When oil was discovered in northwest Louisiana, rolling hills, massive pines and a few small settlements dominated the landscape, farming and cattle the two major occupations.  Some thirty years before, Army engineers had blasted and methodically dismantled the natural dam known as the Great Red River Raft that had raised area water levels for decades, perhaps centuries.  What were left were shallow bayous, isolated ponds and Caddo Lake.

Caddo’s coffee-colored water was also shallow, no more than 20 feet at it’s deepest.  Turtles and alligators populated the sprawling lake along with miles of impenetrable cane brakes and mazes of giant cypress trees with water-gorged trunks and branches draped with Spanish moss wafting in a damp breeze.  And it was hot, temperatures rarely below 100 degrees in the summer and humidity through the roof.  The shallow, often stagnant water bred mosquitoes, and many early inhabitants died of malaria and other mosquito-borne diseases.

Despite the hostile environment, something began drawing oil hunters to the region — news of oil seeps and gentle rolling topography that possibly signaled subsurface closure.  These explorers, drawn by the lure of black gold, pooled their money and drilled a few exploratory wells.  Believing correctly that oil existed far below the shallow depths of Caddo Lake, wooden pilings were driven in shallow water and platforms built on them.  The explorers constructed drilling rigs on the platforms from native timber and began drilling in Caddo Lake.  This was a first, Caddo Lake the birthplace of offshore drilling.

Like the gold rushes of California and Alaska, men and their families began pouring into the area, intent upon sharing in the prize.  Boom towns sprang up — Oil City, Trees City, Vivian, Rodessa.

What explorers had discovered was the giant Sabine Uplift.  This single subsurface feature underlies several Louisiana parishes, and even more Arkansas and Texas counties.  It not only trapped millions of barrels of oil beneath it, but formed the stratigraphic barrier for the Woodbine Sandstone, the primary reservoir of the super giant East Texas Field.

Caddo Lake sits atop the Sabine Uplift.  Even with thousands of wells already drilled in the region, the deepest horizons of this giant subsurface feature still remain mostly undrilled and unexplored.  What are the ramifications of this little-known fact?  Possibly several hundred million barrels of untapped oil that could ultimately help the U.S. ease its dependence on foreign oil.

http://www.ericwilder.com

I lived most of my early years in Louisiana and when I moved to Oklahoma I was quickly taken aback by the weather.  The wind seemed to blow constantly and when we had a storm, there was often mayhem involved.  Still, we only averaged half the yearly rainfall that was normal for Louisiana.

Two years ago the state was in a persistent drought and I wrote about it many times in a series of articles titled Oklahoma Burning.  Now the pendulum has swung.  Last year, Oklahoma had more rainfall then it has ever had.

As I write this article I am glancing out the window at my backyard.  Rain is falling, and not a gentle rain.  Yesterday we were only two inches behind last year’s record rainfall.  Today, we may surpass the record.

I took some pictures in the front yard of water pouring down the street in rivulets.  The ditches were full, water white capping and looking for all the world like a wild river.  My bare feet sank into earth already soft from yesterday’s rain.

Last year’s rainfall practically shut down oil and gas exploration in Oklahoma.  Heavy equipment can’t maneuver in soggy wheat fields and there was often more rain before the ground had time to fully dry.

Glancing out the window again I just shake my head and sigh.  The gas wells I need to complete in Noble County may have to wait until August.

http://www.ericwilder.com

As a freshman in college during the sixties I joined a precision marching group called the Fusileers.  The college I attended required two years of ROTC and the national paranoia concerning Vietnam hadn’t yet begun to set in.  Besides, we got to do some neat things like take trips to Mardi Gras and march in parades.

In 1965 I went with the Fusileers to New Orleans to march in the Venus parade.  Although I didn’t know it at the time Venus is one of the older krewes, or carnival clubs.  Our group spent the night at Jackson Barracks, an old army post on the Mississippi River named after Andy Jackson.

The night before the parade most of us left the barracks on foot in groups of five or six and made our way toward Bourbon Street.  My group stopped at a neighborhood bar and drank Regal Beer for twelve cents a glass and sampled the gumbo.  We made it to Bourbon Street around dark.

Much time has passed since then and even the best memories fade.  As I remember it, open containers of alcohol were legal.  I bought a fifth of Early Times at a drug store a block or so from Bourbon Street.  Most of us got separated in the throngs of people crowding the French Quarter.  John T, the last member of the Fusileers that I’d arrived in the Quarter with disappeared down Conti, towing a college girl he’d just met.

I found my own college girl but we were separated in the massive crowd pushing shoulder-to-shoulder in two directions, up and down Bourbon Street — though not before a jealous suitor sucker-punched me and broke my only pair of glasses.  Somehow I made it back to Jackson Barracks before the midnight curfew and stayed up all night reading the Terry Southern classic Candy. 

Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again.  Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.  John T dropped out of school, was drafted and dead within the year — one of the war’s many victims.  I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier.  I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything.  It might come true.”

