The Square Peg - Grass Wars and the Gobbler Hobbler

The Square Peg - Grass Wars and the Gobbler Hobbler

© S. Bradley Stoner

Eureka! I finished the shoe rack. Bring on the boat. Oh, wait a minute... it rained all week long. The aquifer is up 20 feet over last year. All of the reservoirs are full. As a matter of fact, they are over-full. They’re letting water out into the rivers, which are already running full. I might just have to build a boat for self preservation. Maybe it ought to be an ark. But, before I can start, I have to hay my yard. Yep, you heard me right... hay it. While it was raining, I could actually watch the grass grow. And, boy, did it grow!

I try to keep my lawn at 3 inches. It’s kind of the ideal height down here. It holds the water and stays green. I measured it before I started to mow. Nine inches. Are you kidding me? Six inches of growth in a week? Holy crap! I prepared to do battle. I filled the gas tank. I checked the oil. I cleaned the air filter. I sharpened the blades. Then I rolled out the machine. Intent as I was on doing battle with the green monster, I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me. I must be slipping.

“Gonna mow the yard?” Bob’s voice startled me and I jumped a little.

“Nope... I’m laying concrete.”

“Seriously... are you gonna tackle the yard with that puny little mower?”

Now, I know for a fact that Bob’s mower has been in the shop more times than it’s been out. And I’ll grant you he has one of those big self-propelled jobs, which is kind of overkill for the postage stamp yards we have, but he abuses it. For one thing, he has a tendency to forget where he’s put stone edging and hits the stones with regularity. I’m not talking pebbles here; I’m talking six-inch thick, foot and a half long, and a foot wide. They really shouldn’t be that hard to see. I looked at his blades one time when he was complaining that it wasn’t cutting right. They look like a big gator had taken a bite out of them. He routinely clogs his air filter and doesn’t clean it out. I cleaned it for him twice, once to get the mower running and once to show him how to do it himself. The next time he asked me to help fix his machine I told him I was going to start charging. I’m not mean, but then I’m not Beldar Conehead either. (For those of you who haven’t seen Coneheads... rent the movie).

“This puny little mower will out cut that monster of yours any day of the week.”

With that, Bob decided to change the subject. “So, I heard you and Duncan went shooting with that new guy.”

Oh crap, jealousy rears its ugly head. “Yep, and we had a great time.”

“So, what’s he like? The new guy I mean.”

“Nice fellow.” I was bound and determined to keep my answers short. For one thing, I knew Bob would try to horn in and for another I needed to get to the lawn before it got really hot. I am not in need of a heat stroke. “Why don’t you talk to Duncan about it? I’ve got to get to work.”

“He’s kind of pissed at me.”

Oh Lord. I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t stop myself. “What did you do to piss him off?”

Bob looked away and scratched. I won’t mention where, but it wasn’t pleasant to view. “I kind of wrecked his truck.”

“What?!”

“I was in a hurry a couple of days ago and my foot sort of slipped off the brake and hit the gas as I was backing out of the driveway. I kind of smashed his truck in the left rear side.”

“Oh man... you smacked his baby? You’ll be lucky if he talks to you in the next year.” Duncan’s truck was his pride and joy. It’s a big one ton with dual wheels on the back. What’s worse, it’s his hunting truck... and I know he was planning on hunting Rio Grande turkey this weekend. Uh-oh.

“I know,” Bob said miserably. “It’s not like I meant to do it.”

“If he misses turkey hunting this weekend, I’d watch my tail feathers if I were you. There’s no way you can make amends for that.”

“Yer not helping,” Bob groaned.

“I can’t do a thing for you, Bob.” I bent over grabbed the pull cord and gave it a yank. The mower roared to life. I didn’t even look back, although in my mind’s eye I could see him retreating with slumped shoulders. I was sure Duncan would get over it... he’s not one to carry a grudge, but making Bob feel miserable when he does something stupid like that brings Duncan enormous pleasure. I just hoped Bob had good insurance coverage.

I had just finished edging the front lawn when Duncan wandered over. “I see old Bob came by looking for sympathy.”

“Yeah, well he didn’t get any. How bad is the truck?”

“It’s already fixed,” Duncan confided. “They just pulled the left rear quarter panel, slapped a new one on, and painted it to match the truck. It looks good as new.”

I glanced up the street to where it was usually parked. “So where is it?”

Duncan smiled evilly. “In my brother’s garage. You don’t think I’m going to give Bob the satisfaction of knowing how easy it was to fix, do you? Anyway, I’m off the Rio Grande Valley to bag a gobbler tomorrow. Can you keep an eye on the place? Oh, and don’t let Bob know where I’ve gone... I’m not done tormenting him yet.”

