Marilyn and I did a little pub-crawling, and visited Galileo’s in City’s Paseo district.  Russell, the bartender informed us that Greg, the owner had just died.  We talked with him a bit, and he told us some Greg stories - of which there are many.

On the walls were Greg’s daily restaurant logs, blown up for everyone to read.  Many of them were quite hilarious and I will recount one in particular:

Greg had been sick, according to the log, and reading The DaVinci Code while lying in bed.  Upon returning to work, he learned that one of his waiters or waitresses had broken yet another glass from his expensive stemware.

“This is it!” he said.  “From now on, we will use bar glasses when we serve wine.”

“Won’t the customers be offended?” one of the servers asked him.

“Jesus didn’t use expensive stemware at the Last Supper.  If a regular glass is good enough for Jesus, it ought to be good enough for our customers.”

It wasn’t long before a customer complained about the lack of stemware for the expensive bottle of wine he had just purchased.  Their server quickly explained the story of Jesus and the Last Supper, and met with the frowning customer’s terse reply:

“That’s fine,” he said, “Except I’m not Jesus and these two ladies with me aren’t virgins.”

Upon hearing the protest, Greg shook his head, threw his hands in the air and sent the harried waiter back to the table with stemware.  Visit Galileo’s in Oklahoma City’s Paseo District and read all of Greg’s rants.  I recommend it.

Eric’s Web

  Here is a picture that I recently took in Noble County - near the town of Marland - with my Nikon S210.  The day was brisk, strong wind whirling the clouds in dizzying circles.  The cloudy sky extended forever, dwarfing the minimalist Oklahoma prairie below it.  I added a poster edge filter to enhance the mood, and the silent drama of the moment, even though the scene was quite dramatic without it.

Eric’s Web

By Eric Wilder

A river known as Oare Water courses through the countryside near the Village of Oare, a rustic river that begins in the County of Somerset and ends in the icy waters of the Bristol Channel.  Heather-clad hills confine and overlook the river.  At the crest of the highest slope, protected by ancient rusted locks of time, resides Promontory Academy.

          Promontory Academy, located on property once owned by a family of robbers, is now a lyceum for British athletic prodigies, age's twelve through eighteen.  Large for my age, I found myself among them, gifted with a wealth of physical talent, but suffering a dismal lack of associated desire.

          My name is Christopher Davis, Kit to my friends.  The year of my graduation, I experienced a waning interest in sports, a lack of interest soon completely replaced by a growing preoccupation with the fairer sex.  That Promontory was an all-male academy served to escalate my lethargy and further diminish any desire to kick a ball or whack a wicket.

          I began taking long walks, alone.  During one of these walks, I discovered a secluded knoll, not far from the Academy.  Like a latter-day Arthurian castle, it overlooked the Village of Oare to the North and a mist-covered moor to the South.  After quickly capturing my imagination, it became my haven and private refuge.

          Classical Greek literature was all that remained of my senior-year course work, a morning class.  After an hour of listening to stuffy old Mr. Mapes expound on Sophocles and Aristotle, I would grab the flute given me by my great-aunt Sara and disappear to the privacy of the knoll.  One day, while hitting a particularly grand note on Aunt Sara's chromed instrument, a noise from behind caused me quite a start.

          Jumping to my feet, I stared into the delightful green eyes of a young woman.  She stared back at me, her eyes green as the distant glade, hair curly and moor wild, and with skin pale as ewe's wool in spring.  One glance from those eyes and my heart fled, down the cliff, along with the last grand note on my flute.  Much like a wispy cloud blown by a warm and gentle breeze, both disappeared across the lonely moor.

          Lacey Oakes was her name, lovely daughter of the village pub keeper.  Soon, I found, she was introspective and tended to brood like mist at dusk.  After hiking from the Village, up the winding path to the lofty point above the punch bowl, she would cross her legs, fold her arms, meditate and compose poetry.  My flute had attracted her attention and to my good fortune, she had drawn closer to investigate.

          Idyllic days passed following our fortuitous introduction, Lacey gazing into hazy distance and reciting verse while I provided musical accompaniment with my flute.  An occasional disagreement, however, sometimes disturbed our serenity.

          One such disagreement started when she asked, "What are your plans when you graduate the academy?"

          "Oh I don't know, really.  Study for the law, perhaps."

          "What do you most want to do?"

          "Play the flute, and listen to you recite poetry."

          Lacey's unexpected retort stung my sensibilities.  "You are really very irresponsible, Kit."

          "I am irresponsible?  At least I have a proper education.  What do you intend to do with your life?  Recite poetry to the Village sots while you serve ale in your father's pub?"

          I regretted the rude remark the moment it flew from my mouth, and I could see the hurt look reflected in Lacey's eyes that it generated.

          "Lacey, I'm very sorry," I said as I chased her down the hill.

          Halfway to the Village she stopped abruptly, turned and faced me.  "Maybe I don't have such a fine education as you, Christopher Davis, but I'll have you know I've no intention of tending to the Village sots in my father's pub.  I have grander plans."

          There she stood staring at me, hands planted defiantly on her hips as flashing green eyes challenged me to explain her grander plans.

          I accepted the challenge and said, "Then what do you intend too do with your life?"

          "Scotland Yard," she said immediately.  "I'm going to be an inspector for Scotland Yard."

          When I grinned, folded my arms and shook my head she stormed away toward the Village.

          "You'll see, Kit Davis," she called back over her shoulder.  "You'll see."

*     *     *

          Lacey's temper was as ephemeral as early morning mist across the moor, and she soon forgot the altercation.  Many days of spiritual bliss followed, until something occurred that interrupted our solitude and changed forever my perception of that wonderful girl: the murder of Lionel Poundstone, headmaster of Promontory Academy.

          "How did it happen?" Lacey asked, her usual untroubled demeanor suddenly active.

          "Poison," I said.

          Lacey's hand went to her lips to cover her open mouth.  "Murder?"

          "An inspector is here from London to investigate.  I am assisting him," I said, with great self-importance, waiting for her reaction.

          "Assisting, you?  Explain yourself, Christopher Davis."

          "An accident.  Inspector Dibble took a nasty fall while exiting the train, breaking his right hand.  It is in a cast.  Because of my light schedule, the acting Headmaster chose me to assist in the investigation."

          "Hah!" she said.  "You just go along to keep notes for him."

          "Perhaps," I agreed, slightly miffed by her opinion.  "We interviewed someone already today.  After the doctor set Inspector Dibble's broken hand."

          "Who?" she asked.

          "Morris Applegate, the Academy caretaker."

          Lacey's eyes fairly blazed and she tossed her book of poetry onto the grass and grabbed both my hands.  "Tell me everything you know," she ordered.

          "Well, Lionel Poundstone died in his mistress's bed."

          Again, Lacey's hand went to her mouth.  "Did she kill him?"

          "Dibble doesn't think so.  He believes Poundstone's own wife poisoned him in a fit of jealous rage."

          "Start from the beginning," she said.

          "Headmaster Poundstone and his wife Cynthia celebrated their thirty-second wedding anniversary in your father's pub last night.  An argument ensued and Poundstone stomped out in a terrible huff."

          "Of course," Lacey said.  "I saw it myself."

          "Poundstone went straight to the cottage of Penny Littleton, his mistress and the Academy's history instructor.  Shortly after he arrived, they responded to a knock at the front door.  That's when they found the burgundy."

          "Burgundy?"

          "Clos de Vougeot, vintage 1962.  The very same brand and year Cynthia Poundstone had purchased as an anniversary gift for her husband."

          Again, Lacey's green eyes flashed, and then narrowed.  "What is the significance?"

          "The bottle was identical to the vintage the Poundstone's had consumed at their wedding.  Poundstone and Penny Littleton drank the wine, assuming someone from the pub had dropped it off after Cynthia Poundstone left it sitting on the table.  The next morning Penny Littleton found the Headmaster cold, stiff and quite dead."

          "Poisoned burgundy?"

          "Yes, with some strain of penicillin.  Poundstone, it seems, was allergic to the drug and died in his sleep from the reaction."

          Lacey leaned against a grey boulder, thoughtfully massaging her chin.  "Dibble suspects Cynthia Poundstone is the murderess?"

          "She intended to present the tainted burgundy at the pub.  When Poundstone stalked away in anger, she followed him to Penny Littleton's cottage and left it at the door."

          "Why did you interview Morris Applegate?"

          "Applegate was walking near Penny Littleton's cottage when she discovered the foul deed.  The distraught woman rushed outside, screaming too high blazes, into the arms of Applegate.  Dibble thought it prudent to speak with him."

          "You said she discovered the Headmaster's demise this morning.  What time, exactly?"

          "Very early.  Five, I believe."

          Lacey raised an eyebrow and asked, "What did you learn from the interview with Applegate?"

          "Applegate is the Academy caretaker.  Late forties, I suspect.  He explained that everyone on campus knew about the Headmaster's affair with Penny Littleton.  It's strange."