I’m a political junkie and Tuesday I sat glued to the television, enthralled as I watched coverage of the Democratic presidential primaries from North Carolina and Indiana.  I’ve lived through eleven presidents and even though this year’s election isn’t my first rodeo, I readily admit that I understand the politics of a presidential race little more than I did fifty-six years ago.

Harry Truman was the president when I was born but I have no memory of him as a lad.  My first recollection of the political process is when I was six.  It was at my grandparent’s house in Vivian.

Jim and Lela Pittman were good Americans and had strong views on how our country should be run and who should run it.  I don’t remember much about their views except that Grandma and Grandpa Pitt often supported different candidates.

The Dwight Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson race is the first campaign that I remember, not vividly but subliminally.  I do recall sitting in their bedroom – that is where they always held court – and listening to campaign speeches on their old upright wooden-bodied radio.

The Pitts had six children and one thing that I do remember vividly is that all six sibs usually had very different opinions on almost everything.  The grandparents loved it, in fact encouraged everyone in the family to think for themselves.  If one of the siblings would declare something as the gospel, Grandpa Pitt would always interject a little doubt, just to shake that belief and make sure it was real and not just subterfuge.  Because of this, any discussion by the Pittman family usually sounded like a full-blown argument to the uninitiated.

The family had widely divergent opinions on many subjects but they always stood together.  What I mean is that despite what often seemed like extreme polarization, especially when it came to politics, the family still loved each other deeply and always respected the opinions of others, even if they didn’t always agree with their own.

If I live until 2009, I will see the inauguration of my twelfth president.  Even though I don’t understand every nuance of politics, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.  There is room for diverse opinions in this country.  We should embrace our differences because that is one of the things that makes us strong, and continues to keep us that way.

No matter who wins in September - man, woman, black, white, republican or democrat, we will all survive and prosper, and the United States will still be the most wonderful country that ever graced this old green globe.  My grandparents taught me that.

http://www.ericwilder.com

During the early days of oil exploration, people had no idea why hydrocarbon deposits were found in certain locations and not others.  The drilling of a well, even a relatively shallow one, often took a year or more to complete.  Because of the time and expense involved, early explorationists began looking for ways to limit the number of dry holes.

A university geologist concluded that oil was trapped in subsurface features known as anticlines — large, inverted U-shaped structures formed when sedimentary strata is folded by tectonic activity.  Indian Territory Illuminating Oil Company, the forerunner of Cities Service Oil Company, was the first oil company to hire geologists to search for these anticlines.

Before seismic surveys were invented, the only way to get a hint of what was going on in the subsurface was by mapping surface structures.  The theory is that shallow structures are often propagated into the subsurface.  If you can map a closed structural feature at the surface (and I don’t mean topography), you have increased your odds of finding a closed structural feature at depth.  ITIO hired crews of geologists to map the surface of Kansas and Oklahoma.

One of the fields found by this method was the supergiant Oklahoma City Field.  The OKC Field will ultimately produce just under a billion barrels of oil.  It’s discovery was quite by accident.

25 dry holes had been drilled in Oklahoma County by the late 20’s and many “experts” were ready to deem the County dry.  ITIO had mapped several structures in the area and weren’t ready to give up quite yet.  They had several crews mapping the surface.

Oklahoma County is a large, relatively flat county.  To map the surface, a geologist needs to find exposed rock beds.  In mostly flat Oklahoma County, the only place to do this, usually, is in road cuts and riverbeds.

Today, in Oklahoma, the temperature reached the upper 90’s.  Rampant humidity, raised by an approaching front, made it feel like 102 degrees.  In 1927, there were no air conditioners in Oklahoma, few fans and little relief from the heat.  Mapping generally reached a crescendo before noon.  Crew members would then try to find someplace dark to cool off and avert heat stroke.

During his time in Oklahoma County, one ITIO geologist had become friendly with a widow who had a place just south of what is now downtown Oklahoma City.  After his crew shut down for the day, he began frequenting the widows farm.  Anyone that knows anything about Oklahoma has heard that it is called Tornado Alley.  This is for good reason.  There are probably more tornadoes here than anyplace on earth.  Because of this fact, the widow, and likely everyone else in Oklahoma County at the time, had a storm shelter.

The widow’s storm shelter was dug down into red Oklahoma earth and covered by large timber beams.  She and her new beau would go down into the shelter during the heat of the day and enjoy a nip of corn whiskey and maybe a little hankey pankey.  It was during such a hot, humid and generally oppressive Oklahoma summer day that the geologist made a discovery (no, not that the widow was sweet on him.  He already knew that).  Somewhere in his whiskey-hazed brain, he noticed something that would ultimately change the face of Oklahoma, and the entire world, for awhile.

The Permian-aged rock strata was dipping east instead of west.  I wasn’t there, but I can imagine him getting a big grin on his face, kissing the widow, and dancing her around the storm shelter.  Like spouses of explorationists even today, she probably thought he was crazy (she had likely already figured that out by now).

