought I'd pass some of it along to you. First off, I need to explain something about central Texas attitudes about Austin. I know people who live within a hundred miles of the city who won't go there at all because they think it's an international gathering ground for hippies, liberals, left-wingers, weirdos, and revolutionaries . . . and most of all, un-Godly folks. Yeah, down here there's still that mentality that if you're left of center poltically speaking, you're bound to be in cahoots with the devil. All Democrats are atheists and therefore are un-Godly folks . . . and Austin is where they are hatched.
These attitudes are proof that ignorance abounds around here, and Uncle Percy is subject to all the pressures any of us small town hill people are. He had some preconceived notions about Austin that kept him from going there for many years, even though he lived close enough to go every weeked, Finally, his daughter persuaded him to come for a visit . . . and he agreed to go. Uncle Percy is about as redneck as a human being can get, I suppose, but this one daughter had risen above all that. She had worked her way through college, married a doctor, and had a nice home in Tarrytown, a ritzy district of the city. She was involved in all sorts of things, especially things of humanitarian concerns . . . and she was out to the left in her thinking about most things.
Now, Uncle Percy might be redneck, but he's not stupid by a long shot. He's just retarded in a social and intellectua