          "What's strange?"

          "I thought I knew all the campus rumors, but I wasn't aware of any affair."

          "Something else is strange," she said.  "Applegate was also at the pub last night.  Poundstone spoke to him when they arrived, and later sent ale to his table."

          "What's so strange about that?" I asked.  "Your father's pub is practically the only place around in which to have a drink."

          "Perhaps," she said.  "What next?"

          I glanced at my watch.  "I'm meeting Dibble at the Constable's within the hour to question Mrs. Poundstone and attempt to elicit a confession."

          "I'll meet you there," Lacey said, standing quickly and straightening her dress.

          "You can't," I said.  "Inspector Dibble won't allow it."

          "Make up something.  Tell him I'm your cousin and that you are watching after me while my parents are away."

          Before I could protest, she started down the hill toward the Village.  Lacey was stubborn and I knew I had no chance of changing her mind.  Hurrying after her, I considered how best to explain her presence to the Inspector.

*     *     *

          Lacey left me at the outskirts of Oare, meeting Dibble and me half-an-hour later at the Constables.  I did have some difficulty explaining her presence but Dibble was in a hurry to conclude the investigation and return to London, and when I mentioned that she was slightly simple-minded and needed constant supervision, he reluctantly acquiesced.  The ploy succeeded, but not until I felt Lacey's disapproving glare at my back.

          Mrs. Poundstone was an attractive, middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a full figure.  She spoke in such a low voice we had to lean forward to hear her story.  Painfully, Inspector Dibble did so by resting the cast on his knee.

          Refusing to confess the murder, Mrs. Poundstone tearfully maintained her innocence.  Lacey and I glanced at one another as Dibble listed the evidence against her.

          "Mrs. Poundstone, we found your prints all over the bottle of burgundy.  In addition, the local wine merchant has confirmed that you bought such a bottle from him less than a fortnight ago.  The vintage is rare and he had to special order it from London.  Further, a strain of penicillin a medication to which your husband was extremely allergic tainted the wine.  The penicillin entered the bottle through a tiny hole in the cork, put there with a syringe.  You are diabetic, are you not?  And isn't it true your physician recently prescribed penicillin for your son?"

          "Yes, but Taddy had a terrible sore throat."

          Dibble drummed the side of the chair with the bruised fingers of his good hand.  "You were extremely angry with your husband.  Many people observed the scene in the pub last night and will testify to your angry outburst.  Why don't you just conclude this charade and confess the deed.  You knew it would never succeed."

          "I didn't do it, Inspector," she insisted.

          Before Inspector Dibble could ask another question, Lacey interrupted him, asking one of her own.  "Mrs. Poundstone, why did you confront your husband at the pub?"

          Both Inspector Dibble and I turned in surprise at Lacey's question.  "Now listen here, young lady," the Inspector said.  "I'm asking the questions."

          "Then please, you ask for me because her answer may well surprise you," Lacey said.

          Cynthia Poundstone answered the question before Dibble could respond.  "Lionel presented me with an anniversary card.  In addition to the card, the envelope contained a very revealing picture of Lionel and a young woman."

          Dibble glanced at Lacey, and then back at Cynthia Poundstone.  "You recognized the woman?"

          Cynthia Poundstone nodded.  "It was Penny Littleton."

          "You didn't know of their affair before last night?"

          Shaking her head, she said, "It never occurred to me.  When I learned of it, I lost my temper and made a scene.  Lionel couldn't take the humiliation and left the pub in anger."

          "And you returned home, poisoned the wine and took it to Penny Littleton's cottage," Dibble prompted.

          "No," she said.  "I went home and straight to sleep, quite in despair."

          Lacey asked, "Mrs. Poundstone, do you know Morris Applegate?"

          The Inspector and I glared at the impetuous Lacey.

          "Yes, I know him," she said.  "Lionel hired him as Academy caretaker when he became Headmaster.  He often helps around the house, gardening and such."

          "Has he ever been inside your house?"

          "Now listen here, young lady," Dibble said, by now quite red in the face.

          "Has he?" Lacey insisted, above Dibble's protestations.

          "Yes," she said.  "He often helps with the groceries, and frequently did repair work for Lionel.  He's quite the handyman."

          "You trust him?" Lacey asked.

          "Lionel and Mr. Applegate grew up together, in this very village."

          Her words trailed off and she began to sob again.  Hastily, Inspector Dibble stood and started for the door, motioning me to follow.  Once outside he addressed Lacey, angrily.

          "Master Christopher, take your young cousin home, this instant.  I was on the verge of obtaining Mrs. Poundstone's confession and I'll have absolutely no more interference.  Do you understand?" he said, his words ending in a crescendo as he glared at Lacey.

          "She didn't do it," Lacey proclaimed.

          "What?" Inspector Dibble and I said at once.

          "She didn't do it," Lacey repeated.  "Follow me to Penny Littleton's house and I will prove it."

          "How in blazes do you intend to accomplish that, young lady?" Dibble demanded, his voice an extra octave higher than normal.

          "I will show you," she said, starting away down the cobblestone street at a rapid pace.

          Finding the cottage a short distance from the Constable's, Lacey stopped in front, hands at her hips, looking smug and self-assured.

          "Kit said the bottle of burgundy arrived shortly after Headmaster Poundstone left the pub."

          Inspector Dibble glared at me for my indiscretion, and then back at Lacey.  "That's correct," he admitted, anger still coloring his words.

          "Then you are assuming Mrs. Poundstone planned for her husband to drink the blighted wine at the pub?  When he departed in anger she followed him to Penny Littleton's house and left the burgundy on her doorstep."

          "You find something wrong with that assumption?" Dibble asked.

          "Yes I do, Inspector.  If Mrs. Poundstone plotted to murder her husband and then blame his death on an accidental ingestion of their son's antibiotics, she would not have lost her temper at the pub.  She lost her temper because of the picture of her husband and Penny Littleton presented to her in the anniversary card.  Whoever placed that picture in the envelope is the real murderer."

          Dibble continued to glare, but remained silent.  Lacey marched up to the front door and knocked.  Inspector Dibble and I followed her up the steps and waited until Miss Littleton answered.

          Penny Littleton was younger and thinner than her deceased lover's wife, otherwise they could have passed for sisters.  Her cosmetics were streaked and her eyes quite red from crying.  Dibble introduced himself, and then Lacey and me, most reluctantly.

          "It seems my young associate has some questions for you, Miss Littleton," he said, placing sarcastic emphasis on the word associate.

          Lacey began, not at all perplexed by Dibble's remark.  "Do you know Morris Applegate?"

          "Why yes.  I met him shortly after his employment with the Academy began.  He often helps me when I need assistance."

          "Has he ever been inside your cottage?"

          "Many times," she said.  "He repaired a broken pipe just last week."

          "Does he live near you?" Lacey asked.

          Penny Littleton shook her head.  "No.  He lives on the grounds of the Academy."

          "You knew Headmaster Poundstone rather well.  Was he easily provoked?"

          Penny Littleton nodded.  "Yes, and so was his wife, Cynthia.  Probably much of the reason for their marital problems, I should think."

          Lacey looked at me and then at Inspector Dibble.  "Thank you, Miss Littleton," she said, and started for the door.

          Inspector Dibble and I followed her back down the cobblestone path.  "Applegate has no motive," he called.

          "I will deliver the motive," she replied, continuing along the path.

          She led us to the Village outskirts, to a cottage with whitewashed stone walls and a weathered, grey slate roof.  An old man appeared at the door as we approached the large porch.

          "Gentlemen," she said.  "This is Mr. Robart Hardy."

          We exchanged greetings with the old man and then followed him into the house.  An old white-haired woman served tea as Mr. Hardy unfolded his story."

          "Young Applegate and Poundstone were best friends and their fathers were business partners.  Their fathers operated a shipping firm, but after five slack years, the older Applegate was ready to quit.  Lionel's father offered a nominal sum for the Applegate portion of the business and the elder Applegate accepted his offer.  Within weeks Poundstone sold the firm to a Scottish shipping interest and the transaction proved quite lucrative."

          "What became of Morris Applegate's father?" Dibble asked.

          "The poor bloke committed suicide.  Mrs. Applegate took ill after that and young Morris had to drop out of school and take a job on the docks to help support her."

          "And the Poundstone's?"

          "They moved away to London.  Funny," he added.

          "What's funny, Mr. Hardy?" Inspector Dibble asked.

          "Morris Applegate was by far the smarter of the two lads.  He should have been Headmaster instead of Lionel, but never had the chance."

          We left the old man on the cottage porch.  "So Applegate murdered Poundstone.  When did you first suspect him?" Dibble asked, staring at Lacey while waiting for her answer.

          "As Miss Littleton confirmed, Applegate lives at the Academy.  That she found him outside her door was no coincidence.  He had placed the bottle of burgundy there and waited through the night to view the fruits of his labor."