Shortly, the nearby #1 Foster was drilled, coming in for 5,000 BOPD.  It was soon overshadowed by the drilling of the Wild Mary Sudik #1, a well that blew out at a rate of 3,000 BO per hour, covering every house in the town of Moore with a coat of oil.  The well was reported on around the world.

I heard this story from a geologist whose name I no longer remember.  I don’t know if it’s true, but I suspect it is.  Growing up, exploration geologists were my heroes.  I still haven’t changed my mind.

http://www.ericwilder.com

I graduated from college in 1969 and took a job mudlogging for a Texas company named Core Lab. The second well I sat was near the south Texas town of Weslaco. The well was a joint venture between Shell and Texaco and on its way to a depth of 13,500'.

Since this was only my second well, a senior mudlogger, Jack Bowie, was assigned to show me the ropes. Jack was as colorful as his name and show me the ropes he did. I would work the well site from seven in the morning until seven at night. Jack would usually spend the day doing other things and would check on me around quitting time when another mudlogger spelled us for the night.

Weslaco was very close to the Mexican border town of Reynosa. Usually Jack and I would leave the location and drive to Reynosa where the food, fun and drink were cheap. We often stayed out until the wee morning hours before returning to our motel rooms to clean up and then go back to the drilling well.

The well was a wildcat. That means it was more than a mile from the nearest producing well. The well was wild for more reasons than that. We were drilling through an extremely thick sequence of alternating sand and shale called the Frio. As close as we were to the Gulf of Mexico, the stratum was unconsolidated and we penetrated 300 feet or so ever hour. And there was gas, lots of gas, coming up out of the hole.

The gas and unconsolidated strata had caused problems on the well since the day it began drilling. The hole was crooked, dog-legged we called it, and there had been problems cementing the intermediate casing. Two drilling supervisors had already been "run off" and a crusty old tool pusher promoted to finish the hole.

I can’t remember the tool pusher’s name so I’ll call him Mike. Mike was of average height and build but he had a badly bent nose from some past altercation. He also had a resolute expression that caused the wild Texas roughnecks to take his directions seriously. He was a former World War II fighter pilot and it only took one look at his dark eyes to know he was likely good at it.

One hot July day found me more tired than usual from the past night’s cerveza drinking and senorita chasing. Jack was no where around and I reclined on the couch, "just to rest my eyes for a moment." I awoke to a sound peculiar to the giant drilling rig: silence. Awakening instantly, I rushed outside to see the backs of every man on location running as fast as they could, through the dry Texas cornfield, away from the location that had suddenly gone deathly quiet. Every man except Mike, that is.

Ten feet from me, he was moving faster than I had ever seen him move, twirling and closing valves, pulling levers, throwing switches. Finally, the diesel engines coughed, then sputtered, then again began circulating mud in the well. Seeing me looking, Mike grinned and walked over to the trailer door. As I stood with my mouth open and hands in my pocket, he pulled an old Zippo out of his pocket, fished a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, put it in his mouth and lit it. After a long, satisfying pull he looked at me and said, "Another thirty seconds and you and me would have been blown straight to hell."

Mike didn’t elaborate but Jack did when he finally returned to location. "The gas pressure’s so high that the mud’s not heavy enough to contain it. As long as the mud pumps are working, it’s cycled out of the hole. If Mike hadn’t restarted them, the pressure would have blown ten thousand feet of drilling pipe straight up into the air and all over this corn field. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight."

Jack didn’t bother telling me how stupid I had been not to follow the roughnecks off the location. He didn’t have to because I’d already figured it out. That night Jack and I drank an extra Tecate for Mike, yet another unheralded oil patch hero that I’ve met, somewhere along the way.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Here is a pic of a garden angel playing a fife using sheet music, and a rose.  http://www.ericwilder.com

A while back, I serialized a short story about wolves and panthers in northeast Texas.  The story is whimsical and a work of fiction.  There are no wolves and certainly no black panthers in east Texas.  Or are there?

The answer is – well maybe.  Northeast Texas remains an under populated part of the state.  A region known as the Big Thicket extends north from Beaumont.  The Big Thicket is a vast pine forest that stretches for hundreds of miles.  This large forest, by anyone’s count, contains more wild animals than humans, many of which moved up from Mexico, or south from the huge Ouachita forests in central Arkansas.

The Big Thicket, by definition, doesn’t extend into far northeast Texas.  In reality, however, the vast forest comprising the Big Thicket continues into northwest Louisiana and even into Arkansas, all the way to the Ouachita Mountains.  Anyone that has ever visited the area knows if you stray very far off the main highway and follow a winding blacktop or dirt road, you’ll soon find yourself surrounded by a sea of green often called the “pine curtain.”