The Square Peg - New Moves in Old SA

The Square Peg - New Moves in Old SA

© S. Bradley Stoner

 

I’ve been told that I’m set in my ways. Not true... well, mostly not true. There are some things I would prefer didn’t change. However, I am pretty flexible in most areas, and where I’m not flexible, at least I’m adaptable. For example, some folks my age have no real sense of adventure any more. They find nothing so comfortable as settling into some place and becoming home bodies. Not me. I like to travel, especially to places I haven’t seen before. Now, I will grant you that there are some places I’d rather not see. I mean who wants to see Detroit decay? Not me. If, however, you mention an out of the way spot in Podunk, Montana where I can go pry up rocks to look for fossils... well, heck, who wouldn’t want to go there? Besides, there’s likely to be a fishing spot somewhere nearby. Man, that’s like a double jackpot!

Here’s the deal, we are a mobile society. We move... a lot. Take me for instance. I’ve moved no less than twenty times in six different states. Mostly the moves were work related, although not all. Also, for a good stretch of my career a colleague and I were fond of saying our second home was a Boeing 737. Buying a home is supposed to settle you down. It doesn’t. Nor does it remove the itch in the feet. Just ask my lovely. Anyway, this means that cities, towns, and neighborhoods are in a constant state of change. People move in... people move out... new people move in... and on and on. In south central Texas, especially in San Antonio, more people are moving in than are moving out. That creates a great sellers’ market, by the way.

In our neighborhood we have a pretty good mix of folks, including most colors of the ethnic rainbow. It’s kind of like a mini-cross section of America. We’ve got retired folks, we’ve got young professionals, we’ve got young families... and we have liberals and conservatives, although the balance tends toward conservative simply because SA is home to a lot of military bases and military families. On the other hand, we have some rabid liberals. When rabid liberals and rabid conservatives get together you might expect fireworks, but most people just avoid talking politics... with the exception of Bingo Bob and Duncan Donutz, and even they put differences aside if there’s a golf outing or fishing trip involved. There are some things just way more important than politics.

A couple of days ago I found out we’re losing a good neighbor. They’re being shipped off to Japan. I’ll miss them, but we’ve had a good run together. We also got a new neighbor about a block away. Somebody told me his name was Frank. The first time I saw him, he came roaring up on a big Harley Davidson, whizzed by me and left my ears ringing. Frank isn’t a youngster... at least not age-wise. As he flew past me on his hog, long, silvery locks flowing back, I had a brief look at his leather club vest, but he disappeared down the block before I had a chance to read it. I don’t think it belonged to some outlaw biker gang... I mean the only thing I saw on the back was this big green duck with some lettering around it. How bad can that be?

Yesterday he zoomed past me in a shiny, mint condition 73 T-top Corvette with a gorgeous, long maned blond in the passenger seat. She even tossed a kiss at me as they went by. I’m thinking to myself, “Midlife crisis.” Yeah... I know that’s kind of judgmental coming from a guy who married a woman who is fourteen years younger. I’m happy, so sue me. At least I didn’t run out and buy a hog and a ‘vette. Shoot, I even traded my Lincoln in on something more practical, and I loved that Mark V. Oh well. Besides, this isn’t about me... it’s about Frank.

I’m not sure whether Frank has a job or not either since he seems to be coming and going during the day. A lot. Who comes home at ten o’clock in the morning and has a regular job? Okay, maybe I’m being a bit old fashioned here. I know all about telecommuting. Heck, I did it for about two years. The thing is I wasn’t ducking out for a ride at one, three, and five. And I wasn’t coming home at two a.m. I’m not really spying on old Frank, but the racket that Harley makes is hard to miss, not to mention the glass pipes on the ‘vette.

Duncan just called me and asked if I’d like to go shooting with him and Frank. Duncan makes it his business to get to know folks as quickly as possible. I think it’s the cop in him. Anyway, I said, “Sure, why not?”

“Okay,” Duncan said enthusiastically. “Bring your pistols. We’re not going to do long guns today.”

“Works for me,” I replied. “Does anybody care if I bring the Colt?” I have to ask this because the Colt is an old Navy .44 caliber black powder gun. Some folks don’t like them and I didn’t want to offend Frank before I had a chance to get to know him. I mean, how bad can a guy be if he likes to go shooting?

“No, that’ll be fine. Frank even mentioned he might bring his antique Walker Colt.”