          "What about the burgundy?" I asked.  "How did he know that Mrs. Poundstone would leave it on the table?"

          "She didn't.  Applegate had also ordered a bottle, but this one came directly from the distributor in London.  The vintage, Clos de Vougeot, vintage 1962, is rare, as Inspector Dibble mentioned.  The local wine merchant checked with the distributor and confirmed that Applegate, indeed, had purchased a similar bottle.  I inquired before joining you at the Constable's."

          Inspector Dibble thoughtfully scratched his chin.  "He intended to retrieve the untainted bottle from the Poundstone's house and destroy it at his leisure."

          Lacey nodded and continued.  "When I saw Poundstone purchase Applegate the ale last night at the Pub I realized the Headmaster considered Applegate more than an employee.  Morris Applegate has lived in Oare most of his life.  I wagered old Mr. Hardy would know, if there were, in fact, some link from the past."

          "Then you didn't know for sure?" Dibble asked.

          Lacey smiled and shook her head.  "As Mr. Hardy said,

Applegate is an intelligent man.  He made an extraordinary effort to cover his tracks and pin the murder on Poundstone's wife."

          "But why?" I asked.

          Dibble glanced at Lacey and she nodded, as if delivering permission to explain a triviality to a dense child.

          "Revenge," Dibble said, continuing Lacey's explanation.  "He wished to discredit Poundstone's good name, place the blame on Cynthia Poundstone and leave her unable to care for their son.  Poundstone did not realize his old chum's animosity.  Applegate quickly learned every aspect of the Poundstone's lives he did not already know.  When he found the picture of Poundstone and Penny Littleton, it provided the means to enact the odious deed.  If not for your young friend's extraordinary gift of observation and deduction he may well have succeeded."

          The Inspector smiled for the first time since I had met him and he gave Lacey's shoulder an affectionate pat.  Then he said, "Lass, we can always use a sleuth like you at Scotland Yard.  Look us up in a few years."

          As I watched him trudge back toward the Village, my mouth still agape, Lacey punched me square in the ribs.  Then, with glade green eyes flashing her best 'I told you so' expression, she said, "Let's go to my father's pub and I'll recite for you while I pour your ale."

END

Eric’s Web

I remember humping the base plate of an 81 MM mortar along a hilly path somewhere in Vietnam.  After a long and tiring hump, I climbed a steep hill, encountering one of my fellow sky troopers on his knees.  He was crying, exhausted from the weight of his load.  I shouldered his 81 MM bipod and continued up the grade.

That night, I saw the mirage of a large city in the sky.  There was two Lrp's humping with us.  Lrp's were part of the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol.  They were lifers, real soldiers, in it for the long haul.  They trekked into the jungle and gathered information available no other way.

That night, after the mirage, a commotion awoke me.  There was something in the brush, just outside our perimeter.  Protocol insisted detonation of the myriad of claymore mines.  Lrp #2 begged us not to do it.  When we acquiesced, he went into the jungle, soon returning with his partner.

His partner had walked in his sleep, into the jungle.  He led the disoriented man back to the perimeter and finally managed to wake him.

"Please don't report this.  They will kick me out of the service.  This is my life."

No one reported the Lrp's transgression.  None of us understood his fears.  Hell, we could not understand our own. 

Yes, I remember humping the base plate of an 81 MM mortar somewhere in Vietnam.  It remains in my mind like that mirage in the sky.

Eric’s Web

Thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays while growing up in northwest Louisiana.  My Mother had three sisters and a brother.  My Grandparents lived but a few blocks from our house and most of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins would almost always come in for the holiday.

My Grandparents, the Pittman’s, usually had Thanksgiving at their house.  I loved all of my cousins, but was closest to Cousins Ken and Angela, about the same age as I am.  I have lots of younger cousins, and at least one that is older, but I mostly remember Ken, Angela and my brother.  I remember one Thanksgiving holiday in particular.

There weren’t many inclement winters that I remember while growing up in north Louisiana but a certain November was particularly dark and gloomy.  For some reason we celebrated that particular Thanksgiving at my parent’s house.

The Pitt’s all loved politics.  Whenever they congregated, you could bet there would be a spirited discussion on the subject.  It did not matter what half of the group believed, the other half would dispute it, Grandpa Pitt always leading the charge.  While the parents argued inside the house, we kids were having fun in the back yard.

None of us kids cared much for politics, and this included my cerebral, and very pretty cousin Angela.  We were busy outside, amid a blue Louisiana gloom, thinking only of ways to have fun.

Jack and I were the country cousins, Ken and Angela from Shreveport and Houston, respectively.  Jack and I had both had BB guns, bow and arrows and knifes since we were old enough to know better.  Ken and Angela had never even popped a cap.

Fireworks weren’t illegal in Vivian during the fifties and sixties.  Two-inchers and M-80’s were as legal as they were potentially deadly.  Jack and I had made pipe guns, plugged on one end, with a stock for holding and aiming.  You would drop a lighted two-incher down the barrel, followed quickly by a marble, aim and wait for the explosion.

Ken and Angela were slathering at their mouths to shoot the guns.  Finally, Jack and I acquiesced.  The two City Cousins held the barrels in the air as Jack and I dropped two-inchers, followed quickly by marbles down the barrels.  They pointed and the resulting explosion was deafening.  Jack and I watched with open eyes as the projectiles blew out the windows of my Dad’s garage.

Angela and Ken were oblivious to what they had just done but Jack said, “Oh, shit!”

My own rear end began to pucker.

Jack and I knocked out the remaining glass from the windowpane and discarded the broken shards in the trash.  With Thanksgiving festivities in full swing, we got a bye for a few days before my Dad realized what had happened.

When he finally discovered the transgression, he failed to give us the whipping that we anticipated.  Instead, he took away our marble guns, and our fireworks.  Angela and Ken never received any punishment, and I do not suppose they should have, neither having a clue as to what they were doing when they blew out my Dad’s garage windows.

Yes, Thanksgiving is still one of my favorite holidays.  I miss hearing my parents and relatives discussing politics, but mostly I miss those blue Louisiana days when skies were gloomy, and our young eyes wide.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Eric’s Web

A very strange story.

Feds recover bookmark that reportedly was Hitler's - Yahoo! News.

Eric’s Web

Frequent readers of Musings know that Marilyn and I are avid collectors of old cookbooks.  Here is a recipe I found in The New Orleans Cookbook by Rima and Richard Collin.  Yes, I admit I was first attracted to the book because of one of the author’s first names and its connection with the great novel, Green Mansions, but the cookbook’s wonderful recipes go far beyond one of my favorite characters of all time.

The book is subtitled Creole, Cajun, and Louisiana French Recipes, Past and Present.  It is an eighth printing from Alfred A. Knopf, published in 1980.  Not only are the recipes good, the pictures and illustrations alone are worth the price of the book.  I highly recommend it.  If you can find a copy, buy it.  Here is one of my favorite recipes from The New Orleans Cookbook.

SAUCE PARADIS

The richest sauce in Creole cuisine, made with Madeira wine, currant jelly, green grapes, beef stock, and truffles.  When green seedless grapes are in season, we buy them in quantity and freeze them, for this sauce and for Trout Veronique.  The truffles are a grand touch but do not change the flavor of the sauce, so if you have none on hand, do not be deterred.  We like Sauce Paradis on squab, quail, duck and chicken.

1/4 cup salt butter

1/8 tsp freshly ground white pepper

1/4 cup flour

1 cup green seedless grapes (drained if they have been frozen)

2 cups rich beef stock

1/2 cup Madeira wine

3 large truffles, sliced thin

3 tbsp red currant jelly

In a heavy 2 to 3 quart saucepan melt the butter over low heat then add the flour stirring to keep the mixture smooth.  Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, for 10 minutes, and then slowly add the beef stock, stirring as you pour.

Cook over low heat until sauce thickens slightly (about 6 minutes), then add the wine, currant jelly and pepper, and mix thoroughly.  Cook until the jelly has melted and then add the grapes and truffles.

Continue cooking for about 3 minutes more, just long enough to heat the grapes and truffles through.  Remove the pan from the heat. Right before serving stir gently to mix.

Eric’s Web

Naomi (Shuchen), my accountant, is from Taiwan and is thinking about returning soon for a visit to see her mother.  She has a few trepidations and one of them is visiting her Father’s grave.  It was broad daylight when she explained the reasons for her reluctance, and her story chilled me.

The graveyards in Taiwan are far from the populated parts of the country.  Located high in the mountains, they are remote.  Many of the sarcophaguses are quite elaborate, almost like houses for the dead.

“Taiwan is very humid,” she explained.  “There is a smell of death lingering in our cemeteries and no one ever visits after sundown.”

Naomi did visit her Grandfather’s grave after sundown once.  When one of her teachers tried to discipline her by smacking her palm with a ruler, she hit back with a pencil holder and then ran away, hiding at her Grandfather’s grave until long after dark.