Behind this curtain of trees and vegetation lies a world as mysterious and haunting as the day the first white man visited it.  If you take this road, don’t be surprised if you hear the howl of a wolf, or the low throaty growl of a panther – yes, maybe even a black panther.

While growing up, I often spent the night at my Grandmother’s house in the piney woods of Cass County.  They still had no electricity when I was young and burned coal oil lanterns at night for illumination.  People went to bed early in those days, the smoke, soot and acrid odor of burning fuel more than most people could tolerate for very long.

Wolves were very much a part of east Texas in the 1950s and I still remember their mournful howls when we finally snuffed out the lanterns for the night.  Don’t believe me?  They had a bounty on their heads and were hunted into near extinction.  I recall seeing the carcasses of an entire pack hanging in a row by their hind legs on fence posts.  I was probably ten or twelve at the time.

Are there still wolves in east Texas?  Not likely.  Wolves are social creatures and usually run in packs.  Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if an occasional lobo passed through the area.  Black panthers are a different story.  Locals have reported seeing them many times, although this is unconfirmed and denied by the Authorities.  Have I ever seen a black panther?  No, but I’ve seen bobcats and heard their woman-like screams in the woods.

If you’re still unconvinced, travel south to Cass County, Texas sometime.  Leave the main road and follow a blacktop until it dead-ends.  Hike a mile or so back into the piney woods, maybe until you reach a cypress bayou.  Pitch your tent and then wait for the sun to go down.  But zip the door up tightly.  The howls, growls and woman-like screams you will definitely hear may just raise those tiny hairs on the back of your neck. 

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Here is a fun pic I took in my backyard.

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While growing up in Louisiana, I came face-to-face with water moccasins on several occasions.  My closest encounter remains vivid in my memory.

My friend Barry lived near a pond that resided deep in the woods behind his house.  Jones Pond had the best visibility in north Louisiana - about 6 feet.  This is significant because the water in nearby Caddo Lake is so opaque that you can barely see your hand in front of your facemask.

Barry and I, both snorkeling enthusiasts, would often trek through the thickly forested area to go swimming.  The pond was small, covering no more than an acre or so.  It was also shallow - less than 12' deep.

Thick vegetation grew all the way to the pond's edge and fallen branches and brush littered its bottom.  We often saw snakes, squirrels, armadillos, etc., that lived near the pond.  It didn't stop us from swimming there because the water was clear - oh so very clear.

One warm summer day, I was swimming in the pond.  After taking a deep breath, I dove to the bottom of the pool and began swimming through felled branches - north Louisiana's version of a coral reef, at least in my imagination.  Many fish lived in the pond and I was nose to nose with a small bream.

Suddenly, out of the submerged brush, a large viperous head, complete with slanted eyes and large fangs set against a white background, appeared.  The head was attached to the heavy body of a reptile.  I knew in a moment that it was a cottonmouth.

Thankfully, the snake wasn't interested in me and I saw him grab the bream in his mouth.  I didn't wait around to watch him swallow it, flipping around and stroking as fast as I could for shore.

I didn't wait for Barry to come up for air.  "What's the matter with you?" he asked when he came out of the woods and found me in his back yard.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I said, barely mustering a grin.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Like all Okies, I love Mexican cooking (Tex-Mex, at least).  Here’s a recipe that I found on the net to help celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

Shrimp Burritos
California Milk Advisory Board 1997 Calendar

Real California Panela
Cheese tid bit ~ This fresh cheese has a flavor similar to Cottage Cheese. Use it in sandwiches, salads, with fruit and in cooked foods.

2 T each soy sauce, lime juice and water
1 LB med. shrimp, shelled and deveined
6 lg. (12") flour tortillas
4 C cooked rice preferably Basmati rice
1 Can (15oz) black beans, rinsed and drained
8 oz California Panela, * crumbled (2C)
2 oz California Queso Fresco, * crumbled (1/2C)
Cilantro Leaves (optional)
Fresh Salsa (optional)

* May substitute California Jack or California Cheddar

Combine soy sauce, lime juice and water in large, heavy plastic bag. Add shrimp; marinate in refrigerator no longer than 30 min. Grill or broil 6-8 min. until opaque throughout. Warm tortillas in oven or microwave. Top with shrimp, rice, beans and crumbled cheeses. Add a few cilantro leaves and salsa , if desired. Roll-up and serve. Makes 6 servings.

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I took a pic of these wild roses growing up a tree in my back yard.

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During the summer of 1969, having just graduated from Northeast Louisiana State College with a degree in geology, I got a job as a mudlogger with Core Lab.  I had already been on deep wells in Laurel, Mississippi and Westlaco, Texas.  August found me near Mt. Pleasant, Texas, in a horse pasture, on my third wildcat of the summer.

I lived in a little one-room apartment in Lone Star, a Texas steel mill town, and worked from 7 at night until 7 in the morning, 7 days a week, until the 13,500’ Smackover test reached total depth.  During this time, I witnessed a shoot-out, a stabbing and numerous fights on the rig.  It was my welcome to the East Texas oil patch.

