Dirty rice is a Cajun specialty.  Here is an authentic recipe for Dirty Rice Dressing from the French Acadian Cookbook published by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc. in 1955.  The recipe was contributed by Dr. W.E. Hunt of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

1 cup rice                                             1 clove chopped garlic

1 pound ground meat                            Salt, pepper and hot sauce to taste

1 pound ground giblets                          Pinch of thyme and sweet basil

   (from fowl or separate giblets)

1 cup chopped onion                            1 bunch green onions and tops chopped

½ cup chopped bell pepper                  1 tablespoon minced parsley

½ cup chopped celery

Cook rice in double boiler until fluffy, using enough salted water to 1 inch above rice.  Allow to cook unstirred until all water is gone.  In one skillet sauté ground meat and giblets in ¼ pound butter until brown; in another skillet sauté onions, pepper, celery and seasoning in ¼ pound butter.  Add other ingredients.  In large pan mix all above ingredients well, using natural gravy from fowl to moisten.

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 Do you like ghost stories?  Two young enlisted men home from Afghanistan encounter a place hotter than the Middle East.

SOLDIERS

By Eric Wilder

Jim and I crossed the state line at noon, black Kansas thunder clouds chasing up behind and miles of highway still ahead.  Swirls of ocher powder daubed the once pale sky and tumbleweeds rolled along the highway like steel balls in a giant pinball machine.  And there was heavy wind, whipping the car and scaring up pheasant and jackrabbits lolling in the ditch.

            Awakening from a fitful dream, I rolled up the windows of Jim’s old beater and pulled a bandanna over my face.  Earlier that morning we’d left Omaha, stopping only once to relieve ourselves by the side of the road.  Jim’s mood, like the weather, was foul and he hadn’t spoken in two hours.  Refraining from disturbing his trance, I folded my arms, braced myself against the seat and closed my eyes, trying to lock out the storm.  Jim’s mood and the piston drone knocking beneath the hood.

            Three miles across the border the storm caught us, turning dust into rivulets of mud on the car’s hood.  Rain blistered the windshield leaving only flashes of visibility between labored swaths of slow moving wiper blades.  Then a billboard, barely visible through the downpour, alerted us to a truck stop up ahead.  When we reached it, we found a weather-beaten filling station beside a roadside juke joint.

            Jim said, “I’m tired of fighting this storm,” and eased into the gravel parking lot, but the storm hadn’t tired of jousting us.  As we ran for the front door, it bombarded us with falling missiles, thunder shuddering the walls as we entered.  We removed our wet ponchos and shook ourselves like two retrievers coming out of a pond, then gazed around the room until our eyes adjusted.

            Five dismal patrons gazed back at us.  Strobe shadows, cast by neon beer signs, cloaked four dingy walls.  Through the pallor a middle-aged bartender behind the counter, mindlessly polishing a glass with a white rag.

            In back, a beefy man played pool alone.  The faded rose tattoo on his hairy arm matched the exact hue of his sleeveless T-shirt.  Before turning away to continue his lonely game, he gave us a a quick once-over.  A man and woman, immersed in their own whispered conversation, glanced up when we arrived.  An old man in a wheel chair watched us approach the bar, his rheumy eyes never blinking.

            Jim slapped his palm against the counter, stared at the bartenden and said, “Two draws, and a tequila shooter.”

            “You boys old enough to drink?” the bartender asked.

            Jim glared without answering but I said, “We’re both twenty-one.”

            Red hair and ruddy Irish complexion melded with Jim’s high Indian cheekbones, and even when he smiled he seemed angry.  He wasn’t smiling.  With a frown on his own craggy face, the bartender glared back at him until he finally noticed our short hair and clean shaves.

            “Soldiers?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            “Artillery?”

            “Infantry,” Jim said.

            Muscles twitched in the bartender’s neck and he smoothed the greasy black hair of his head and then his mustache, with his fingers.

            “Guess if you’re old enough to fight, you’re old enough to drink.”

            He laughed and it quickly drew into a dry hacking cough.

            “Damn right,” I said.

            Watching us from the corner of his eye, the sullen bartender drew the beer.  As he did, Jim stared bullet holes in his back, even as I nudged him the ribs with my elbow.  The bartender returned with two beers and a tequila shooter and Jim immediately killed the shot/ When he slammed the glass against the bar, sharp sound echoed like the crack of a small caliber rifle through the room.