Uh-oh. You know what this means? It means I have to revise my thinking about the new guy. Anybody who shoots black powder guns is a kindred spirit. I started to wonder what else we might have in common. Duncan let me know before I had a chance to ask.

“I really think you and Frank will hit it off. He likes the stuff we do... you know, golf, fishing, and hunting. He’s already asked if we want to go to Port A where he has his boat parked at the marina.”

“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me he has a hunting lease.”

“Well, actually no, but he does own a fifteen hundred acre ranch somewhere up by Fort Hood.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” That’s prime Texas hunting country. “Now if you tell me he has a big pond full of bass on it, I think I’ll have died and gone to heaven.”

“Geez,” Duncan paused. “I don’t know. We’ll have to ask him on the drive to the range.”

“You guys want to take my Explorer? It’s got plenty of room.”

“Um, I kind of committed us to ride with him. He’s got a new Hummer.”

About twenty minutes later, Frank and Duncan pull up in front of my driveway in a steel-grey Hummer, Duncan wasn’t kidding when he said it was new. It still had the temporary plates on it. Frank got out and came around the rear.

“Hi, I’m Frank,” he said sticking out his hand. The grip was firm... eyes steady.

“Of course you are,” I smiled. “I’m Brad.”

“Well, just chuck your gear in the back and let’s get out to the range and make a little noise!”

On the way out and the way back, I learned a lot about Frank. I learned that he had raced motorcycles when he was young. He must have been reasonably successful at it because, even though he admitted he had raced Yamaha and Kawasaki bikes for the most part, he had made enough to buy a Harley dealership. Then another, and then another. Texans don’t go small. In any case, after years of hard work, he now had time to enjoy the fruits of his labors, and he intended to enjoy them to the fullest. Oh, and I found out about that gorgeous blond. Turns out it’s his nineteen-year-old daughter who is attending UTSA. 

Oh, and we found out Frank’s last name. It’s Furter... Frank Furter. Kind of figures, doesn’t it?

The Square Peg - If the Shoe Fits...

The Square Peg - If the Shoe Fits...

© S. Bradley Stoner

My days are totally screwed up now. Turned completely upside down. Understand, I am a morning person. I like seeing the sun come up. Yeah... I know the science; I know it’s just the Earth turning, but I’m old fashioned. I like the idea of us being the center of the universe. I mean, there might be something or someone else out there, but so far we haven’t found them. I’m just as glad for that right now. It they are out there, they might just consider us annoying bugs, and, frankly, I don’t want to find out if they have a big can of Raid to polish us off. There are times I just like blissful ignorance. It allows me to pursue my pet projects without having to consider the big picture. Crud... there I go again with that digression thing.

Anyway, my lovely switched up her schedule and now works into the night. That means we don’t get up early anymore. Well, I do, but then I either have to go back to bed, take a nap, or drag all day. I need my sleep. Didn’t used to. I used to get by on four hours a night. Sometime around age sixty, that caught up with me. Now I can snooze at the drop of a hat. So please, don’t drop one. The other thing this schedule does is screw up my shop hours. You see, my shop is in the garage. I can’t work in my shop when her car is parked in it. And she won’t park outside for my convenience... not that I blame her. We bought her little Suzuki brand spanking new off the lot and despite the fact that she has had it for six years, it looks brand new. That’s why she keeps it in the garage. Given that she only drives it to the store and work, it has a paltry 20,000 miles on it. Heck, it’s barely broken in. And, because it’s Suzuki’s cross-over that is no longer made, it’s worth more now than when it was new.

I guess I can’t complain too much. Now I work in my shop in the late afternoon and evening when it starts to cool off, but I think I’m going to hang up and plug in my bug zapper. Damn mosquitos. So, there I was last evening, the first night of her new schedule, working in my shop. Apparently, Bingo Bob was intrigued by the open garage door leaking light, so he decided to amble over. Now, I hadn’t seen Bob for about a week since our last conversation, which you might recall had to do with rearranging his wife’s anatomy a little. I mean, I hadn’t seen his car or any trace of him, so I had questions for a change.

“Hi ya... whatcha doin?” Bob asked, breaching the sanctity of my shop sanctuary.

“Building a shoe rack,” I replied. “My sweetie said I couldn’t start building a boat until I built the shoe rack I’ve promised her for the last two years.”

Bob eyeballed the structure I was erecting from scrap wood I had lying around the shop. No, it wasn’t lying around in the conventional sense, it was neatly stacked to one side by the shelves that held my camping gear and other important stuff, as well as a couple of shelves of stacked short pieces of lumber. I don’t throw anything away unless it’s rotted or twisted beyond usefulness. You never know when you might need one of those scraps to finish a critical project.

