Oh Boy, Oh Boy, Oh Boy!

Macalester gave me a week reprieve from school to reattach myself with home. I headed to Texas for spring break with a friend, Bob. I was looking forward to visiting Del Rio and my grandfather’s ranch. My family had so often traveled the three-hour drive between San Antonio and Del Rio that I could recognize every bend in the road. I can still list the towns between; Castroville, Hondo, D’Hanis, Sabinal, Uvalde, Brackettville and name the best places to stop for gas, or a coke. I can tell if areas have had “a good rain”, as my grandfather would say, by the color of the ground. Most of all, my body knows the drive. I leave for Del Rio slouched and tired, but as the towns pass, I straighten and get more excited. This was how I was feeling as I was driving with Bob to meet my grandfather.

We spent a day in Del Rio where Dorothy, my grandfather’s second wife, threw us a small “get-together”. She invited every college and high school aged kid in Del Rio as well as their parents. I do not know exactly how many times I heard “Your Tommy’s boy aren’t you? You look just like him.”

We were ready to leave the next day for the ranch. My grandfather had always been a rancher. He was given his inheritance when he married my grandmother, MaryAnn Graham, at the age of 16 and had been an active sheep and goat rancher since. His 15,000 acres were located about 60 miles north between Del Rio and Sonora. The land is arid, rough, relentless, and beautiful. My grandfather spoke of the land with reverence. I remember asking him after a rainstorm if it would help the land. He said the rain came down too fast and it all washed away down the draws. Nothing ever happened that was good enough for his beloved ranch.

The road to where my grandfather felt most at home lead west out of Del Rio, crossed Lake Amistad to the small town of Comstock. From there, the highway became an ill kept crooked two-lane road snaking through the Texas Hill Country. It is a beautiful drive as a passenger in any other car than one driven by my grandfather. He was a notoriously bad and frightfully fast driver. I think it was with him I found out why the handrail above the passenger seat is called the “Oh Shit!” bar.

Before we left Del Rio, Dorothy suggested I lead the way to the ranch. I felt the burden immediately. I knew that if I were to go too slow, I would be the butt of all my grandfathers teasing. I warned Bob about the terrain and the expectations and gunned it.

I was fine heading out of Del Rio. It is easy to go fast on a 6-lane highway in Texas, just move to the outside lane and blast it. Bob and I laughed and joked to AC/DC on the stereo. We were thinking about horses, guns, and swimming. I was a little worried when I saw that my grandfather was directly behind me.

Everything changed when we turned at Comstock. My father had lent me his 320i BMW, a car that was not only fast but also could hold itself to the road. My grandfather, on the other hand, had a Suburban that he let his dogs sleep in. It stank from the years of punishment, and looked as if it might expire at any moment.

I have never driven so fast in my life. That car had never been driven so fast in it’s life. Bob and I lost all hilarity after the first turn. Periodically, I would shout over Bob’s screaming to ask if my grandfather was still there. Every time the answer was yes. Three times, I know, we were on two wheels for more than a second. At one point after a serious combination of rights and lefts, I saw a sign that said the speed limit was 20 MPH and I know I was going well over 70. The whole time, my grandfather was right on my tail.


Our turn off to the ranch was at a town called Mayfield. Mayfield was named after Jake Mayfield, another rancher, who always wanted a town named after him. He built a store, hired a family to run it and called it Mayfield Texas, population two. When Bob and I pulled into Mayfield Country Store we just stared at each other. I will never forget the look of terror mixed with relief in his eyes.

I shivered as I turned off the stereo and the last lines of “Highway to Hell”. When I got out of the car, I was shaking. I don’t think Bob actually kissed the ground but he was on his knees when I saw him. The sun was in my eyes so I didn’t see Dorothy until she was next to me. She seemed relaxed and smiled at me.

I followed her into the store. When she got the to door she turned to me and said, “Charlie, you are the best driver. You don’t drive too fast and you don’t drive too slow.”

I remember thinking that Dorothy did not have a clue about my abilities or me. I was on the edge of hysterics in that car and she was complementing me on my driving.

I now sometimes find myself in a similar situation as to that drive to the ranch. My knees get shaky, or my hands twitch when I think about how I am barely functioning as a teacher, a coach, a friend, a father, a husband, or a man. And I am struck by how completely overmatched I am. I look into the mirror and see that same terrified look Bob gave me that spring break trip.