            After finishing his beer in one long pull, he nodded at the two empty glasses and said, “Again.”

            Again, errant muscles twitched in the bartender’s neck as he drew another beer from the tap and reached behind him for the tequila.  Jim finished his second shot and glanced around the room like a stray cat in a strange barn.

            “Easy,” I said, eyeing his empty glass.  “Got ourselves a long way to go yet, buddy.”

            With a smirk, he said, “In a hurry, sport?”

            Intent on the couple in the back of the room, he didn’t see me shake my head.  Looking like a middle-aged farmer, the man was dressed in overalls and baseball cap.  The woman’s sallow, weather-beaten face pegged her as his wife.  We watched the farmer slam his hand against the table, hard enough to rattle both of their beer mugs, and glare as if he were about to strike her.

            “If you had a lick of sense, woman, you’d know what a fool question that is.”

            Apparently she didn’t and her unspoken reply filled the room with silent reverberations.  As we watched the scene unfold, Jim’s shoulders tensed and he stepped away from the bar.  Grabbing his elbow, I held on.

            “Not this time.”

            Halting, Jim tried to stare me down, but I stood my ground, shaking my head.  Then, immersed in our trance, we both jumped when the bartender slapped his hand against the counter.  When we wheeled around we found him leaning over the bar with an amused look on his whiskered face.

            “Didn’t mean to scare you boys. ‘Nother beer?”

            “Sure,” I said.

            He asked our names when he returned .

            “I’m Paul and this is Jim.”

            “Proud to meet you.  Name’s Ezekiel, but people round here just call me Zeke.”

            I shook his hand; Jim didn’t bother.  Instead he asked, “What’s the story on the old man in the wheelchair?”

            “Rivers is his name.  We call him Old Man Rivers,” he said, chuckling at his little joke.

            With a lidless stare, the old man in the wheelchair glared at us through the crumpled mass of oblique wrinkles obliterating his withered face.  Large angry gaps pitted his features, weathered and spongy as fallen white cake, and a half-smoked cigarette rested between gray lips.  Like tangles of red snakes on cold stones, broken capillaries veined his nose and eyes.  With gnarled hands clawing the wheelchair and bony arms like the plastic limbs of a child’s discarded doll, he looked like warmed-over death.

            “I’m buying,” Jim said.  “Give him whatever he wants.”

            After pouring a shot of bourbon, Zeke tilted back the old man’s head and dribbled liquor into his mouth, causing his blotchy tongue to wriggle like an earthworm growing desperate on a sharp hook.

            Jim smiled and said, “Give him another.”

            As I was watching Zeke whiskey-nurse the old man, someone tapped my shoulder.  Six inches from my nose, a pool shooter blithely invaded my space, smiling insanely and blinking one discolored eye that looked to me like a spoiled eye yolk.  I backed against the bar.  When he spoke, his stale breath smelled like battery acid gone sour.  Stumbling slowly over his words, he said, “I’m Doyle.  Was a soldier once myself.  Ol’ Man River’s my Daddy.”

            I said, “That right?”

            Doyle grinned and pumped his head like a long-handled water pump.  “Nah, not really, but I like to call him that.”

            Noticing Jim’s amused smile, I backed even further away from the counter, but Doyle pivoted and followed me like a machine gun on a swivel turret.  Then lightning struck, shaking rafters and sucking air from the room like a giant accordion.  Doyle grimaced like a frightened child and drifted back to the red glow emanating from the swaying fixture above the pool table.  Raising an index finger, I signaled Zeke to bring more beer.

            When Zeke brought our drinks, he grinned and said, “Doyle’s a little nuts.  Myra takes care of him.

            “Myra?”

            “Lives with the Stewart’s,” he said, pointing at the couple in the back.  “Looks after Doyle and takes care of Old Man Rivers.  Brings them in every morning.  Comes and gets them every night.”

            Zeke’s mention of Myra prefaced her appearance through the back door - a pretty girl with pale skin and colorless blonde hair.  Thin and wispy fabric clung in blue waves to every subtle feature of her diminutive frame.  And, like a low cloud wafting slowly in a gentle breeze, she approached the counter and squeezed in between Jim and me.  Zeke placed a glass of white wine in front of her.

            “You must be Myra,” Jim said, suddenly becoming verbose.

            “Yes.”