“You coulda saved yourself a lotta grief if you’d just bought one of those Ikea kits,” Bob intoned. “Besides, she’d have had her shoe rack a long time ago.”

“I don’t like kits,” I replied. “For one thing, they almost always seem to have too much of one type of hardware and not enough of the other. It’s like building something with your kid’s Legos. No thanks, I’d rather build it from scratch.”

“Well,” Mr. expert said, touching one of my bar clamps that held the structure while the glue dried, “you best be putting some screws or nails in that or yer glue is gonna dry out and the thing’ll fall apart.”

It irritates me when folks like Bob, who couldn’t put together a tinker toy with step-by-step instructions, try to advise me on my projects. I could have gotten really caustic, but I just said, “No sh^t Sherlock.”

If that offended Bob, he didn’t show it. Then, like his brain had just caught up with the initial statement, “You’re going to build a boat?! Wow... how big?”

“Just a small fishing boat that will work on lakes and the shallow bays on the Gulf. Nothing fancy.”

“I mean, how many feet?” Bob apparently has no sense of size without dimensions.

“About a fifteen footer. It’s going to be kind of a modified scow.” Seeking to divert the attention from my doings, I asked, “So, where have you been for the past week or so? Haven’t seen your car around.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been away...” Bob stumbled, and stared at his shoes “on business. And the car’s been in the shop.”

“Oh? Engine trouble?”

“Now... getting a few dings fixed and a window replaced.”

“Ah, got in a fender-bender, huh?”

Bob shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. “Not exactly...”

“How not exactly?” I asked.

“Well, um... you remember what I asked you about last time we talked?”

Like I could forget it... especially since I went and wrote about it so all the world could share in that little tidbit. “Oh, you mean the nip and tuck, butt lift and boob job.”

“Geez! Not so loud.” Bob obviously doesn’t spend much time on social media and obviously doesn’t read my stuff. I kind of knew that. He continued, “Anyway, I brought it up to the wife. Man, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get so mad. Now I wish I had remembered to put that hammer back in my locked tool chest. She kind of took her anger out on my ride.”

“Didn’t know you owned a hammer, Bob.”

“Well, I do. I had to buy one when you wouldn’t let me use yours any more.”

I nodded, but thought to myself, ‘Thank heaven! If she had decided to take that hammer after Bob instead of his car, my fingerprints would have been all over the murder weapon. Not good.’

“Anyway,” Bob added miserably, “she put a lot of dents in the hood of my beauty and then busted out the rear window for good measure.”

“Well, I hope you learned from this,” I chirped.

“You bet I did!” Bob exclaimed. “I got some storage units to put my boat and car in and one that I’m going to make into a man-cave with my big screen TV. I ain’t giving her any second chances at my stuff!”

“Bob...”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot.”

The Square Peg - Global Swarming

The Square Peg - Global Swarming

© S. Bradley Stoner

Springtime. Ah, the wonder of it. Everything is in bloom. The old neighborhood is busting out in color. Reds, yellows, purples, pinks, whites, and peaches (that would be my Peace Roses... don’t think anybody else in the neighborhood has them). Yep, it’s like one huge botanical garden. It’s the rain this year. Gallons and gallons of rain breeds acres upon acres of flowers... cultivated and otherwise. Heck, even the otherwise flowers are grand down here in Texas. Fields of Bluebells, Gaillardia, Paintbrush, and Milkweed (down here we call ‘em Butterfly Bushes). Of course, with all those native plants and the plethora of exotics that grace our flower beds, there’s a downside. Pollen. Tons and tons of it. If you have allergies and don’t like the itchiness, scratchiness, stuffiness, drainage and coughing that usually accompanies this affliction, there are a couple of times of the year you don’t want to visit us. Late winter and springtime.

Late winter (January through early March) is cedar season. If you haven’t experienced it, I recommend you avoid it. We have a little thing down here called Cedar Fever and it’s nasty for the chronically allergic. Eyes water, noses turn red, faces swell, and a hacking cough pervades the air. Most Allergy medicines really don’t touch it, especially those expensive ones. All they do is add to the coffers of the pharmaceutical companies. There is one that will knock it down, but it’s only sold at local HEB stores and it’s a generic. I’m not tellin’ you what it is. For that you have to come visit me. But I can tell you that my wife’s coworkers now refer to it as “the magic pill.”