I must have been eight or nine when we moved from 616 Morningside to 137 Primrose. Geographically if was not a significant move, maybe four miles, but I was moving away from all I knew as a kid to the unknown and that was enough for me to fight. My parents were matter-a-fact about the move and when the actually day came when we were to leave, my father pulled me aside and told me we were a family and we where going to move as a family. I half-heartedly protested but I knew he was right. I didn’t find out until later that my parents were impacted by my stubbornness. My mother thought I wasn’t going to move.

I think the reason why I did not want to move stemmed from fear. I knew no one in the new neighborhood and I was leaving all I knew. Luckily I had a brother. We spent our time playing together and spying on the neighbors. Next door to us was a house of girls. The Brownings had more girls than I could count. Eloise, Katherine, Emily, one might had been named Mary, and a few others that I never learned their names. My brother and I found out a great deal about the Brownings those first few weeks. They shouted a lot, swore, and ran around naked. These were all foreign behaviors for our family and it terrified my brother and me. We thought terrible things about the Brownings.

As the weeks passed Patrick and I got to know a boy down the street, Jonathan Gerwitz. He was older than us and as the way with older boys, loved to have Patrick and I do his bidding. Many times in my life I have taken the role of follower and this was one.

Jonathan was fun. We invented a game he named “Spotlight” that required a high voltage spotlight, tons of kids, and darkness. Basically it was a giant game of hide-and-seek with the exception instead of touching some to make them it, one had to be “Spotlighted” and called out by name to be tagged. We spent many evenings playing this.

The Brownings were never invited to play “Spotlight”.

Another of Jonathan’s brainstorms was having Patrick and I yell at the Brownings. I remember clearly, Jonathan told us what to yell at them: “Your Epidermis is showing”, “You eat glucose”, etc. Patrick and I quickly agreed and peddled off to face the girls.

What happened next would scar me for years to come. Patrick and I yelled our learned lines but the girls did not hesitate to respond. To this day, I have never been witness to such sustained vulgarity. We were so blown away Patrick fell off his bike. I remember looking back at Patrick but thinking I just had to get out of there. I was much too scared to circle back to his rescue.

Years later, in high school, I would eventually talk to Eloise. To my surprise, she was incredibly smart and funny. In math class, she showed me her fake ID. It was a 63 year-old black woman. I laughed so hard I cried.

It is done!

It took:

* Thirteen 6+hour days
* 10 gallons of stain
* My favorite shirt
* 8 brushes
* 1 pair of shorts
* 1 pair of socks
* 1 bottle of sunscreen
* 1 Dallas Cowboy hat
* 1 kitchen sponge (that I used to scour my body to rid it of stain)
* 2 paint containers
* 2 favors (one owned to my mother-in-law and one to my brother-in-law)
* 1 roll of 2 1/2 in masking tape
* 1 pair of Nike sandals

I confirmed many things about myself doing this project. I am terribly optimistic. I honestly though it would take 1 week to complete this project. Way off. I also learned that I work well when full of rage. Example, when I finished the spindles (4 days where I had to call my mother and brother-in-law to help), Sarah told me it needed a second coat. The wave of rage was almost overwhelming but I internalized it and focused it on the second coat, which, by the way, looks great. I discovered I hate radio. I am convinced 97.1 and 92.5 play the same songs over and over. Is there one person who calls both stations to request the same songs? Could this be some kind of sick Radio terrorism? I honestly think that I am on to something. I also found painting, like watching TV and playing Civilization on the computer, is a poor man's time machine. I found myself staring at my watch in disbelief that so much time had passed.

I found $10 the other day at the YMCA. I was taking Nate and Anthony swimming and it was just sitting in a locker. I looked around but no one was near. (Anyone reading this who wants to claim the $10 must tell me the exact location and time you lost it or I am not giving it up.) The thoughts that echoed were where to spend it. My first idea was food. I could take the boys to McDonalds or for ice cream but my instructions were explicit, I was to come straight home and not to feed the boys. Could I go to a bookstore? Buy some music? A hat?

And then, as we were leaving, I saw advertised a “Lazy Man’s Triathlon”. Still feeling rich from my discovery, I grab the brochure and read the requirements: 2.5 mile swim (no problem), 112 mile bike (I would have 5 weeks to finish this), and a 26.2 mile run (that’s just 5.24 miles a week!). The cost was just $7 and I would get a prize for finishing.