            “Rain’s a little heavy outside.  We came in to drink beer and wait it out,” he said.

            In a lilting, whimsical voice she replied, “Come in and I will give you shelter from the storm.”

            As Jim listened to her recite the line from the old Dylan tune, his neck inexplicably flushed crimson.  As if reading my thoughts, Myra turned and studied me with pale, unnerving eyes.

            “The storm is dark and frightening.”

            “Yes,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words.

            “Have you met Zeke, Doyle and Old Man Rivers?”

            “Yes,” I said again.

            Dismissing me with a coy nod, she daintily picked up her glass of wine and went to the old man, stroking his neck with cashmere fingers.  As Jim’s had done, River’s ruddy skin flushed crimson.  Static electricity, brushed up by her fingers, raised thin hairs on his head as a booming clap of thunder rocked the roof and wind whistled through the loosely-fitted windows.  Again, rain blistered the outside walls and darkness began to drape the windows with muted gloom.

            “Myra,” the farmer called.  “Come answer Mary for me.  Tell her what a fool question she’s asking.”

            Moving fluidly away from the bar, Myra glided to their table and listened as the woman cupped her hands and whispered something into her ear.  After answering, Myra turned away, leaving the woman to rest her head on the table and weep.

            When Myra returned, Jim asked, “What’d she want?”

            “Her daughter Emily’s gone.  Car accident separated them.  Mary asked if I knew when Emily would join them again.

            “Did they take her to a hospital out of town or something?”

            “She’s where she has always been,” Myra answered.

            “Then -“

            Before I could finish the question lingering in my brain, Myra placed a finger on my lips and shook her head.  “You don’t need to understand,” she said.  “The storm’s not over yet.”

            Excited by Myra’s perfume, Jim gently touched her cheek.  She didn’t move away.

            “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better,” he said.

            “Forever?” she asked.

            Letting his hand drop, he caressed the length of her willowy arm and said, “For as long as you want.”

            “Don’t talk to her like that!” an angry voice said.

            Behind Jim was Doyle, his teeth clenched in an irritated scowl.  He quickly wrapped a hairy arm around Jim’s neck and yanked it forcibly back, Jim slammed an angry fist at Doyle’s jaw, then tossed the surprised attacker over the counter and dived over after him.

            A weighted club appeared in Zeke’s hand.  With a practiced swing he tapped Jim lightly on the neck, just below the base of his skull.  Jim sank, unconscious, to the floor.

            “Ain’t hurt too bad,” Zeke said, glancing up at me.  “Be just fine when he wakes up.”

            After helping drag Jim’s inert body to a chair, I rejoined Myra at the bar.  She was staring at the ceiling as she sipped her wine.  She seemed disinterested in the whole affair.

            Glancing at my empty beer, I said, “Better have another.”

            “Sure you can handle your liquor?”

            “Jim didn’t start it,” I said, frowning at Doyle.

            Doyle was still on the floor, grinning like an idiot as he rotated his swollen jaw with his hand.

            “Maybe not,” Zeke said as he drew another beer.

            Myra said, “Where have you been, Paul?”

            “Afghanistan.  We just got back and finished our leave.”

            “Saw lots of action, didn’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Kill many of the enemy?”

            Her question, asked with a curious smile, took me by surprise.  “Maybe a few,” I answered.

            “And Jim?”

            “I’m sure he killed his share,” I said.  “What’s the name of this town, anyway?”

            “Don’t you know?”

            “Seems a bit familiar, but no I don’t.”

            Zeke chuckled and said, “You’re in Inferno.  Inferno, Oklahoma.  Hotter’n hell in summer.”

            “Could you love a girl like me?” asked Myra, interrupting Zeke’s vivid description.

            “Guess maybe I could,” I said.

            “You love someone else?”

            “Life,” I said.  “With the war and all it’s about the only thing I’ve really though about along those lines.”

            “Life is a fickle virgin,” she said, her pale blue eyes suddenly glowing like cold pearls.

            “And you?” I asked.  “What do you love?”

            Myra licked her lips and looked at Jim.  He was conscious, but still moaning as he massaged his neck.  Without answering my question, she turned to leave, but stopped and turned as if having a second thought.  After she touched my hand, I rubbed the icy remnant her touch imparted as I watched her walk through the door, held it open and as she gazed at me.

            “Wait, I called.  “Where are you going?”