What I learned from this experience was that East Texas roughnecks were a hard-working, hard-drinking bunch.  Every night, when drilling was going smoothly, they would invade my air-conditioned logging trailer to play poker and tell stories.  One of the stories they told me was about Dad Joiner and the discovery of the East Texas Field.  True or false, it varies somewhat from official accounts.  As memory serves me, here is the story told by those wild East Texas roughnecks more than 36 years ago.

Already 66 years old, Dad Joiner was a broken-down wildcatter when he moved from Dallas to East Texas in 1926.  An educated man, he’d practiced law in Alabama and served in the legislature there.  It wasn’t enough for him.  Like many others, he was drawn by the lure of Oklahoma black gold and the whispered promise of riches beyond his wildest dreams.  Answering the siren call, he made and lost two fortunes during his 28 years in the Sooner State.

Joiner was an oil promoter, a breed spawned by “oil fever,” a disease for which, even today, there is no known cure.  Having seen the blow-outs in Cushing and heard of the 25,000 BOPD uncontained flows in Oklahoma City, investors, greedy for instant wealth, fairly threw their money at often unscrupulous oil promoters, rife with promises of easy money.  Many of the early Oklahoma oil discoveries were funded by these investors, even though most never realized a penny from their investments.

Some of the reports of Dad Joiner portray him as a principled visionary, a man with divine knowledge of the infinite riches located in the subsurface of East Texas and determined to find them.  The truth is quite different.  Joiner went to East Texas because of one thing — cheap leases.

17 dry holes had already reached total depth in the area and most legitimate oil companies had long since abandoned East Texas for more promising regions.  Taking advantage of unsubstantiated, earlier-generated reports of possible oil in the Woodbine Sandstone, Joiner used this sparse information to raise enough money to lease a large block of acreage from Daisy Bradford.  With these leases, he parlayed the drilling of a wildcat well on the block.

Oil rigs were primitive affairs in the late twenties.  They shut down drilling at dark, sometimes after penetrating only a few feet during the day.  At night, Dad Joiner would hold court at a saloon, drinking whiskey and playing poker with the locals.  He also used this time to raise money for his ongoing venture.

After drilling two dry holes, Joiner’s money was beginning to “dry up.”  In the manner of all good oil promoters, both before and after him, he devised a way to raise enough money to drill a third well, and help fund his high-rolling lifestyle.  What he did is now called checkerboarding.

Simply put, he subdivided his block of leases like the squares on a checkerboard.  He kept the red blocks and sold the black ones.  When money got tight, he would subdivide the blocks even further.  Through his continued promotion, he raised enough money to drill a third well by May, 1929.

In October, 1930, the Daisy Bradford Number 1 struck oil and became the discovery well for the largest oil field in the world.  Dad, also in the manner of many oil promoters, had over-sold the well.  What does this mean?  It means that he sold the interests in the well two or three times.  Lawsuits against him began soon after oil was discovered in the Woodbine Sandstone at the Daisy Bradford Number 1.  Supposedly, he had sold the offset leases to oilman H.L. Hunt shortly before the Daisy Bradford discovery.

The roughnecks that played poker nightly in my logging trailer told a different story.  Hunt was also an oil promoter and poker player  – one that would be a card playing legend, even in today's high stakes Texas hold-em era.  He won Joiner’s offset leases in a poker game - at least according to my roughneck friends - and the rest is history.

Don’t mourn Dad Joiner.  Even though he died a pauper, he lived one of the most interesting lives of anyone I know.  And despite his lack of altruism, he inadvertently discovered a legitimate super-giant oil field, one that may ultimately produce 8 billion barrels of oil.

History is the foundation of what we know today, and it’s important to understand what happened in the past.  Sometimes, however, words on the printed page are but a shadow of reality.  A month in a steamy, East Texas horse pasture taught me that.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Some are surprising, some are not.

AbeBooks: Collectible Authors.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Those that have read any of my New Orleans short stories know that Bertram Picou is the owner of an eclectic little bar on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter. He cooks some of the world’s best gumbo and always has a pot simmering in back for his regular customers.

Everyone in New Orleans makes gumbo, some tasting better than others. The best gumbo is like ambrosia, a gift from heaven itself. It’s now made all over the world but one thing is sure. You’ll never find better gumbo anywhere in the world that tastes as good as the worst gumbo from New Orleans.

Some say that Bertram’s gumbo is the best in the Big Easy. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re in the French Quarter, stop by his place and give it a try. The bar’s a little hard to find, but keep looking. Below is Bertram’s recipe, told in his own words.

Bertram Picou’s Mama's Gumbo

"First thing is make the roux. Pour some oil in your big cast iron skillet and put it on the fire, medium heat. Add some flour and start stirring. Whatever you do, don’t leave the stove, even to chase Ol’ Shep, until the roux cooks to a pleasing shade of brown, maybe a little darker if you’re taste buds are more Cajun than most. Be careful now. Don’t burn that roux cause it’s the most important part of the gumbo! If it starts to smoke and curdle up, you done screwed up! Throw it out and start over.