I am at that awkward age where I only remember being fit and have forgotten what it takes to get into shape. Plus, my body no longer wants to be in top form and fights me whenever I try to exercise.

The first day I went swimming. Swimming is easy for me. My stroke is efficient enough that I can swim a long way with out getting tired. I had a discussion with my friend Tim about meditation. I was convinced I was getting into a meditative state while swimming but Tim explained that meditation was not when you stop thinking, but when you become acutely aware of everything around you, even your breathing. When I swim, my mind wanders. I think about conversations, work out math problems, and even write stories. That first day of swimming I was thinking what a travesty it was that the swim leg was so short. I figured I could swim 2.5 miles in about 1 hour and 15 minutes whereas the biking would take me 7 hours and 28 minutes at 15 MPH and the run would take about 4 hours and 22 minutes if I ran 10-minute miles. This was just not fair. Day one swimming: 1 mile

The next day I went on a bike ride. I am a great biker. Let me rephrase that, I am a great down hill bike rider. When going down hill I get into my streamline position, lean forward, and zoom. Of course I stop peddling because that would get in the way of my speed. I reach top speeds of close to 26 MPH braking only when the trail bends too sharply to safely turn. As I speed down the hill I think nothing about what is to come, just the wind. The adage “what goes up, must come down” applies in reverse to biking. As good as I am going down hill I am equal as bad going up hill. The rest of the ride was miserable. I stopped several times to massage my legs and even walked up one (or two) hills. Day two biking: 8.8 miles

My body is made for either swimming or watching TV at ungodly hours eating whatever leftovers are within reach. I am naturally buoyant which makes running more than difficult. I hate running. I cannot think about anything else while I run other that I hate running. I hate every step. I hate the way I feel my belly jiggle when I run. I hate the way my face sags with each step. I hate the way my glasses slip down my nose as I start to sweat. I hate the way I cannot walk down stairs the next day after I run. Day three running: 2.7 miles

After day three, I quickly realized that the “Lazy Man Triathlon” was not going to be easy. I am offended that they have named this the “Lazy Man Triathlon”. If I cannot complete the “Lazy Man Triathlon” what does that make me? Will my new moniker be “Lazy Man Triathlete” minus the Triathlete? I will tell you what, if it was your $10 I took at the YMCA you can have it back, well, at least you can have back the half finished “Lazy Man Triathlon” and a half finished bottle of Advil.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in a hotel room reminiscing with my mother, father, and brother. It is fun to remember. This was one incident I remember vividly. I have not yet finished it but here is the start:

I don’t know exactly when the day began, it was all just a blur. It started with my grandfather, Virgil, filling up the doorframe of our room at the ranch. He was about six feet tall but he always seemed to fill up any room with his presence; like that morning, he woke us up with only “It’s about that time boys”.

My grandfather had been up for hours. He always preached that it was better to be 2 hours early that a minute late and he applied this with everything in his life. When I would spend time with him, he the first ready and always waiting. I remember once the whole family was in San Antonio to catch a plane for a family vacation. Virgil was up, dressed, packed, and waiting at the airport restaurant before anyone else was awake. When the rest of the family arrived at the airport, he had breakfast, which was cold, waiting on the table.

This day was no different except breakfast was hot.

Round up happens twice a year. It is a time when ranchers gather up all their sheep and goats. They sell some, other they castrate, but all they sheer. Grandpa’s ranch is huge, 15000 acres, and round up takes a week of clearing out each pasture. It has to be done on horseback because the terrain is so rough.

Those who do not know the land described it as barren but I have always though of it as beautifully mysterious. In the summer the ranch takes on a desolate look but life is just hiding from the punishing sun. When the sporadic rain does fall, it mixes with the bleached dirt to form green, which appears from everywhere. It is as if the rocks have been hiding grass seeds and the rain gives them the ok to start growing.

I am spending this week staining our deck.

Here is the way I see the project going:

Day 1: Clean
Day 2: Stain the railing
Day 3: Stain the stairs
Day 4: Stain the flat surfaces
Day 5: Rest

Here is the way it will actually go:

Day 1: Clean
Day 2: Stain 1/100th of the railings
Day 3: Call Jack and Judith save my ass/stain 1/100th more of the railing
Day 4: Jack and Judith come over and help me finish staining the deck
Day 5: Rest

Many things I do I think are weird. Weird, not because the acts themselves are weird, but because I can get so much pleasure from them, like mowing.