The grave was on her parent’s farm and not part of a cemetery.  Still, she felt the presence of spirits around her as soon as it grew dark, and she ran back home to be punished by her Father for striking the teacher.

This is not the only experience Naomi had with cemeteries.  She and her family lived in a small village; a place where everyone knows everyone else.  One of the families was having problems and consulted a geomancer, a person practiced in the art of feng shui, and he told them they needed to move the grave of their mother that had passed some ten years prior.

No one visits a Taiwanese graveyard after dark, but the geomancer advised that the family should exhume the grave at nine at night.  Everyone in the small village went to the cemetery for support of the family, although none of them allowed to dig, or to view the disinterred remains.  What the family found when they opened the casket was a shock to the entire village.

The woman’s body had not decayed.  She lay there before them - as if she had just died - her eyes open wide.  Her hair and her fingernails had continued to grow and she appeared like a wraith, or a zombie, before the horrified relatives that stared down at her body.

The family moved the woman’s body to the spot the geomancer had prescribed, and a hunk of flesh removed from her arm to accelerate decay.  The image remained locked in Naomi’s brain as she contemplated visiting Taiwan, her mother, and her father’s grave.  The image is indelible and now remains locked in my own brain.

Eric’s Web

 I learned to read at an early age, and soon began enjoying books.  We had a tiny, one-room town library in Vivian and Mrs. Files, - I kid you not - was the librarian.  The library had little or no budget but Mrs. Files always found an inexpensive way to keep our interest in reading high.

During the summer, she would mimeograph diagrams of the United States, or some such imaginative illustration.  Whenever we read a book, she would give us a gold star for one of the states.  The person with the most gold stars at the end of the summer got a five-dollar bill, which, I now feel sure, Mrs. Files contributed herself.

I liked mysteries from the time I was very young, books with heroes like Freddy the Pig and Miss Pickerel.  As I grew older, I found I also liked a little adventure tossed in.  I read everything I could find by Jules Verne, H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs, so it was natural that when I began writing, I wrote stories that combined the two genres.  If you have the need to label everything, I guess you could call them mysventures.

Growing up, I also loved history and have always wondered what happened to the ill-fated colony of Roanoke.  It would seem with all our technology that we should be able to find the answer.  Alas, this is not the case.

I have visited many wild and wooly places in my life but few as wild and remote as the deepest forests hidden in the ancient Ouachita Mountains of central Arkansas.  I realized as much while working on my geological master’s thesis in Sevier County.

I remain entranced by the geologic mystery of the area and feel that central Arkansas is one of the top ten geologic wonders of the world.  To me, it bears the same mystery and intrigue as Haggard’s vision of darkest Africa, or Burrough’s Pellucidar.  Arkansas is also the only place in the United States with diamonds found at their source.

Not only are the Ouachita Mountains lush with mystery, intrigue and danger, their deep valleys and sharp peaks conceal limitless wealth in diamonds and many other valuable minerals.  It seemed a perfect place for a mystery/adventure tale, and became the location for my novel A Gathering of Diamonds.

When I wrote A Gathering of Diamonds, I stole many ideas from masters such as Haggard, Burroughs, and yes-even Cussler.  I also managed to solve the mystery of the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony, at least in my own fictional mind.

Many moons have passed since those days in Vivian’s little library.  Mrs. Files is no longer around to read any of my books.  If she were, I am sure that she would smile, pat me on the shoulder, and give me a gold star.  That thought makes me very happy.

Eric’s Web

At one time during his life, my friend Mick often had inclinations to doff his pants in public.  He never went as far as taking off his underwear, and he almost always performed the ritual when with a group of friends.  It did not matter that the act was all but harmless.  Mick’s boss, Mr. R did not like it and devised a way to see that it stopped.

Mr. R was good friends with an Oklahoma City detective named Sugar Smith.  Sugar was a character in his own right, and many of the big name rock bands employed him as a bodyguard, and local tour guide, when they played OKC.  One night while having a drink together, Sugar and Mr. R hatched a plan for breaking Mick of his undesirable proclivity.

Mick was single when he worked for Mr. R and often came in to work late, more often then not just a little hung over.  When he showed up at the office a few days later, he found Detective Sugar waiting for him.  Sugar flashed his badge and asked to see Mick’s ID.

The intimidating detective made a production out of studying Mick’s license.  He shook his head, and then with an expression of grave resolution, reached in his back pocket and pulled out his cuffs.

“Mick, we have had complaint after complaint about you taking your clothes off in public.  I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can do except run you in and have the judge throw the book at you.  Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Mick’s face went white as he complied with Sugar’s demand.  Sugar paraded Mick, shackled like a criminal, through the office, slowly, so that everyone could see.  They took the elevator to the ground floor; a police cruiser waited outside on the street.

Sugar opened the back door and held Mick’s head to keep him from bumping it as he squeezed his big frame into the back seat.  Sugar climbed in the front seat and began reading Mick his rights.  Halfway through, he broke into uncontained laughter.  Getting out of the car, he opened the back door, releasing the cuffs on Mick’s hands once he exited the car.

“I’m going to let you skate this time, but if I ever hear that you even so much as forget to zip your fly again, I’m running you in.  You get my drift?”

Mick could only rub his wrists and nod as he watched Sugar reenter the passenger side of the cruiser, slamming the door before the car took off in a squeal of burning rubber, along with the piercing siren.  When he turned and looked toward the door of the building, he saw that he had an audience of at least a hundred people that all broke into cheers and uproarious applause to acknowledge the performance.

That was more than twenty years ago.  To the best of my knowledge, Mick has never come close to showing his red bikini underwear to anyone again – at least to anyone that did not expect to see them.

Eric’s Web

My friend Mickey is also a geologist and was once the exploration manager for a famous Oklahoma City oil operator.  Mick is one of the very few people in the world you can call a true oil finder.  In Oklahoma, he is a genius at it.  Like many other geniuses, he has a few personal faults.

People in the industry worked hard during the eighties oil boom, and when they played, they played hard.  This usually meant after-hours activity that included the consuming of copious amounts of alcohol.  Mick’s company - I will call it Mr. R’s Oil Company., to protect the innocent - was perhaps the most successful oil company in Oklahoma.  Everyone in the company was close.  They worked hard and partied harder.

Mick was a great oil finder but he had a slight quirk – when he was drinking, he liked to take off his clothes.  Mick’s company was having a Christmas party in a private room at a local hotel.  There were probably fifty people in the company congregated around a group of tables with Mr. R, the company’s owner seated at the center, Mick at his side.  The lights were dim and a roaring fireplace fronted the guests in the cozy setting.

This was a coat and tie affair with husbands and wives of the employees in attendance.  There was lots of good food and much alcohol involved, and people around the tables began toasting to the successful year they had all had.  Mick was the last in line to make a toast.

The occasion was festive and lots of alcohol consumed as the celebration proceeded around the table.  When they finally reached Mick, he was in an advanced state of inebriation, and reveling in the exploration successes the company had attained during the year.  Instead of giving a toast, he raised his glass and did something else.

“This is the best – expletives deleted – oil company in the world.  We found the oil and now it’s time to GET NAKED!”

Mick did just that, shedding his polyester pants and throwing them into the flaming hearth where they immediately ignited in an exploding burst of flame.  The room was dim but everyone in the place had a good view of Mick, standing in front of the fire in his red bikini underwear his girlfriend had given him.

One of the finest explorationists of all time, Mr. R was also a gentleman.  Removing his sports coat, he frowned, shook his head, and handed Mick the coat, advising with his eyes that he needed to cover himself and sit back down.

No, Mr. R did not fire Mick.  His ace employee was too good an oil finder to let go.  Mr. R, as I mentioned, was a most intelligent man and he finally found a way to break his star worker from stripping in public.  It is a funny story and I promise that I will soon tell it, maybe tomorrow.

 It’s late fall, the nights growing longer.  Earlier, my barking dogs alerted me that something was at the front door.  It was dark outside as I got out of my Lazy Boy to look, but the porch light was on.  Through the glass door, I saw a large gray fox, and he did not seem to care that I was looking at him as he gobbled what was left of the food in my cat’s bowls.

I live near the east edge of Edmond and have seen every manner of wildlife in my front yard.  My vet told me the animals live in the many creeks that crisscross the area.  There is a nip in the air and I understood why the fox already has his winter coat as a chill wind blew through the open door, into the house.

I thought about the abundant wildlife in the area as I put on my robe and padded into the backyard to my hot tub.  Once up to my neck in hot water, I closed my eyes, letting wisps of steam rise up around my ears and disappear into the darkness around me.  The solitude reminded me of a chapter in my first published book Ghost of a Chance, that also has a bucolic setting.