Once you got the roux done, its time to make the gumbo. My Mama throws in crawfish, shrimp, chicken, sausage, squirrel, deer, or even fish. "Whatever floats your boat," she used to say.

Fill up your big stock pot with water and set it on the stove. Get it to boiling then add the roux. Mama always uses four tablespoons, more or less, depending on the weather, how dark she had let it cook, and how she feels that particular day. Good cooks don’t read recipes. They just sense how something ought to taste. However many tablespoons she used, her gumbo always tasted damn good!

Keep stirring until the roux and water are mixed, then add a couple of chopped onions, a chopped bell pepper, six minced garlic cloves and your chicken, seafood, or whatever. This is where it gets tricky. You need to add salt, cayenne and black pepper and this must be done to taste. Using too much, or not enough, can make or break the gumbo and, unfortunately, practice is the only way to learn how. You’ll have to do this yourself cause Mama can’t go to everyone’s house.

Cook the gumbo on a medium hot flame and keep stirring until everything starts getting tender. Don’t put a lid on the pot.

Finally, boil up your rice to perfection (just about the hardest thing in the world to get right, but that’s another story). Add parsley and scallions to the gumbo, and, if you like, a little file, then ladle it on the rice and enjoy!"

http://www.ericwilder.com

As a geologist, I am fascinated by minerals and gems and I have a collection of spheres and eggs carved from various stones.  I bought some nice spheres from an internet company called Mystic Gems and I’m now on their list to receive their newsletter.

I was working on something else for Musings today when I got their most recent newsletter which included an article about April birthstones.  The article is so interesting that I am putting it on the blog, and there is a link to Mystic Gems at the bottom of the article.

April Birthstones, Traditional, Spiritual and Mystical - by Tammarah Davis, Gemologist

While April's diamond is deservedly the stone of everlasting love, the Opal from ancient Rome and a millennia beyond of Tibetan tradition is a fascinating mystical alternative. Sapphire and Amber arise from the religious realm as breastplate stones of the High Priest and as Zodiac stones for Taurus. Of these Opal brings the most varied beliefs. From the Tibetan tradition Opal is believed to help overcome challenges of one's birth month.

Opal - the name opal is derived from the Greek Opallos, meaning "to see a change (of color)." It is an amorphous mineral which can be of almost any color but most commonly white and green shades, and exhibits beautiful internal color play. Opal has been believed to strengthen faithfulness and loyalty in regards to business relationships, personal affiliations, and love. Some believe that it holds the energies to help one seem invisible in situations that the person does not want to be noticed. Native American Indians and Australian aboriginal shaman believed opal held the power to invoke visions and used it during ceremonies referred to as vision quests (Native American Indians) and "dreamtime" (Australian aborigines).

Opal has a curious darker side though. There is a superstition and belief by some that opals are bad luck to those that wear or carry them except for those whose birthstone it is. It started out being carried and highly prized by the Romans, second only to the emerald. As the centuries passed, more and more magical properties were attributed to the opal. By the 11th century opals were believed to be the stone of thieves, spies, and robbers (attributed with the magical ability to make the wearer invisible to others).

It was likely the Medieval Europeans who gave opal its "bad name" though. They equated the stone to the "Evil Eye" because of its likeness to the eyes of creatures that were feared and / or considered evil, such as cats, toads, snakes, and other reptiles and amphibians. But it was during the 18th and 19th centuries when the opal truly fell from grace as it became associated with disease, pestilence, famine, and the crumbling of empires and monarchies. There are still some areas that these superstitions run strong but there are very few if any stories to support these beliefs of the malign properties of opal.

Amber is the 7th stone of the Breastplate of the High Priest, and is a zodiac stone for month beginning on Apr 21. Actually a fossilized resin rather than a true mineral, amber is relatively soft and malleable. Strictly speaking, Baltic Amber is the only true Amber although Dominican Amber (retinite) and Copal (much younger resin) are also generically accepted as Amber. Amber has been used to trap and transform negative energies into positive energies. It is also been used as a symbol for the renewal of marriage vows. It is said to aid in choice, helping one to choose or allow them to be chosen. It is believed to be a pseudonym of the biblical "jacinth", and thus the seventh breastplate stone.

Turquoise is also from the zodiac month of April 21. It has a pale green-blue color and waxy luster, and can change colors when in contact with human oils. Turquoise has been referred to as a "stone of communication". It has been used to help speakers communicate their thoughts and ideas more clearly and precisely. It has been given to loved ones to help facilitate open and honest communications, while still allowing for those thoughts and ideas to be expressed in the most helpful and concise manner.

Turquoise is also used as protection by those engaged in astral travel or going on a vision quest. It helps to provide a link between the unconscious and the conscious, helping to act as a protective mechanism during meditation work. The name turquoise is from the French expression Pierre tourques or Turkish stone, and originated in the thirteenth century.