            “Come with me and I will show you.”

            “Can’t,” I said.  “Have to get back to the post.”

            “Please,” she said, extending her willowy arm.  “I promise, you won’t be sorry.”

            I started to follow but remembered Jim, still lying on the floor.  Another clap of thunder struck, closer this time, shattering the trance and causing me to blink.  When I opened my eyes Myra was gone.  Quickly, I downed my beer and tossed some money on the bar.

            “Still mighty nasty out there,” Zeke said.  “Better have another drink.”

            “Another time.  Not today.”

            Bracing Jim beneath my shoulder, I started for the front door.  Curiosity stopped me beside the couple’s table.  I stared at the weather-beaten woman until she glance up at me.

            “Sorry about your daughter.  How old was she when she died?”

            A single tear trickled down the woman’s face, and she said, “Emily’s not dead.”

            “But what about the car accident?”

            The woman’s lingering eyes held me locked in place.  “Emily wasn’t in the accident.  Just Ralph and me.”

            Breaking her cold stare, I pulled Jim out the front door.  From there, he staggered alone to the car, revived somewhat by the rain.  He took the keys from his shirt pocket, tossed them to me and slumped into the seat.  I gunned the engine and hurried away before the wipers could clear away the ruthless onslaught of the rain.

            A mile down the deserted highway, I glanced into the rear view mirror and searched in vain for the squall.  No use.  It was gone, along with the two buildings, replaced only by silence that seemed to cloak damp earth around us like a shroud.

            Far away, behind reality and disappearing foothills, lightning and thunder flared and crashed like distant fire fights.  Further still, filtered light mingled with road dust blown up by our racing tires, streaking the waning horizon.  As it did swirling ocher powder obliterated the dying sky, reflecting pale allusions of ancient storms.

END

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Here’s a slightly modified pic of a spider web at night.

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Chicory is as old as history itself, being a primary ingredient in many Roman dishes.  The plant’s green leafs (radicchio) are often eaten as a salad in Europe and the root is used as a coffee substitute.  It is largely unknown in the United States except for in the south, mostly around New Orleans.

Here is a Cajun recipe you probably have never heard of but try it anyway.  I found it in the French Acadian Cook Book published in 1955 by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc.  The recipe was contributed by Mrs. F.A. McKague of Jennings, Louisiana.  Even if you aren’t familiar with the culinary qualities of chicory give this simple recipe a try it and I’ll bet that you’ll become a certified aficionado.

1 lb of onions                            3 lbs Irish potatoes

1 head of chicory                      1 lb of bacon

Hard cooked eggs

Boil and dice potatoes and eggs in separate dish.  Fry diced bacon and onions until brown.  Mix potatoes, eggs and chopped chicory in frying pan and cook for five minutes.  Serve hot.  Serves six.

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Much like kissing the Blarney Stone, marking the grave of famous voodoo practitioner Marie Laveau with an X and leaving an offering of flowers or fruit is said to bring good luck.

Laveau, likely a composite of a mother and one of her fifteen daughters, practiced Voodoo, casting and removing spells, in New Orleans until her (their) death(s) around 1881.  Voodoo, or the homegrown version hoodoo, is a composite of many religions, including African Vodoun, Catholicism and Protestant.

Laveau had a large following when she was alive and led frenzied revels on the banks of St. John’s Bayou on the night of St. John’s Eve.  St. John’s Eve coincides loosely with the first day of summer and Marie’s voodoo practice derived from ancient pagan rituals held on the same night.  St. John the Baptist is revered by practitioners of Vodoun as well as Catholics.

During her lifetime Laveau was well known in New Orleans, around the world and was both revered and feared.  No one is positive where Laveau is buried, but many believe it is somewhere in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, perhaps at the tomb most often credited as hers.  Tourists and followers continue to visit the grave, leaving offerings and X marks, even in the face of stiff fines if caught.

Some say Marie's supposed tomb is the second-most visited gravesite in the country, behind only Elvis Presley's.  From the red exes marked all over the grave, this is likely a true statement.

I had my own voodoo priestess in novel Big Easy.  Mama Mulate practices voodoo, has a doctorate in English Literature and teaches at Tulane.  Marie Laveau was thought to be able to transform herself into a crow and the front cover of Big Easy shows a crow flying away from Laveau’s grave as a young woman watches.