Buck McDivit, ex-cop and petroleum landman, has inherited an island in a mysterious lake in east Texas.  There, he encounters southern racists and the ghost of a girl that died a hundred years before.  He also meets the beautiful Lila Richardson, local antiquities expert and heiress to the Richardson Plantation.  Part of his own inheritance is the marina and lodge on the island.  He and Wiley Johnson, the son of the caretakers, decide to take a late night swim following an interesting barbeque.

EXCERPT FROM GHOST OF A CHANCE

Wiley interrupted their conversation.  "Anybody up for a swim?  The lodge has a great indoor pool."

"Better pass," Brice said.  "Sally will come after me if I don't join her."  He waved and hurried up the stairs.

"What about you, Buck?" Wiley asked.

"Sure.  Maybe it'll sober me up."

"Girls?" Wiley called.  "Anyone for a swim?"

Wiley's toddies had caught up with Lila and Sara, and both giggled uncontrollably on the couch.

"Let's do it, Sara," Lila said.  "You know you're dying to show off your new bikini."

"And we're dying to see it," Wiley said.

Sara continued to giggle but Lila stumbled to her feet, her face awash in a silly grin.  When she squeezed Buck's hand an electrical surge raced up his arm, momentarily clearing the cobwebs from his head.  Heat lightning flashed over the lake.

"You and Wiley go ahead," she said.  "If Sara and I don't pass out before we get to our rooms, maybe we'll join you."

Lila grabbed Sara's hand, pulling her to her feet.  Arm-in-arm they made their way upstairs, still giggling like two pre-teens on their way to a slumber party.

Wiley smiled and said, "That's the last we'll see of them tonight.”

Buck nodded.  "Just as well.”

"Suit up and I'll meet you in the solarium," Wiley said.  "It's on the other side of the dining room."

After changing into his bathing suit, Buck joined Wiley in what turned out to be a magnificent solarium.  Shadows danced on the walls of the dimly lit room as he eased down the short flight of stairs to the Mexican tiles.  Two beams of light glimmered up from the bottom of the turquoise pool, melding with lightning flashing through the skylights.  Amid massive palms, hanging baskets and aromatic tropical flowers, Buck felt as if he'd suddenly entered the Garden of Eden.  Wiley waited by the pool, his feet dangling in the water.

"Wow," Buck said, gawking around.  "Why didn't you tell me about this place sooner?"

When Buck joined him by the pool Wiley handed him a tall glass of ice water.  "Guess I forgot.”

Aunt Emma's solarium was like an indoor tropical rain forest.  Dreamy music, piped in from hidden speakers, blended effortlessly with the delicate scents of orchid, hibiscus and magnolia.  Several slow moving ceiling fans generated a gentle breeze that dimpled the pool.  It created the tropical feel of a south sea island.

Wiley grinned.  "Miss Emma used to call this her own private Eden."

"I see why," Buck said, glancing at the redwood hot tub beside the pool.

Light from the submerged beam in the pool danced up through the water and gentle ripples further distorted the beam.  Water trickled from a fountain at the far end of the pool, and soft light, lush vegetation and moving water slowly began to work on Buck's nerves.  Diving into the pool, he leisurely stroked to the opposite end.

"The pool is a dream.  Let's swim a few laps, then sit in the hot tub and talk."

"Help yourself with the laps," Wiley said, dipping his fingers into the steaming water of the hot tub.  "You can join me when you finish."

"How is it?"

"Perfect."

Wiley gingerly submerged his toe, then his whole foot into the tub.  He slipped into the hot water up to his neck, lounging in silence, a relaxed smile on his face.  After completing ten fast laps, Buck joined him.  Steam, leaving him limp and relaxed, welled up in moist clouds from the surface of the water.

"This is really the ticket," he said.

Wiley's attention suddenly turned to the door and he held up his palm for silence.

Someone's in the dining room.  Maybe the cross burners are back for more mischief."

Wiley slipped out of the hot tub and followed the shadows toward the front door of the solarium, grabbing a loose brick from the fountain.  Buck held his breath and watched.  The handle turned and the door slowly opened.  When the first head appeared through the crack, Wiley raised the brick to strike.

The resultant female scream came from neither Humpback nor Deacon John.  It was Lila and Sara, scantily clad in their bathing suits, and still giggling.

Eric’s Web

 Here is a pic of the southern sky in southeast Edmond, Oklahoma.

Eric’s Web

 Caddo Lake is the largest natural lake in Texas.  The lake’s history is as diverse as pearls and steamboats, and Caddo remains one of the most beautiful and mysterious lakes in the entire United States.

My Dad was born in Trees City, once a boomtown a few miles from Vivian.  Jeems Bayou separates Vivian and Trees.  During heavy rains in the area, it will result in water rising over the highway, leaving a boat the only way to get to Trees City from Vivian.

I remember, as a kid, fishing from the side of the road.  My parents, Grandmother and I were not the only ones, hundreds of others joining in to reap the harvest of fish from the fabled lake.

There were always fishing camps both on the Texas and Louisiana sides of the lake.  These camps would have a ramp for launching boats, and would rent boats, and sell bait, fishing gear and pop.  Each camp usually had a restaurant where the locals went for catfish, hushpuppies and Cole slaw.

Kool Point, near Oil City, no longer has a restaurant but Pelican Lodge, not far from Trees City is still open.  I always love eating at Pelican Lodge when I visit Vivian.  It is far off the beaten path and only the locals really know where it is.  One condiment all of these restaurants served is green tomato relish.  It is probably best prepared in large batches, and then canned (bottled) but here is a recipe for a single batch, suitable for one dinner.

3 large rough chopped green tomatoes,

1 large rough chopped onion

1 hot green pepper, chopped

1/3 cup sugar

2 tbsp salt

1-cup vinegar

In a small pot, bring the sugar, salt and vinegar to a boil, and then add vegetables.  Return contents of the pot to a boil for two minutes.  Chill and enjoy.

Eric’s Web

My accountant Naomi asked me the other day if Anne, my deceased wife, had ever visited me in a dream.  She nodded knowingly when I admitted that she had.  Today, she told me about the ghost of her father.

Naomi (real name Shuchen) is from Taiwan.  “In Taiwan, we believe the ghost of the deceased returns after seven days.  This gives closure to both the dead and the living.

“I was in Oklahoma when my father died and did not get to Taiwan for three days.  On the seventh day after his death, we spread ashes at the front door.  That night, I was sleeping on a tatami bed in my Mother’s room.  My Mother was beside me, asleep and snoring, and I was asleep when I heard the bedroom door slide open.

“I was afraid to open my eyes when I heard someone cross the room and stop at the foot of the tatami.  I was too frightened to open my eyes, but could sense that someone was looking at me.  I wanted to say something but found that I could not speak.

“I had the strong feeling that it was the spirit of my Father, and that he was looking at me because I had not seen him in more than three years.  He finally walked away, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

“My Father had a metal cup that he ate his soup in.  From the kitchen, I began hearing the clang, clang, clang of the metal cup struck repeatedly against the table.  Finally it stopped.

“Next morning my little brother and sister-in-law said that they had also heard the cup, both thinking it was my Father, but neither brave enough to get up and look.  We found my Father’s footprints in the ashes.  Yes, they were his.”

Brakes squealed outside as Naomi told her story and she jumped as if shot.  That was not all: a strong gust of wind suddenly blew the front door of our office closed with a slam.  Outside, the day was calm and beautiful with no wind blowing.

We have all probably seen ghosts, or at least sensed their presences.  Even if you have not, yet, I assure you that you will - someday.

Eric’s Web

I had a dental appointment to fill a tooth this morning at eight.  My dentist is great, the best I have ever had, and I trust him.  Still, I do not like needles, probes and drills inside my mouth.  Dr. K has a new assistant named Tina and she asked me if I would like to use nitrous oxide.

“It will help you relax,” she said.

Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.

“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.

I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose.  I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction.  The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant.  Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them.  Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.

I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin.  She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling.  I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth.  I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.

Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now.  Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”

Or some such!  Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina.  I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.

Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant.  He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide. 

Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place.  The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.

I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten.  Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office.  Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.

Eric’s Website

Anne and I lived in an Oklahoma subdivision called Summerfield for a while.  The house was tiny, but it had a small swimming pool and hot tub.  It backed up to a creek alive with wildlife and we loved the place.

Summerfield was originally part of the Gaylord dairy farm, a pristine area just north of what was then Oklahoma City.  Gaylord, founder of the Oklahoman, was one of the first Oklahoma millionaires and his family now owns The Grand Ole Opry.

Once the epitome of conservatism, the Oklahoman is now one of the finest newspapers in the United States.  I read it every day and have for thirty years.  So much for my commercial for the Oklahoman, an entity that does not need my paltry accolades.

Anyway, when I lived in Summerfield, I was an avid jogger.  I had a three-mile course laid out which I ran practically every day.  Part of it was on the west side of Lake Hefner, one of Oklahoma City’s water supplies, and it was then in an unpopulated area of the City.