Here is a link to Mystic Gems for you mineral lovers -

http://mysticgemcreations.com

http://www.ericwilder.com

Frequent readers of this blog know that I am an avid fan of almost every kind of motor sports.  This weekend I was lucky enough to see three races: the Spanish Grand Prix at Barcelona, NASCAR’s Talladega, and the Indy Car race at Kansas.  While they were all entertaining, the race I enjoyed most was Talladega.

I wasn’t surprised by the winner.  Kyle Busch is the hottest driver racing in the world today.  I disagree with many Formula One fan’s elitist opinion that no American is fast enough to win in Formula One.  Given an equally matched Ferrari, I would bet good money that Kyle Busch could take a half second off Formula One’s champ Kimi Raikkonen’s best lap on any circuit.

I digress.  I wasn’t surprised by Kyle Busch winning at Talladega but I was surprised by how he won.  Let me provide a little background for my argument.  Talladega is billed as the “World’s Fastest Race Course” and probably for good reason.

The restrictor plate cars Sunday maintained 195 mile-per-hour speeds all day long.  There are many teams at the highest level of NASCAR and some of the top teams have four drivers.  Every car has different sponsors, but they all drive the same car make.  At Talladega there is little if any speed advantage from car to car – except when drafting comes into play.

When two cars “hook up” they gain a distinct aerodynamic advantage that can propel the two cars five to ten miles per hour faster than the cars around them.  Let me explain.  Talladega has also been called the “Worlds Fastest Traffic Jam” because there is often only a matter of a few seconds separating the entire field of forty two.  They are close but they aren’t “hooked up” because they are all constantly moving around, jockeying for position.  One of the drivers showed the field a better way.

Not long after the race began, Denny Hamlin hooked the front of his Toyota to the back of another vehicle and proceeded to quickly push it to the lead.  Unfortunately for Hamlin, the twosome’s speed and their lead quickly vanished when they abandoned their “hook up.”

The preferred racing tactic at Talladega is finding a suitable drafting partner and then assisting one another in moving toward the front of the pack.  Usually, it’s team members that help each other whenever possible.  A few weeks ago at Daytona, the other restrictor plate Mecca, it was a group of Dodge’s that worked together to earn a win for Ryan Newman.  Sunday at Talladega the two drafting partners seemed totally unrelated.  Well, maybe not.

At first glance, twenty-three year old Busch, driving a Toyota, seems as far removed from former open-wheel Formula One ace Juan Pablo Montoya, driving a Dodge, as proverbial night and day.  I heard something on National Public Radio today that caused me to change my mind.

NPR reported that the Mars Corporation had made a twenty three billion dollar bid for Wrigley’s.  Mars is the world’s biggest seller of chocolate and the maker of M & M’s.  Wrigley’s is the world’s biggest seller of chewing gum and the maker of Juicy Fruit.  Kyle Busch was driving the M & M Toyota and Montoya was behind the wheel of the Juicy Fruit Dodge.  Unlike the earlier display of “hooking up” by Hamlin and others, Montoya and Busch “hooked up” for the better part of three laps, an almost impossible feat.

Those of you that watch Formula One races are familiar with the phrase “team orders.”  This term has little meaning in NASCAR where team members are racing for altogether different sponsors.  This is why you will see teammates and close friends Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon pulling no punches when it comes to which one will cross the finish line first.  They race for different sponsors that both want a win for their brand.

Are we talking conspiracy here?  Well let’s just say that J.P. Montoya is one of the most talented drivers to ever sit behind a wheel but he is still learning when it comes to racing stock cars.  Sunday, he pulled something previously unseen out of his heart, and maybe his a--, to push Kyle Busch to victory.

This isn’t taking anything away from the driving skills of Busch as he and Montoya are perhaps the only two drivers on the face of the earth, in my opinion, that could have accomplished the task of “hooking up” for so many laps.

For the last three laps at Talladega Sunday, I witnessed perhaps the finest display of driving I have ever seen, as performed by two of the best drivers the world has ever seen.

But did Montoya have team orders from Wrigley to help Busch’s Mars-sponsored car win at any cost?  Nah!

http://www.ericwilder.com

A certain spicy stew is a cooking staple in south Louisiana.  Sauce piquante was introduced to Louisiana by the Spanish.  It has been embraced by Cajun chefs and has evolved into nearly as many differing recipes as there are cooks.

The dish begins with a roux, combined with the sauce and almost any meat you can think of.  In Louisiana, there is chicken, pork, wild duck, turtle and even alligator sauce piquante.  Here is a recipe for chicken sauce piquante submitted by Mrs. S.J. Ardoin and included in the 1977 cookbook Hot off the Press – Good Cooking from the Pages of the States Time-Morning Advocate.