Whatever Marie Laveau’s powers while alive, her legend continues and thrives today.  If you’re still interested in voodoo and the French Quarter, read Big Easy for a double dose of both.

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In the 1400's a law was set forth in England that a man was allowed to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb. Hence we have 'the rule of thumb'

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Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled 'Gentlemen Only...Ladies Forbidden'...and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language.

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The first couple shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.

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Every day more money is printed for Monopoly than for the U.S . Treasury.

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Men can read smaller print than women can; women can hear better.

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Coca-Cola was originally green.

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It is impossible to lick your elbow.

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The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work:

Alaska

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The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28% (now get this...)

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The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%

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The cost of raising a medium-size dog to the age of eleven: $ 16,400

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The average number of people airborne over the U.S. in any given hour:

61,000

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Intelligent people have more zinc & copper in their hair.

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The first novel ever written on a typewriter:

Tom Sawyer.

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The San Francisco Cable cars are the only mobile National Monuments

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Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history:

Spades - King David

Hearts - Charlemagne

Clubs -Alexander, the Great

Diamonds - Julius Caesar

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111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321

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If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes

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Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th, John Hancock and Charles Thomson. Most of the rest signed on August 2, but the last signature wasn't added until 5 years later.

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Q. Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of what?

A. Their birthplace

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Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?

A. Obsession

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Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter 'A'?

A. One thousand (GH - one hundred and one?)

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Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?

A. All were invented by women.

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Q. What is the only food that doesn't spoil?

A. Honey

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Q. Which day are there more collect calls than any other day of the year?

A. Father's Day

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In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes.

When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase.......... 'goodnight, sleep tight.'

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It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the honey month, which we know today as the honeymoon.

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In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts... So in old England , when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them 'Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.'

It's where we get the phrase 'mind your P's and Q's'

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Many years ago in England , pub frequenters had a whistle baked into the rim, or handle, of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. 'Wet your whistle' is the phrase inspired by this practice.

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At least 75% of people who read this will try to lick their elbow!

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-

Don't delete this just because it looks weird. Believe it or not, you can read it.

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?

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YOU KNOW YOU ARE LIVING IN 200 7 when...

1. You accidentally enter your PIN on the microwave.

2. You haven't played solitaire with real cards in years.

3. You have a list of 15 phone numbers to reach your family of three.

4. You e-mail the person who works at the desk next to you.

5. Your reason for not staying in touch with friends and family is that they don't have e-mail addresses.

6. You pull up in your own driveway and use your cell phone to see if anyone is home to help you carry in the groceries.

7. Every commercial on television has a web site at the bottom of the screen

8. Leaving the house without your cell phone, which you didn't even have the first 20 or 30 (or 60) years of your life, is now a cause for panic and you turn around to go and get it.

10. You get up in the morning and go on line before getting your coffee.

11. You start tilting your head sideways to smile. : )

12. You're reading this and nodding and laughing.

13. Even worse, you know exactly to whom you are going to forward this message.

14. You are too busy to notice there was no #9 on this list.

15. You actually scrolled back up to check that there wasn't a #9 on this list.

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As a geologist, I often visit drilling wells. When I do, more likely than not, the mineral owner will regale me with a familiar story that usually sounds something like this:

"An oil company drilled a well on the south forty back in ‘52," the farmer might say, pointing at the rolling hill near his fence line. "They struck oil and lots of gas but plugged the well anyway."

"Why did they do that?" I always ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Probably because the crooked operator oversold the well.  He didn’t have enough interest to go around so instead of going to jail he plugged it as a dry hole so no one would ever know."

I’ve heard the story many times, a rural legend told and retold by disappointed mineral owners dreaming of vast oil wealth but faced with the reality of only endless barrels of saltwater underlying their property. Years ago in a Kansas wheat field, I helped propagate the legend.

As a young exploration geologist with Cities Service Oil Company, I was sitting a well near Dighton in Lane County, Kansas. The wildcat well was running "low" with little hope of finding oil or gas. It was a gorgeous summer day, the clear Kansas sky robin egg blue. The old "double" rotary rig had just made a connection when I heard a horrible screech. A hundred feet from the rig, I turned to see what was happening.

As I watched, the pipe dropped thirty feet in less than thirty seconds. Knowing what had just occurred, I headed for the rig floor, yelling as I ran.