I have always considered mowing fun. This is coming from a boy who grew up in the Texas heat where being outside in the summer was a dangerous as, well, mowing with sandals.

I remember the first yard I mowed. I was in 2nd grade and I spent a lot of time with my friend Cisco. We used to ride skateboards in the cement ditches in our neighborhood, ride bikes across San Antonio, drink Coke-A-Cola, or just sit in the shade. Cisco must have read Tom Sawyer early in his life because he used to get me to help him do his chores. One of them was mowing.

Maybe it was because it felt old, or that I was doing something dangerous, or just doing something my parents probably would have not have wanted, but I loved it. I used to ask Cisco if I could mow his yard.

When my parent did let me start to mow, we had moved away from Cisco into a huge acre lot. The plot was not only huge, but grass was only on a third of it, the rest was covered with weeds and dirt. In Texas the only things that grow is grass (that is properly watered) or some prickly, pokey, near dead weeds that can draw blood if you walk on them without shoes or try to pick them.

It took hours to mow this yard and when I would finish, I felt that I had completed a task that no one else in my house wanted to do. I felt I was a contributing member of the family.

Today, I get different pleasures from mowing. My brains wanders, probes subjects that I have no other time to focus on. I write stories, finish arguments, or work math problems. Sometimes I get tired and then I sing (in my head) or get hungry and breathe. I get comfort in the fact I know exactly what to do next and how much more until I am done. I relish the smell of cut grass and the feel of the yard under my feet. I love the consistent hum of the lawnmower and how I can tell when it needs more gas before it really does.

Lately, I’m finding it difficult to do easy things. My brain is not letting me focus. I find myself staring at my hands and crying. When this happens, I grab my hat, go outside, turn on the choke and start pulling that cord.

Here is a list of some advice I have received that has helped me get through this very difficult week.

1. Don’t apologize for your grief.
2. Say Henry’s name a lot.
3. It is important to let people (family) take care of you.
4. Don’t watch any TV.
5. Let people ask questions.
6. Plant a tree.
7. Tell your kids exactly what is going on. They know already anyway.
8. Drink Soy Milk.
9. Your friends want to help.
10. Don’t make any rash decisions. Take a least a day to reflect.

There are many things that can make a moment memorable; the fulfillment of expectations when you end a journey, the overwhelming pride when your child learns something new, or when the complete unexpected happens. These moments age like wine with each retelling.

Nate and I arrived in Texas on the last Friday in May. It goes with out saying it was hot. I had not been home in over 2 years and was more excited about being home than I realized. My parent whisked us to Los Barrios for some Mexican food and then to Sea World.

Sea World was amazing. After feeding the dolphins, Nate and I found Bruce, Dori, and Nemo, in the aquarium. It was fun and hot and we needed to sit down and cool off.

The next logical stop was the Shamu show.

When we arrived, it was obvious where people wanted to sit. There were four “Splash Zone” marked by blue seats. My parents picked seats in row 17 well above the “Splash Zone” and sent Nate and I into the heart of the zone.

The Shamu Show serves three purposes that I can discern. 1- to generate revenue, 2- to educate the audience about Killer Whales, and 3- to get the audience wet.

The most effective Shamu gets the audience wet is using his tail as a giant paddle by submerging vertically. This creates throws gallons of water over his adoring fans. As the show progressed, we were some how forgotten.

I prepared Nate for the possibility that we were not going to get wet. He was sad but still loving the show. Then, as if the trainer could see Nate's disappointment, he signaled Shamu to splash us. The tail went up and water sprayed over us. We got wet but not nearly as wet as I had hoped. Our seats were at water level and the majority of the splashing went over our heads. Nate got water on his shirt but his hair and shoes were dry.

When we looked up into the stands to signal my parents of our success, we could not believe our eyes.

“Look Dad, BeBe and Papa are all wet!”

Mom and Dad were laughing uncontrollably as we got to their seats.

“Your mother just told me she was so disappointed Nate did not get wet and now my entire front is soaked!”

This got me laughing which got Nate laughing. Just as I was starting to settle down I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was as if time stood still. I saw three Shamu tails poised to deliver a tidal wave of water. I just had time to say “NOOOOOO!” as the three waves of water crashed over us.

When the tempest was done I was soaked to the bone, Mom’s purse was full of water, Dad’s back was now as wet as his front. . .

and Nate was as happy and as wet as a clam.