I know this is strange, but this is true.  When I jogged along the river path, I often saw a very strange person.  Hair covered his entire face and he looked like Lon Chaney in the Werewolf.  I kid you not!  I described him to Anne and called him the dog-faced man.

This person was smaller than I was but he still frightened me.  Once I encountered him urinating in the bushes.  I am not making any of this up!

I do not really know where I am going with this except to say there are strange things around us every day that we often overlook, or never tell anyone else because we will feel like fools and think no one will believe us.

Yes, Virginia, there is a dog-faced man, and he lives in Oklahoma City.

Eric’s Website

A Picture of the old Farmer’s Market in downtown Oklahoma City.

Oklahoma Images.

Eric’s Website

I suffered from painful shyness until I was well into my twenties, unsure of myself and almost physically unable to carry on a meaningful conversation with any member of the opposite sex.  I managed to cure myself, sometime between my marriages to Gail and Anne, mostly by bedding, or trying to bed, practically every female that I met.

I was not a sexual addict, just simply trying to improve my self-esteem by proving to myself (through what I felt was sexual acceptance) that girls actually liked me.  The cure was not painless and it left me with more than a few mental scars, but not nearly so many as the ones that I bore through most of my teen years.

I am no longer shy, and anything but a shrinking violet, but some of the old memories of the pathetic things that I did when I was young still haunt me – at least when I allow myself to dwell on them.  Tonight I remembered something I did during that time in my life that still causes me to pity myself and realize just what a loser that I was.

I was a freshman in geology at Northeast Louisiana and along on a geological field trip to northern Arkansas.  It was winter and we camped the first night on an Ozark mountaintop.  I had a sleeping bag but it was Louisiana-rated, and not meant for northern Arkansas in December.

That night, I survived by shivering.  I could not go to sleep because of the cold.  When dawn finally arrived, I was exhausted.  I dozed in the car’s backseat as we spent the day stopping at one geologic outcrop after the next.  By dark, we started back to Monroe, stopping at a roadside café for dinner.

The little café was family-owned, our waitress a young woman about my own age, and the daughter of the owners.  I cannot remember her name or much of anything about her except that she was attractive and had a friendly smile.

I never even spoke to her, except to order my hamburger, but listened as the other male students bantered and flirted with her.  We dined and departed, and that would have been the end of the story, except that I convinced myself that I saw something in her eyes.  Once back in Monroe, I wrote her a letter.

I didn’t exactly pour my heart out to her, but I did ask if she would go out with me if I drove up for a visit.  She probably would not have even known which one of us it was if I had not sent her a picture – a particularly nerdy photo from my high school graduation.  I was surprised, and even a little more anxious when I received a return letter from the young woman that I did not really expect.

She could have ripped my heart out and roasted it over a fire with her words; if she had wanted.  Instead, her letter was cordial, thanking me for my many compliments, but explaining that she had a steady boyfriend.  I was not exactly heartbroken though I did realize how pathetic that I was, hiding behind pen and paper instead of speaking with my heart and mouth when I could have.

Years have passed and old pains have numbed.  Once again, it is winter.  Although I’m not outside in a sleeping bag, I am still putting my thoughts on a page, or computer screen.  Still, no one has accused me of being shy lately, or even a little insecure.

As I keyboard these last thoughts, I realize that, just maybe, it is better to express yourself with written words than to keep them locked, like lonesome puppies, so deep in your soul that you can’t even hear them whimpering.

Eric’s Website

I had a dream last night – a vivid dream.  I was in a group of people, but I was alone.  At least I did not have the feeling that I knew any of the minions around me.  I was standing against a wall, observing the passing people, when someone approached me.

At first, I thought it was three females but soon it was only one.

“Hi, Eric.  Long time no see,” she said.

She was a gorgeous young woman with frizzy black hair; she was wearing a very short dress that emphasized her curvy figure.  I did not recognize her nor have a clue of her identity and began searching my mind for a glimmer of recognition.  I could not find one.

“Have we met?” I finally asked.

She was still smiling when she answered, “You said you would never forget me.”

Her flashing eyes, dark as night, gazed directly into my brain.  She was standing very close to me, invading my private space but I did not recoil.  Her body was so warm that she lit a fire in my soul, heating my psyche almost to the point of boiling.  I did not know her name but somehow felt as though I had known her forever.

“I’ve had a sudden attack of Alzheimer’s,” I said.

She moved closer to me, static electricity raising the hairs on my chest.  I had raised my palm to halt her advance.  Instead, I took her hand in mine and pulled her toward me until her body’s warmth began overloading my senses.

“I’m Esme,” she said.

Esme grasped my face and kissed me.  Our embrace was slow, soft and sensual.  I did not know this woman, but it did not matter.  We were, at that moment, as close as any two individuals could ever be.  She pulled away, but only to turn her back to me so that I could stroke her neck and let my hands trace a downward path.

I lifted the edge of her short dress stroking her legs and rear with my fingers.  She turned her head toward me, reveling in my touch and then kissed me one last time before dissolving away like a smoldering flame.

I was still hot when I awoke, Esme’s beautiful eyes, and her cat-like smile imprinted on my brain.  Even though I did not recognize her, I somehow felt that I had known her all my life.  Maybe it was in another life or perhaps she is someone that lives in that dark and mysterious realm that is our dream world.

Eric’s Website

Rice wasn’t introduced as a Louisiana staple until after the Civil War. Today it is an integral part of New Orleans cuisine. My Mother tells a story of a distant cousin that married a man from south Louisiana and was soon divorced because she couldn’t properly prepare a pan of rice. While I don’t know if the story is true, I do know that rice is an important addition to almost every south Louisiana dish.

Most rice grown in the United States is the long grain white variety. The kind used by many New Orleans cooks is long grain white rice that is regular milled. This means the milling process has removed hulls, germ and outer bran layer producing distinct and fluffy grains when properly cooked. For those of you contemplating marriage to someone from New Orleans, here are simple instructions for preparing perfect rice every time.

Do not wash the rice before cooking or rinse it after cooking. Doing so will only wash away nutrients on the grains. Many cooks in New Orleans always use the same brand of rice. This is because the most important step in cooking perfect rice is using the correct amount of water and this may vary slightly from miller to miller. Too much water makes the cooked rice soggy and too little water leaves it dry. As a rule of thumb, use 2 1/4 cups of water for every cup of long grain rice. One cup of rice serves about four people.

The volume of rice triples in size so it is important to use a pan that is large enough to accommodate the desired final amount. Bring water to a boil on the stove top then stir in the rice, salt (about ½ teaspoon per cup of rice) and butter (about 2 teaspoons per cup of rice). Cover tightly and simmer for twenty minutes. Finally, remove the pan from the heat and uncover until the rice soaks up the remaining water. This usually takes about five minutes.

Once you cover the rice, don’t open the lid until you are ready to take it off the heat. Peeking is a definite no no. Doing so lets the steam escape and lowers the temperature. Don’t stir the rice after it comes to a boil. If you stir it, you are going to have gummy rice - also a no no. Finally, don’t let the rice stay in the pan that you cooked it in for more than five to ten minutes. Doing so will cause the grains to pack. Got all that? If you do, your marriage is safe. Well, at least from the rice cooking aspect.

Eric’s Website

An engineer friend of mine had an open house to introduce his many clients and friends to his new office.  The place was crowded with fifty people, or so and I soon began recognizing people I had not see in years.  They were all older but they all looked good.  Seeing them again, I realized I was not the only survivor of the eighties oil bust.

Many years ago, my then partner John and I had sold our first deal as independent geologists.  It was to an oil company in Fort Worth owned by a local tycoon.  He paid John and me five thousand dollars for the deal and we thought, at the time, that we were the two richest men in the world.

We drove all the way home from Fort Worth that night.  The Christmas season was in full swing and we stopped in downtown Oklahoma City to attend a party held in the Skirvin (think Perle Mesta) Hotel ballroom and hosted by Dresser Industries.

Dresser always had a Christmas party that was without parallel.  The buffet had endless acres of food, along with enough whiskey and other assorted alcohol to float a battleship.  Thousands of oilies attended every year.  John and I had both attended in previous years, but this was our first year as independents, and we had just sold our first deal.

The Dresser Christmas party was just one of many, but it was one of the best.  Everyone had a Christmas party and they all spent thousands of dollars providing food, drink and entertainment.

My friend’s open house reminded me of the lavish parties of the past.  Tonight’s party was great but nothing as lavish as those days in the late seventies and eighties.  Still, seeing many old friends tonight, I am glad that I’m not the only dinosaur left in the world.

Eric’s Website

Recession pinches NASCAR.

France has concerns if Big 3 can continue in NASCAR - Sprint Cup, NASCAR, Sprint Cup, NASCAR - CBSSports.com NASCAR, IRL, F1.

Eric’s Website

My Mom lost her battle with cancer a couple years ago.  I found this little story I had written while she was undergoing treatment.  Some of you have probably battled cancer - or at least know someone that has.  Some either are, or were, caregivers and you have already experienced this story.  This is for everyone else.

