The Square Peg - Rainy Day Woes and the Brush Pile Miracle

The Square Peg - Rainy Day Woes and the Brush Pile Miracle

© S. Bradley Stoner

Well crap. I got up early this morning. Did my workout with weights... damn you Jeremy Crow... before I had breakfast. Then I was going to go out and mow my lawn. Um, no. It was raining. So all that prep yesterday goes for naught. I spent an hour tuning up old Chug-a-lug (my mower), cleaning off all the dead grass on the deck, cleaning the air filter, and sharpening the blade. Chug-a-lug was shiny and purring like a kitten when I got done.

“Only a 20 percent chance of rain tomorrow,” the weatherman on Fox News said. “Ten percent chance, but it will stay well east of San Antonio,” said the NBC weatherman. “Slight chance of rain tomorrow,” said the CBS weatherman. ‘Okay!’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ll have nice weather in the morning, cool and dry... perfect lawn mowing weather down here.’ Damn weathermen. I should have looked at the Old Farmers Almanac. They said, “Wet.” Guess what? They were dead on again.

While I was busy working on my mower yesterday, I noticed my neighbor across the street pausing by his brush pile the city was due to pick up later in the day. Ian scratched his head and stared with a confused look. It was my fault. I had trimmed a couple of my trees and some of my bushes. Rather than start a new pile on my sidewalk, I just hauled the branches across the street and added them to his. Heck, it would make it easier for the pick up guys... one pile instead of two, not that they would have cared one way or the other.

Since Ian kept walking around the pile, scratching his head and rubbing his chin, I figured I’d better own up to it. So, I left my blade sharpening half done, put the blade on my bench, turned off my grinder, and wandered down the driveway and across the street to where Ian still stood with a puzzled look on his face.

“Hi Ian,” said I. “Bet you’re wondering where that extra brush came from.”

Ian looked up.

I raised my hand like a first grade kid caught throwing an eraser at the teacher (I had experience with that). “I did it... I only had a small amount of branches and figured why start a new pile, so I put ‘em on yours.”

“Oh,” Ian replied, suddenly brightening. “I was starting to think I’d lost my mind. I didn’t remember adding anything, but I just wasn’t sure... I kept trying to figure out what else I would have trimmed, and when. I was really confused.”

Now, not to be mean, but frankly if I had a pile of brush and noticed that it had magically grown over night, I wouldn’t be wondering. I’d have figured somebody else took advantage of an existing pile and just chucked a few extra branches on it, not that it might be some sort of brush pile miracle. But I’m a logical kind of guy with a fairly good memory. Matter of fact, I remember that eraser throwing event quite clearly. I can still see the look on my teacher’s face. She was not happy... she never was able to brush all the white chalk off her black dress... so there was ample evidence to convict me in the Principal’s office. Teach me to raise my hand... not that I’d have gotten away with it... Sammy the Squealer sat next to me and I had a little chalk on my shirt too. But I digress.

“Nope... it was just me. You weren’t sleep trimming,” I rejoined.

“Well thank you for telling me... I was starting to think I was losing my mind.”

I’m pretty sure Ian is suffering from short-term memory loss, but I had the good grace not to say it. He’s a nice old gentleman... did I just say that? I mean, I think I’m a year older than he is, but I neither feel it nor look it... and my look is getting better daily... thank you Jeremy Crow... I do tend to have a few aching muscles on a daily basis, however. I could do without that. Anyway, I hope Ian finds his memory soon... I’m going to recommend a few vitamin supplements to him. And next time we have brush pick up, I’ll pile my brush on my own sidewalk... maybe I’ll go get his and add it to mine. Fair is fair, after all, but I wonder if he’ll think somebody stole his pile. I’ll keep you posted.

Okay... got to get back to work on the book... two more weeks and I should be done...

The Square Peg - The Soy Bean Connection... er Confection... er Correction

The Square Peg - The Soy Bean Connection... er Confection... er Correction

© S. Bradley Stoner

I was out in my garage tending to my soy bean crop. That’s right, you heard me... soy beans. I have a hundred and thirty two plants in pots... that’s all I could fit in my garage. I have an automatic drip irrigation system set up so I don’t have to worry about watering them. I have strips of blue and red light emitting diodes attached to the roof to promote rapid growth.

Duncan Donutz stopped by while out on his morning walk. Duncan is trying to get rid of his pot belly... the one he gained from his inability to pass up any Krispy Kreme shop in the vicinity and his love of beer. I don’t know how he stands that combination, but that’s just me. Anyway, Duncan walked up my driveway to see what I was up to since my garage door was open. He looked at my little potted plants and asked, “Whatcha growin there?”

“Soy beans,” I replied.

“That seems kind of odd,” he opined. “Don’t they grow those in fields?”