"Pull up! Pull up!" I screamed, out of breath after climbing the steep stairs to the doghouse. The driller had already anticipated my orders, pulling up on the drill bit and circulating the bit in the hole.

There are no caverns at 4000 feet but we had just drilled into a thick zone so porous that the bit had virtually dropped thirty feet in thirty seconds. There is no empty porosity at that depth and I knew we had encountered a previously unknown reservoir hopefully filled with oil. I drove to the nearest phone and called for a drillstem test to find out.

A drillstem test is an open hole test to determine what kind of fluid or gas is trapped within a particular zone. It measures quantities and pressures and is a good indication of a well’s potential productivity. It is simply a tool attached to the drill pipe. It has a packer at the top of the tool that isolates the zone of interest. When the tool is rotated, it releases the hydrostatic pressure and whatever fluid or gas is in the zone rushes into the drill pipe. I liken the procedure to putting your finger on the top hole of a straw and lowering it into a glass of water. When you remove your finger, water enters the straw.

It was a clear Sunday morning as the tester prepared to open the tool. Word had spread of the potential oil discovery and many cars filled with interested Kansans faced the drilling rig. When we opened the tool, they got what they came for.

The tester had rigged a pipe that pointed out to the mud pit. If anything came out of the zone, it would flow up the pipe for all to see. I was standing on the rig floor and could hear the rumble from below as the tool was opened. Within seconds I smelled the pungent odor of crude oil. Then I heard the scream of natural gas as it exited with great velocity from the pipe. The gas subsided, followed quickly by thick black fluid shooting from the pipe into the mud pit. Oil, I thought, my heart racing. The well was flowing at a rate of at least a thousand barrels a day. We had a major discovery on our hands, possibly the biggest in a decade. My elation lasted only a moment.

The tester caught some of the fluid in a bucket. He frowned after tasting the liquid from a sample on the tip of his finger. "Saltwater," he said. "Nothing but saltwater."

Not wanting to believe him, I plunged my hand into the bucket and licked the black fluid from my palm. He was correct. The contents of the bucket held nothing but black stagnate saltwater that reeked of oil. The mineral owner was on location and asked, "Am I rich?"

"No, it’s only saltwater," I said.

He didn’t believe me. Neither did the excited Kansans exiting the location in a trail of dust to tell their friends and family of the new oil discovery they had just witnessed. We plugged the well several days later and I’m sure the mineral owner and everyone else that saw the incident thought that Cities Service Oil Company had plugged a monster oil well on purpose for some nefarious reason.

Today when I see a mineral owner approach, I just listen to their story and nod my head. I’ve heard it all before and, yes, I guess I’m part of that rural legend that somehow never seems to go away.

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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’re 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.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Summer Solstice occurs on the year’s longest day.  It is the beginning of summer and has become an occasion for celebration since ancient times.  Long before the advent of organized religion, pagans gathered during Summer Solstice for feasting and the exchange of legend and lore.

Revels began on Solstice Eve with the lighting of a giant bonfire.  Remaining awake all night, revelers celebrated by chanting, dancing, and playing percussion instruments as they awaited first light of Summer Solstice’s dawn.

Ancient pagans believed in magic and felt the two yearly solstices provided portals to a magical realm.  Because of their beliefs in magic, Summer Solstice became a time for offering gifts to the spirits and exchanging presents with each other.  It was considered a highly mystical date when the prospect of physical and mental rebirth was high.

Voodoo is the New World result of the complex melding of African religion and European Catholicism.  Marie Laveau, the most famous voodoo priestesses in New Orleans, led frenzied revels on the banks of St. Johns Bayou on St. John’s Eve, a date that celebrates St. John the Baptist and loosely coincides with the Summer Solstice.

In Panther Stalking, my novel in progress, protagonist Buck McDivit investigates a pagan commune inhabited only by females.  Buck becomes enamored with Rima, the commune’s beautiful high priestess.  A pivotal moment in the plot occurs when he joins Rima and the inhabitants of the commune in a mystical and almost unbelievable Solstice’s Eve celebration.

http://www.EricWilder.com

I visited my Dad on Father’s Day.  He wasn’t aware that it is Father’s Day and I didn’t bother telling him.  I just enjoyed being with him for a while.