*     *     *

Today I sat with my mother while she received three hours of chemotherapy for her newly diagnosed lymphoma.  It was not my first trip to such a room, or even this very room.  My wife died of lung cancer almost eight years ago and today’s experience brought back many memories, most not very pleasant.

My wife fought her disease for fourteen months before finally succumbing.  I say her disease because there are many types of cancer, some more fatal than others but all horrible to comprehend.  The chemo room where my mother received treatment has about twenty black recliners.  They were pink where Anne received her treatment (as I mentioned, she had had a single treatment in the same facility as my mother’s).

The woman sitting next to my mother had breast cancer, the man beside her colon cancer.  There were also patients with prostate, lung, and other types of cancer.  Well, you get the picture.  They all had something in common: each had received at least a brief kiss from death itself and they all knew that the Grim Reaper was not interested in mere flirtation, but in going all the way.

The people in the recliners sat like battle-weary troops and they all exhibited camaraderie between each other and their caregivers.  Like Anne, they all seemed overly thankful for every tiny show of compassion.  These people are needy, weak and sometimes helpless, but most are fighters and possess the strong desire to survive.  Many will.

Cancer, like any deadly disease, brings its victims face-to-face with their own mortality.  As soldiers after a battle, people with cancer and other deadly diseases, gain something most individuals will never acquire - a power and an inner strength that they will never lose, no matter how long they live.

Yes, today brought back many memories, some not very pleasant.  It also reminded me of the dignity of fellow humans and the indomitable spirit we all - each one of us - possess.

Eric’s Website

The lives of people often entwine inextricably.  Take my family, for instance.  In 1969, during the first Vietnam-era draft, my lottery number was thirty-eight.  My father’s lottery number during the first draft of the World War II era was the same number.  Coincidence?  Maybe.

My brother, father and myself were all born in Louisiana, my mother in Mississippi.  I was twenty-six when I first visited Oklahoma, my brother the same age although he is two years older than I am.  My mother was eighty-four before she ever set foot into Oklahoma, my father eighty-six.

My mother died here, two years ago.  My father has Alzheimer’s disease, in assisted-living care, and I am almost certain that he will die here.  Both my brother’s family and my family now live in Oklahoma and both of us will likely breathe our last breaths in this state.

You are all in the same family, you say.  It is logical that you will all die in the same place.

I am not so sure.  Life’s mysteries may be no more than coincidence.  What statistical analysis do scientists have to prove this?  Perhaps we are all actors destined to play many parts opposite the same members of a large cast.  Clad in ever-changing costumes, cultural backdrops, different eras and mores, we act out a play cast and directed by some nebulous being.

Reality is only what we perceive, or think we perceive.  My father with Alzheimer’s is but a semblance of his former self, but he still functions, eats, sleeps -  He still knows my brother and me.  His recent memories are gone, but he can remember his childhood and his experiences in the war.  Still, what is reality when perception has vanished?

My father is now more like my child.  Maybe, once, he was my child.  Who really knows?  Yes, he is still my father but like so many sons before me, he remains almost a complete mystery.  There are many questions I have for him.  Now that I am brave enough to ask, all that I get in return is a blank stare.

Yes, some lives entwine inextricably.  Of this, I am quite certain.  Well, maybe not.  In the words of Bob Dylan, “the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know anything for sure.”

Eric’s Website

I am a great fan of NASCAR and enjoyed seeing Carl Edwards win the last race at the Texas Motor Speedway.  Edward’s was going so slow at the end that almost every car in the field passed him.  Fortunately, he had at least a lap advantage, and an eleven-second lead on the second place finisher, Jeff Gordon.

Carl Edwards won the race on fuel mileage, even though he led more laps than did anyone in the race.  Jeff Gordon, driving a Chevrolet, finished second, also by conserving fuel.  In the winner’s circle, among others, Edwards thanked the awesome fuel mileage of his Ford Fusion.  His unexpected pronouncement was music to my ears.

Recently, here in Oklahoma, gas has fallen below two dollars a gallon.  Some might think this occurrence signals an end to high energy prices forever, and a return to an earlier time when you did not have to think about conserving fuel; you had only to get into your car, put the pedal to the metal and drive.

Truth is, we have not increased our daily production of oil by even a single barrel; we only reduced our consumption, and thus our demand.  What this means is that our present lower fuel price is only a short-term anomaly.

Carl Edwards won the Texas race on a strategy of conserving fuel.  Ford and Chevrolet - two of the greatest automakers ever, and arguably the backbone of America’s economy - finished first and second by following the strategy.

Life is longer than 500 miles and we need a long-term, comprehensive plan to compete, and even survive.  My vote is to elect Carl Edwards and Jeff Gordon as President and Vice President, and have them ride to their inaugurations in a Ford and Chevy.

Eric’s Website

It’s early November, but it feels like spring.  Temperatures reached the mid-seventies today, following a week where leaf colors changed overnight.  After Marilyn and I took my Dad to brunch at the Lakefront on Lake Hefner, I intended to return home and work on the Great American Tome.  Instead, football got in the way.

When it comes to football, I am not much of a Texas fan but when the Saturday night game is between two eight and zero teams, how could I not watch.  What I witnessed was a football classic between the University of Texas and Texas Tech.

Texas looked flat after successive weeks against Oklahoma, Oklahoma State and Missouri, and was trailing twenty-two to three at the half.  They came back in the second half with a vengeance, almost producing an awesome, come-from-behind win.  It did not happen.

With only a few seconds remaining in the game, the Texas Tech quarterback threw a long strike to a receiver that somehow managed to stay in bounds, and then powered into the end zone to take a lead.  At that point, Texas Tech fans began pouring onto the field.  Referees cleared the fans from the field but it happened once again before Tech was able to kick the extra point.

The game was not over with one second remaining on the clock and Tech backed up to the seven and a half yard line because of penalties.  A Texas receiver caught the shanked kick and lateraled it immediately, but a Texas miracle did not happen this time.

The game is an instant classic and has to go down as one of the most exciting games that I have ever seen.  When it comes to football, I do not like Texas very much, but tonight, the whole state should be proud because when it comes to college football, in Bubba’s own words, “It don’t get no better than this!”

Eric’s Website

I attended a prospect fair in Oklahoma City and visited with many friends that I have not seen in quite some time.  David, one of the many old friends I visited with, reminded me of a story that neither of us are very proud of, but in hindsight very funny.

My good friend David is also in the oil business and had invested in a portion of a well I had re-entered.  Cecil was my wellhead man, the person that supplied and installed the “Christmas tree” that directs the flow of gas and oil from the well to the heater treater, separator and oil and water tanks.

It was a Friday, toward quitting time and David and Cecil were both at my office.  I was bragging about the well and we decided to take an impromptu trip to see it in person.  Along the way, we stopped for a few six-packs of beer.

The well was in Garfield County, Oklahoma, about two hours from Oklahoma City.  It was dark by the time we reached it, David, Cecil and I deep in our cups.  We had all consumed a goodly amount of beer as we each, in turn, tried to tell the tallest tale.  There are no overhead lights on a remote, rural pumping oil well facility.

We had not even thought to bring a flashlight.  Cecil was a wellhead expert, a person that knew quite a lot about high pressure and how to deal with it.  Still, it was dark and we were all inebriated.  I asked Cecil to check something on the head (what, I can’t remember) and when he did, he caused the pop-off valve on the heater treater to explode and blow gas, oil and water high into the air, along with a loud explosion.

Like good former soldiers, David and I both hit the dirt face first.  Cecil was struggling to control the flow, mostly water, blowing on the ground.  None of us had the sobriety to correct the situation.  There were no cell phones at the time so we drove to a pay phone in the little town of Hunter and called Tony, Cecil’s son-in-law.

Like the Lone Ranger to the rescue, Tony hurried north and fixed the problem that, it turned out, was more frightening than it was dire.  When he finished repairing the well, Tony, completely sober and not very happy about being called out on a Friday night, drove us back to the City, rolling his eyes and shaking his head the entire way at our stupidity.

The cold light of morning revealed no contamination; the water blown out of the well had mostly dried up over night.  Yes, I know it was stupid and my only excuse is that I was quite young at the time.  While frightening, David and I could only laugh about the incident during our visit at the prospect fair.

Looking back, I realize the incident was one of many dumb mistakes made during my life.  I also realize that I am not the only person that has made dumb, youthful mistakes and I am in awe that anyone manages to survive much beyond the age of thirty.

Eric’s Website

I have a small office I share with Ed, another geologist, and Shu Chen, my accountant.  We are a very eclectic trio.  Ed went to Ohio State and he is a very smart man.  Shu Chen is also very smart but she got a lesson in the stock market this week.  She started an account with E-Trade and she bought in at what she thought was the bottom.  A thousand dollars down already, she has had a quick lesson in the true meaning of gambling.