Chicken Sauce Piquante

1          chicken, cut up                         ¼         cup chopped shallots

½         cup cooking oil                         2          (8 oz.) cans tomato sauce

½         cup flour                                   1          cup water

2          large onions, chopped               1          cup Burgundy

4          garlic cloves, chopped              ¼         cup chopped parsley

1          medium bell pepper                              salt, pepper and hot sauce to taste

Make roux with cooking oil and flour, stirring constantly until medium brown.  Add onions, garlic, bell pepper and shallots.  Sauté until onions are clear.  Add chicken, tomato sauce, water, Burgundy, parsley and seasoning.  Cover and cook over medium heat for 30 minutes (stirring occasionally) or until sauce begins to thicken.  Serve over rice.  Serves six.

http://www.ericwilder.com

For those of you that have spent time in the Old Absinthe Bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, here is a very interesting article.

Absinthe's Mind-Altering Mystery Solved - Yahoo! News.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Frequent readers of this column know how superstitious I am.  Business took me to rural Oklahoma today and something I saw there gave me an instant case of the creeps.  Here’s a little background info:

My business partner, fellow author r. r. bryan and I recently bought an old oil well in with the intent of recompleting in a new zone.  Being oil promoters as well as writers, we turned a percentage to a man we know in Dallas named Pat O’Neil.

Today, I was in the county on other business.  A few miles from the well in question, I came across an old sign so I stopped to take a picture.  I was blown away when I read the inscription and this is what it said:

This land was founded by Jacob Derr in the land run on September 16, 1893.  Others making the land run of 1893 were C.B. Kirk to the southwest and the west, H.C. Swingle to the east, W.R. Whitaker to the northwest, B. Lowman to the northeast.  Pat O’Neil to the southeast.

I know, the name is fairly common and it could just be a coincidence.  Maybe, but I can think of at least two more possible explanations that involve reincarnation and the supernatural.  On the other hand, I am a fiction writer with a well developed imagination.  I’m posting the picture at the bottom of the page and fiction writer or not, I think you will agree that it’s still kind of creepy, and you can draw your own conclusions.

http://www.ericwilder.com

The Oklahoma City Festival of the Arts began Tuesday with gray clouds and rain in the forecast.  The art show has gone on every year since 1967.  Every year except 1995 that is.

The Murrah Bombing happened on April 19, 1995 and I find it hard to believe that it has been thirteen years since the horrible event.  The Festival of the Arts was scheduled to begin shortly after the bombing but the city fathers wisely called off the event.

Every year I try to attend the week-long happening at least once.  The art is expensive but the food court is wonderful.  They also sell commemorative tee shirts and I almost always purchase one for my collection.

The other day while rummaging through a drawer I noticed a tee shirt that I hadn’t worn in quite some time, maybe never.  It was the Festival of the Arts shirt from 1995.  I had purchased it in 1996, never sold from the previous year because the event never occurred.

Today, as I gaze out my window at a cloudy sky and think about heading toward the City for an Indian Taco and a new tee shirt, I realize that life is a complex mixture of bitter and sweet, and that sometimes objects meant to commemorate celebrations become reminders of something quite different.

http://www.ericwilder.com

It’s stormy in Oklahoma tonight and the gloom outside the window reminds me of a similar night many years ago in Vietnam.

I was in the Army with the First Cavalry, humping the boonies near the Cambodian border.  We came upon a Montagnard village beside a stream in the jungle.  It was late when we found it and we decided to stay there for the night.

The village was tiny, only a few destroyed huts.  The North Vietnamese hated Montagnards and always killed them - men, women, children and animals - and razed their villages whenever they encountered them.  We were in a free fire zone and sort of hoped they would try the same on us.

It was monsoon season and every night, just as the sun went down, it would rain.  It was the height of the season and heavy rain sometimes continued throughout the night.  My best friend was Gary Clark from Seattle Washington.  He was a poly-sci graduate from either the University of Washington or Washington State.  I can’t remember which.  I do remember that he was a political junkie and that his favorite beer was Olympia, unfortunate because the only kind we got in the boonies was Black Label in steel cans that were usually rusted by the time we drank the contents.

Many of us had air mattresses.  We would blow them up at night and make a makeshift shelter by attaching two poncho liners.  Clark and I had gone into the jungle the same day, from the same helicopter, and had started off sharing such a shelter.

It was perpetually wet and humid in the jungle so we kept our letters and personal belongings in M-60 ammo containers.  The containers were waterproof and there were always extras whenever we were re-supplied with food and bullets.

That night, it rained harder than usual – much harder than usual.  Water in my face awoke me from a Technicolor dream.  I was still lying on the air mattress but I was out in the rain, quickly floating away from the makeshift tent.  If I hadn’t awakened I would have ended up in the nearby stream that was now swollen, up to its banks.

The scene was so surreal that I didn’t know whether to curse or to laugh.  I think I did both.  The next morning I learned that the ammo containers weren’t perfectly waterproof as all my personal belongings inside were now damp, or worse.