“Yep, but as you can see, I’m a bit limited on acreage. Besides, the Home Owners Association said I couldn’t plow up the yard unless I planted back a new lawn. That doesn’t do me any good.”

“Well, here’s a better question... what in tarnation are you growing them for?”

“I’m experimenting with plastics... I want to build a whole car body out of the stuff like Henry Ford did back in the 1930s.”

“You can do that?” he looked puzzled.

“Yep. You just have to grow the beans, powder them into soy protein, mix that with some other vegetable proteins, add some ethylene glycol and then vacuum mold the parts.”

“Can you buy that stuff... the ethylene whatever you called it?”

“Well sure... it’s on the auto product shelves in Walmart.”

“Huh?”

“It’s antifreeze... you know, the stuff you add to your radiator. In the process, it’s called a ‘plastisizer.’

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go through. How much plastic can you make from these plants?”

‘Well, not much,” I admitted. “It’d take me several years to grow enough in my garage to make a whole car.”

“Well, what’s the frickin’ point of that? Why not just go buy some of that molding plastic... it’s would be a lot faster and probably cheaper.”

I admitted that was probably true, but I explained that soy plastic was a green product. Since it’s essentially made of food grade materials, it was completely biodegradable, unlike petroleum plastics that persist for years and just keep degrading into smaller and plastic bits that accumulate in the environment. “You see, microbes can break down vegetable proteins... heck, in a pinch you would probably be able to eat soy plastic if it didn’t have some residual antifreeze in it. That stuff’s not good for you.”

Duncan shook his head with a puzzled look on his face. “I still don’t get it.”

“This is just an experimental test bed,” I explained. “I’m trying to perfect a process. If I can get the formula down right, I’m going to patent it and put it on Kickstarter to raise funds for a real production facility. If it goes, I’ll start a small proof of concept plant and then sell the process... I’ll make millions.”

“How long do you suppose that will take?”

“Probably a couple of years to perfect the process, then another year to raise the capital and a year to build a pilot plant... after that, who knows? But really, who cares? I’m retired... I’ve got the time.”

Duncan walked away shaking his head and I spent the rest of the day working on the set up. Early in the afternoon, I realized that I no longer had room in the garage to use my workshop. Considering I had to build outdoor racks for the soybeans for when I moved them, that made things a little inconvenient, but there was always the back porch. Late in the afternoon, my lovely returned home from her job. I knew she was home, because I could hear her honking the horn. I hurried through the house, trailing bits of sawdust, and went out through the garage to greet her and tell her about my latest experiment. For some reason, she didn’t look too happy.

“Hi...” was about as far as I got.

“You have about ten minutes to start clearing that mess out of the garage... I’m not leaving my car out in the hot sun... and I HOPE you didn’t leave a trail of sawdust throught the house!”

I wonder if Edison and Ford had to put up with that. I’m busy the next two days. Something about power washing the garage floor and taking down those “stupid lights.”

The Square Peg - Labor Day Texas Style or Somebody Please Shoot Bob

The Square Peg - Labor Day Texas Style or Somebody Please Shoot Bob

© S. Bradley Stoner

Well, Labor Day weekend has arrived. Yeah, I know, technically it doesn’t start until Saturday. Tell that to Bingo Bob. For Bob it starts on Friday. In fact, I’m starting to think every weekend starts on Friday for Bob. I know he works... he leaves at 7:30 sharp every morning Monday through Thursday . I know... you can hear Bob’s car. It’s not like he has glass pipes or anything, it’s just that he hit a rock when he was out four wheeling and punched a hole in his muffler... two years ago. He still hasn’t gotten it fixed. He has other priorities.

Right now, he has two priorities, his boat and his smoker. Bob has a big boat... well, big for this neighborhood. It’s what we call a “bay boat.” It’s 21 feet long, has two big outboards on the stern and a cockpit console amidships with pole holders on the front... and a hole in its side where you can see all the wiring. I asked Bob once if he’d lost the access panel cover. He told me, “Nah, my friend George lost his footing and put his head through it.” Apparently George does drink on the boat.

Bay boats are nice for fishing in the gulf bays off the coast of Texas. I wish I had one... maybe next year. In any case, Bob’s boat has seen better times. The paint is fading and you can see where it’s been patched from the times Bob ran into something. I don’t think Bob drinks when he’s on the boat. I just don’t think he pays attention. It must be the first time Bob has taken his boat out this year because when he fired up the twin outboards, they smoked almost as much as his smoker does. Bob shut them down and disappeared into his garage, returning a moment later with a case of motor oil. He put a quart in each motor and then stowed the rest of the case on the boat. It’s good to be prepared. Bob disappeared again, but this time he didn’t come back. I soon found out why.