Ed and I agree on many things, except politics.  Politically, he is slightly left of Attila the Hun while my politics tend to be middle of the road.  Shu Chen is originally from Taiwan but knows more about this country than Ed and I.  As of last week, we have a new resident in the office.

Ed was the first to notice.  “I just saw a lizard,” he said.

The past week here in central Oklahoma has grown cold.  Our storm door is broken and always remains slightly ajar.  I conceded that it was possible that a lizard had come in from the cold.

Shu Chen saw the lizard yesterday and mistook it for a gecko.

“Nah,” I said, “There aren’t any geckos in Oklahoma, at least any that I’ve ever seen.”

“It looks just like the lizard in the Geico commercial.”

Ed’s wife Susan visited the office today and said, “It’s the lizard from the commercial.”

Today, I saw the lizard myself.  It was at my feet, beneath my computer, and I got a good look at it.  Yes, I believe it is a gecko, although I have no clue what it is doing in Oklahoma, but hey, for all I know they are native to this state.

“What will we do with it?” Shu Chen asked.  “Ed says that it eats worms.”

“There aren’t any worms in the office.  We’ll have to get it something or it will starve.’

“I’ll stop by PetSmart,” Shu Chen said.  “That’s where I got food for my two salamanders.”

“You have salamanders?” Ed asked.

“I did but my boy friend took them when we broke up.”

“Divorce is hell,” I said.  “You never know who is going to wind up with the kids.”

Ed and Shu Chen both groaned and shook their heads.

Tomorrow we are putting a new sign outside our office that says LIZARDS ARE US.

Eric’s Website

One of my grandmothers lived in a small house on forty acres in the piney woods of east Texas.  A large ginkgo tree grew just beyond the front porch.  My grandma used to say that it was a lucky tree.  I suppose it was, so far from its native home in China as it abounded in rich east Texas soil beside towering pines.

The old house had a wooden porch, a water barrel on one end and a creaky swing on the other.  I spent many hours staring at the ginkgo tree and wondering what it would be like to trek to China, or Brazil, or many other wonderful, exotic places.  My great-grandfather homesteaded that tract of land.

When the Civil War broke out, he joined the Confederacy, losing a leg in some unknown battle before the Yankees captured.  He walked home after the war with a crutch, and on the wooden leg that the Union Army gave him.

"The Yankees treated me right well," he told everyone.  "Guess they aren't bad as everyone said."

I never knew my great-grandfather, and know little more of his life then I just explained.  That pains me because he obviously had a story to tell, and remarkable memories to convey.  His stories, like the breeze through the branches of that wise old ginkgo tree are destined to remain unheard.  I realize this now as I keyboard these last letters.

China and the jungles of Brazil are exotic destinations, but for me no destination will ever be as poignant as the visions that float like nameless ghosts through your mind.

Eric’s Website

Marilyn and I both love light, flaky biscuits served with butter and jelly - my favorite is red plum.  Marilyn’s mother Joy cooked the best biscuits in the world.  There are few differences in most biscuit recipes but the best cooks obviously have a secret.  Perhaps it is the brand, or type of flour they use, or the deftness they employ when mixing the ingredients.

Whatever her “secret,” Joy’s biscuits were always the best you ever ate.  Here is a list of the ingredients and the directions for combining and cooking them but to end up with biscuits as good as those Joy made you may have to close your eyes, wish on a star and hope she hears you.

Joy’s Southern Buttermilk Biscuits

2 cups flour                                          2 ½ tsps baking powder

¼ tsp baking soda                                1 tsp salt

¼ cup shortening, chilled                       2 tbsp butter, chilled

¾ cup buttermilk

In a large bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut in chilled shortening and butter. Make a hole in center and pour in buttermilk. Gently blend dry ingredients into the buttermilk until mixture begins to clump, adding a few more teaspoons of buttermilk if needed.

Pour dough on lightly floured board and then shape it into a pie about ½ inch thick.

Use a 3 inch biscuit cutter and place shaped dough on an ungreased baking sheet. Bake on center oven pre-heated to 450 degrees for 10 to 12 minutes, or until tops are browned.

Makes about 10 biscuits

Eric’s Website

Marilyn and I like to collect old cookbooks and she recently purchased a batch of three from eBay.  When the books arrived, they included an unexpected gift – some person’s lifelong collection of personal recipes.

All the recipes were loose leaf and bundled together in a badly worn, cardboard, MASH 4077 presentation folder.  Many of the recipes were clipped from the pages of the New Orleans Time Picayune, and others entire pages from the Public Service Company of New Orleans apparently included with the monthly utility bill.

From the dates I found on the newspaper recipes I could see most were collected between the late seventies and early nineties.  I was soon mesmerized as I glanced through the thick stack of neatly clipped recipes.  This woman’s life - I presume the collection belonged to a woman although I have no way of knowing - was revealed to me as I read through her recipes.

She liked desserts, especially chocolate desserts.  Shrimp was her favorite seafood as she had more shrimp recipes than any human could ever prepare in a lifetime.  She also had several recipes for elderberry wine and ginger beer, and many desserts containing rum or whiskey.  In my fiction-writer’s mind, I imagine she and her deceased husband were both teetotalers and that they had never graced the inside of a liquor store.  Still, I feel strongly that she brewed and tried the elderberry wine, drinking every drop of the alcoholic concoction herself.

I had mixed emotions as I flipped through the recipes.  I was happy because I could feel the pleasure that collecting and preparing the recipes the faceless woman must have felt.  It also made me sad that no one in her family (if she had a family) realized that their mother, or grandmother, or aunt’s old recipe collection was quite possibly the most precious thing she owned.

I only have a few of my Mom’s recipes and I would never throw them away.  Perhaps the person that sent us the books discovered the tattered recipe collection at a garage sale.  They must have realized their intrinsic value because they bundled and sent them to a complete stranger, hoping that a person that liked old cookbooks might also value the combined memories of someone’s culinary life history.

Eric’s Web

My grandparents had a giant pecan tree in their back yard and every year they would share its bounty with anyone that asked.  My mother always got a few bags of pecans and would use them to make her famous pecan pie on special occasions.  Her recipe is simple, its preparation easy but take my word there is nothing much better tasting in the world!

Mama’s Pecan Pie

1 cup brown sugar                    1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup dark corn syrup               ½ teaspoon salt

3 eggs, whole                           pastry for one pie

1 cup pecans, broken

Beat sugar and eggs until thick.  Add corn syrup, pecans, vanilla and salt.  Mix well and then pour into a pastry-lined pie pan.  Bake at 300 degrees for about an hour or until filling is firm.  Wonderful when served hot with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

Eric’s Website

I met fellow geologist Dave Beatty in 1976 and I’m proud to say that he is still my good friend.  Dave and I both worked at Texas Oil & Gas in Oklahoma City and I have written about our adventures (and misadventures) more than once.  What I didn’t know about Dave is his extraordinary ability as story teller and photographer.

Living now in Livingston, Louisiana, Dave sees (and documents) more of life’s truths - many occurring right under our noses - than anyone I know.  Here is his latest observation:

This picture is of (hard to tell which is which) a mother turkey and her two babies that have survived a summer of roving dogs, two hurricanes and whatever nature brings.  I do put out feed corn and bird feed for her, her babies and all the birds in the area.

The babies were hatched in the woods just behind my house and I have watched them grow all summer.  They were several more babies to start with, but nature can be a cruel mistress.

Eric’s Website

I remember spending the night at my grandmother’s house in east Texas.  Nights were always dark because her house had no electricity until I was almost a teenager.  After dark, she burned coal oil lamps until we could no longer tolerate the reek of soot and fumes.

That was a long time ago, in the fifties, when wolves still roamed the piney woods and howled at the moon all night.  The wonderful aroma of grandma’s biscuits in the morning made it all worthwhile.

Grandma Dale was a good cook but there was one dish she made better than anyone else in the world – chicken and dumplings.  I don’t know her exact recipe, but she would start by kneading dough she made from flour, shortening, baking powder and salt.  She would roll the dough out with an old rolling pin on a wooden cutting block and slice it into the desired size with her butcher knife.

She would boil a chicken, one she had raised, wrung its neck, and then plucked herself.  I remember she used a pressure cooker.  When the meat was falling off the bone, she would put it in a boiling pot of chicken broth, and drop in the dumplings.

The chicken was tender, as were the dumplings, and both seasoned to perfection using only two ingredients – salt and pepper.  Don’t ask me how, but the subtle seasoning combined with tender chicken and succulent dumplings to provide a concoction to die for.  Chicken and dumplings is a universal dish, at least in the south, but I have never had it before or since as tasty as Grandma Dale used to make. 

Many moons have passed since I slept in the piney woods of east Texas.  I barely remember the coal oil lamps or the howling of wolves at night.  Still, I will never forget the sublime flavor of my ol’ east Texas Grandma’s chicken and dumplings and I know in my heart I will never taste it again.

Eric’s Website