My Dad will turn eighty-nine next month.  He has Alzheimer’s and even his long-term memory is becoming dangerously thin.  I took him to Home Depot because he likes looking at flowers and plants.  He and I enjoyed our selves immensely and I smiled when he pointed to a bougainvillea covered with red blooms and said, “Can you believe that price?”

We live in Oklahoma City but Dad thinks it is Shreveport.  For the last few times I’ve visited him, he has told me about his life directly after coming home from World War II.

“I didn’t have a car and had to grab a ride wherever I had to go.  This fellow asked me to finish a job that another carpenter had walked away from.  It was in a horrible mess when I arrived and it took me two weeks to straighten everything out.  We didn’t have a penny when I started.  I ended up working on every house on the block, fixing the other carpenter’s messes, but I started making a little money.  Before long things for me, you kids and your mother got a lot better.”

Mom and Dad had lots of good moments in their lives but the time he remembers most clearly is when things weren’t going so well.  He always trusted people and he took a chance on someone that offered him a helping hand.  His trust and hard work turned out well, but it could have gone in the other direction.

As I drove away from Brighton Gardens tonight I thought about my Dad’s story.  His short term memory is non-existent and his long-term memory becoming dangerously thin.  Still, just like he had so many times when I was growing up he taught me a valuable lesson today.  It made me think, practically every human value that my Mother didn’t instill in me, I can attribute to my Dad.  On this my sixty-first Father’s Day I can only say, “Thanks, Dad.  I love you.”

http://www.EricWilder.com

http://www.EricWilder.com

One of the largest international seaports, New Orleans has always been a melting pot of many nationalities. The most recent groups to migrate to New Orleans are the Vietnamese. Like the Spanish, Germans and Irish immigrants before them, the Vietnamese have made New Orleans their own, adopting both its culture and cuisine.

 Johnny Do is a cop in the novel Big Easy. He loves Cajun and Creole cooking and has adapted many local recipes to reflect the style of his Asian homeland. Vietnamese Jambalaya is one of Johnny’s favorite dishes.

8 ounces Asian pork sausage
1 pound raw shrimp, peeled and de-veined
1 pound sea scallops
3 tablespoons dry sherry, divided
3 tablespoons soy sauce, divided
1 whole chicken breast, skinned, boned and cut into bit-size pieces

5 tablespoons peanut oil
1 onion, finely diced
2 garlic cloves, very finely chopped
2 teaspoons grated fresh ginger
2 pinches powdered saffron
2 cups basmati rice
½ bunch fresh Thai basil, finely chopped 3 stalks lemon grass, very finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, coarsely diced

5 small banana peppers with ends removed
2 dozen mussels, cleaned, beards removed
½ cup bean sprouts

5 cups seafood stock

Cut sausage into 1/4-inch slices. Saute over medium-high heat until lightly seared and fat has been rendered. Remove sausage and place it on a paper towel to drain.

In a small bowl, toss shrimp and scallops with 2 tablespoons of the soy sauce and 2 tablespoons of the sherry. In another small bowl, toss chicken with remaining 1 tablespoon each soy sauce and sherry.

In a large wok, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion; saute until just translucent.  Add garlic, ginger and saffron, then add rice and stir to coat well with onion mixture, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add lemon grass.

While stirring, gradually add stock. Turn heat to high; allow stock to come to a boil, then reduce to a medium simmer. Add basil. Cook for 5 minutes. Add sausage, chicken and peppers. Cover and simmer 15 minutes.

Add shrimp, scallops and mussels, arranging on top of rice mixture. Sprinkle bean sprouts on top of seafood. Cook 5 to 8 minutes until shrimp and scallops are done and mussels have opened.

Remove from heat and let stand for 5 minutes. Remove any unopened mussels. Gently toss seafood and sprouts with rice and serve.

http://www.EricWilder.com 

Here is a pic of a shallow well (>900’) flowing back its load after it was acidized.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Here’s another tale by my story-telling south Louisiana friend Dave Beatty.

Lake Pontchartrain, located between New Orleans and the North Shore, is a large natural lake (thirty-four by twenty-four miles) connected to the Gulf of Mexico.  Here is the rub; the only way to get out of Lake Pontchartrain by boat and into the gulf is through a narrow opening less than a half mile wide.

On a wonderful weekend sailing trip back in the 1980’s it happened.  We got lost on Lake Pontchartrain.  The forty-foot sailboat was large enough to accommodate all of us but small enough to make it easy to operate.  In the true tradition of sailing, one of the guys (call him Bud) had purchased a sexton, very proud of his new toy and anxious to use it.