An angry black cloud rose from Bob’s back yard. Yep... he’d fired over that beast of a smoker that he has. I wish he was the only one. Unfortunately, he isn’t. I knew that by tomorrow the entire subdivision was going to look like Los Angeles on a really bad day. Labor Day just isn’t Labor Day in Texas unless you are torturing meat... and your neighbors. Of course hardly anybody considers it torture, it’s a tradition, not to mention that it’s sort of like thumbing your nose at the EPA, which appeals to most Texans anyway. You see, we don’t consider it “bad air” when all those grills and smokers are going... it’s aromatic and appetite whetting. Who doesn’t like that?

In Texas, we don’t have to buy mesquite chips to throw on charcoal in our smokers... we have the real McCoy. We even have a town named Mesquite. Guess why. Yep, the stuff grows almost everywhere. And if you don’t have a friend with some land where you can go cut some of the stuff, there are plenty of folks who sell it by the cord. Just stack some in your smoker, set it afire, let it burn down to coals and close the damper most of the way. Instant mesquite smoke. Then you take a slab of meat, preferably brisket that has been treated for a few days with a rub (everybody has their own special recipe) or a couple of racks of baby back ribs, but really any kind of meat will do, slap it on the grate and close the lid.  Let it slow cook in there while you make tater salad, cole slaw, and borracho beans (don’t forget to add a can of Bud light... that makes them yummy). In a few hours you have a feast fit for a king... and every Texan thinks he are one. All that is left is to add a couple of cases of your favorite brew, a pitcher or two of margaritas, hire a local mariachi band and, carumba, it’s fiesta time! Yep, we do up Labor Day weekend right. Texas even has the world's biggest smoker... check it out!

Bob wandered over, rubbing the soot from his face. “Get a little close to the lighter fluid?” I asked.

Bob grinned. “Naw, I opened her up to check on the coals and got a face full of greasy smoke.”

“That’ll do it,” I nodded. “What’s up?”

“Well, we’re headed for Port A tomorrow... gonna take the ol’ Water Witch out and see if we can catch a few Red Fish and Specks,” he replied, meaning Red Drum and Speckled Trout. “If you’re going to be home, I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my place.”

“Sure,” I said. “Where are you staying down there?”

“Oh, we got a motel room for a couple of nights... we’ll be back Monday afternoon. Geez, they charge an arm and a leg!”

I just nodded. You see, that’s why I go the weekend before Labor Day weekend. The price difference is over two hundred bucks a night. It’s also why I go to the coast during the off season. Not only is it less costly, the competition for space on the piers and beaches is way less. I like it that way... and my mama didn’t raise a fool. “Have a good time,” I said.

Later that evening, I saw Bob loading a couple of cases of beer into a big cooler. Then George drove up in his old Corolla and added another case of beer and what looked like a couple of bottles of Jack. I could almost see the headlines... “Two Snockered Fishermen Found Drifting Off The Coast Of Mexico.”

Y’all have a happy Labor Day Weekend, ya hear?!

The Square Peg - Another oldie - Intrusions on Chicken Tuesday from the slightly demented mind of yours truly.

The Square Peg - Another oldie - Intrusions on Chicken Tuesday from the slightly demented mind of yours truly.

© S. Bradley Stoner

Awright… lissen up.  I’m crashin’ the hen party…. ag’in. 

New an’ improved daffynishons.

Barred rock – that thing ya just pried up from the field you’ve been runnin’ over for the last ten years – also a chickin

Buttercup (noun) – what ya call yer sweetheart – also a chickin

Cornish (noun) – drifted snow on a mountin top – also a chickin

Dorking (verb) – the process of makin’ yer kid a geek – also a chickin

Frizzle (noun) – what happens to yer sweetheart’s hair when its damp out – also a chickin

Gimmizah (verb) – askin’ fer sumthin, as in “gimmizah fried chickin” – also a chickin

Eggshit (noun) – them things you take to get off the four lane

Java (noun) – what any red-blooded American pours in his cup in the mornin’ – also a chickin

Leghorn (noun) – what ya tie below yer knee when yer riding a bicycle to scare the deer away – also a chickin

Ovaltine (noun) – that there multipronged thingy you eat henfruit with

Polish (noun) – what they call Polacks in polite society – also a chickin

Polish (verb) – what yer sweetheart does with the silver – yep, still a chickin

Pullet (verb)– what ya do with a little red wagon… or an old Dodge Power Wagon… or a Yugo… also a chicken

Scratch (noun) – what ya use to pay the fine when you drive too fast off the eggshit... also what a chickin does in the barnyard

Silkie – what yer sweetheart’s nighty feels like – also a chickin

Wattle (noun) – what ducks do… or what people do after they’ve et too much... also a chickin part

Wyandottes (noun) – describes a suspended question “Why….” – also a chickin

Now, I could go on, ya understand, but I fear my Buttercup will gimmizah bum's rush offn the eggshit.

Happy Toosday!