Spring. Well, let’s see. There's oak... that will do a good job of turning your vehicle yellow no matter what the original color is. Ash, not quite as bad. Pecan, we all tolerate that because... well, pecan pie, pralines and such, for pity's sake. And of course all the garden plants, but they’re not too bad from an allergy standpoint, but they do attract bees and wasps. We have plenty of both. I’ve seen at least six species of wasps in our yard and bees... well, we have both the domestic honey and the Africanized (the so-called killer bees), and guess what? It’s swarming season. Yep, bees are looking to expand their territory and numbers. Now, given the overall decline in honeybee numbers, that’s a good thing. We need ‘em. Besides... they make honey, and who doesn’t like that?

Bingo Bob, Duncan Donutz, and Charlie were gathered on the corner, engaged in heated discussion. Much to my dismay, my curiosity got the better of me. They were loud, but the wind snatched away the words. I figured politics... but no! They were arguing about bees. Bees, for crying out loud. Seems a new swarm had formed on one of Bob’s trees, obviously looking for a place to locate. Bob and Duncan were hell bent on getting rid of them. Charlie was more in a preservationist mood.

“You can’t go around killing every little thing that  annoys you,” he protested. “They got a right to live. Besides, with all the collapsed colony stuff going around, we need ‘em. They pollinate stuff.”

“I’ll allow that,” Duncan conceded. “I wouldn’t get many tomatoes if they weren’t around, but these look like those damn killer bees... and Bob already got stung once.”

“Bob got stung? Must be global swarming," I grinned.

Duncan whirled around. “Hey, when did you get here?”

“Just now.” I looked at Bob. “You got stung? Only once?”

“Yeah... but I smacked him and squashed him flat. It was one of them killer bees.”

“Okay,” I mused. “And the rest didn’t come after you?”

“They must’ve known I meant business.”

“Uh huh... so how did you determine it was a killer bee.”

“I’ve seen pictures... they’re darker than regular bees,” he said with authority.”

“Hmmm... actually, that’s not true. Pretty much they look the same, only the Africanized bees are just a smidgen smaller, not that you’d notice.” I said. “Besides, if that had been a killer bee, all his buddies would have joined him and you’d have been lucky to get to the house without being stung dozens of times.”

“Aw, you’re full of it,” Bob shot back. “I know a regular honey bee when I see it.”

“On the other hand,” Duncan smiled mischievously, “you probably wouldn’t know one if it flew up and kissed you on the lips.”

“Now you’re just being obnoxious, Duncan,” Bob spat, “you guys are always ganging up on me. Besides... what makes either one of you an expert on bees.”

“Well, I’m not claiming to be an expert, but I am a biologist and I’ve got a lot of field experience. Besides, entomology was one of my favorite courses in college and I’ve kept up.”

“Who cares if you studied animals’ insides... what’s that got to do with bees?”

“Geez, Bob, are you a complete dunce?” Duncan asked. “Even I know entomology means bug study.”

I just shook my head, but Charlie, apparently feeling crowded out of the discussion, interjected, “He isn’t a dunce... he’s just ignorant is all. We have an opportunity to educate him now.” Charlie was warming to the “educate him” thing, being a retired teacher.

Bob didn’t give him a chance. “Yeah... like you teachers do such a great job... my kids can’t even write cursive, for crying out loud.”

I could tell, this conversation was about to leave the subject of bees... and not in a good way. “Well, time for me to head back home.”

“Hey! How come killer bees don’t bother you?” Bob yelled.

“I have a secret weapon,” I replied. “Turns ‘em into teddy bees.”

“Yeah, and what would that be?”

“You’ve all seen it,” I replied. “My morning glory bush.”

“Last time I saw that,” Duncan offered, “the thing was covered with bees and wasps.”

“True,” I said, “but did any of them come after you? Did they act in the least aggressive?”

Duncan rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, no... no they didn’t and we were really close.”

“Yep, and a bunch of those bees were Africanized. That bush just kind of mellows them out. Frankly, I think they get stoned on the pollen.”

“Really?” the three of them chorused.

“Yep... and I’ve started a couple of more of them from cuttings that are about ready to transplant... I could make you a deal on cost.”

“Ha!” Bob shouted. “I knew there was a catch somewhere! That’s low, bro... trying to use misery to sell stuff.”

I didn’t bother with a response. Heck, I’m not going to give them away. I’ve got pots, dirt, and time.. about six months’ worth... invested. That’s got to be worth the five bucks I want for them. But if Bob would rather brave the wrath of the killer bee... not my problem.