I say toy because by the 1980’s, navigation using a device known as a Loran had become standard practice.  GPS, the truly great location finder was already in early use and soon to be the standard.  The sexton had been a proven location finder for hundreds of years and a proud sailor is one he who can establish a good location by using one. It does however take lots of math and steady hands to get an accurate reading. 

As the weekend and fun (spelled partying and lots of it) continued, Bud studied the instructions for his new toy and began taking sun readings.  He would go below, do lots of calculating and then come back on deck to take more readings.  This went on for some time as the rest of us partied.  Bud finally came on deck to give us our true location.

Appearing very solemn as we eagerly awaited his pronouncement, he said, “Bow your heads and show a little respect.  According to my calculations we are smack in the middle of St. Louis Cathedral.”

Well that put us over the top, we all started laughing so hard that several on board nearly fell over board and a couple of the women may have even wet themselves.  I think I did.

We kept laughing all weekend, especially when someone would quip something like, “Hey Bud, have we made it to Canal Street yet?”

So how do you get lost on Lake Pontchartrain?  Easy.  After studying the instructions above, simply apply alcohol to all on board and then have lots of fun as you wait for the inevitable results.    

David Beatty
david686@charter.net

http://www.EricWilder.com

http://www.EricWilder.com

The last time I was in northwest Louisiana, I visited Trees City.  The town was founded by the legendary oil finders Benedum and Trees.  These two wildcatters had moved to north Louisiana after finding large oil fields in Oklahoma.  They discovered the Trees City Field in far Northwest Louisiana.

Trees City quickly became a boomtown, complete with churches, honkytonks and a post office.  During the height of the oil boom, 25,000 people lived there.  Today, it is little more than a memory.

Thick trees, vines and creepers cover most of what was once a thriving city.  Permanent steel towers, constructed on site for the drilling of a single oil well, still peek up through the tall trees.  Even the post office is gone, located now at the Oil Museum in nearby Oil City, Louisiana.

Benedum and Trees sold their interest in the Field to Gulf Oil for a million dollars, an enormous sum of money at the time.  The amount pales compared with the vast riches recovered by Gulf Oil.  It doesn’t matter much now.  Where roughnecks once toiled to recover Mother Nature’s dark liquid bounty, only ghosts wisping silently over Jeems Bayou still remain.

http://www.EricWilder.com

http://www.EricWilder.com

I was on Amazon last night and decided to download the new Eagles’ album Long Road out of Eden.  It was late when I finished the download but I listened to a few of the tracks and remembered why I had always liked the group so much.  One of the songs reminded me of the 1975 song Lyin’ Eyes, and a time in my life when I felt a great empathy with the lyrics of that song.

I had sat a well just outside of Falls City, Nebraska during my last year at Cities Service Oil Company.  The little town is the place where the real events of the movie Boys Don’t Cry occurred.  It was, at first glance, a sleepy little village but after fourteen days I learned differently.

In1975 I was twenty-nine and still a year away from ending my waning marriage with first wife Gail.  Falls City is the county seat of Richardson County, the southeastern-most county in Nebraska.  The town is just across the border from Kansas.  I don’t know if Kansas is still a dry state, but it was then.  Because of this, Kansans young and old crossed the border to drink and raise the roof.

I was training a new geologist named Gary.  The engineer overseeing the well was a young man also named Gary.  The three of us soon learned the place was a little different, not quite a Sodom and Gomorrah but racier than anyplace I had ever lived.  Everyone seemed to have a boyfriend or girlfriend that wasn’t their husband or wife, and everyone in town soon knew who we were.

The two Garys and I drove over to the nearby town of Rulo one night to have dinner at a highly recommended catfish restaurant on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River.  When we finished eating, we stopped into the local bar for a couple of beers.  A very loud band was playing in the bar housed in the lower level of an old three-story brick office building.  The lights were low, music loud, along with the cacophony of a hundred male and female revelers.  We entered the darkened double doors with rapt anticipation.

After pushing through the raucous crowd, we shoe-horned our way onto a long bench at a table along the back wall.  A pretty young woman with raven hair draping her yellow peasant blouse took our drink order and soon brought us two pitchers of the local brew.  The music from the band, if possible, grew even louder as we sat there, taking in the sights and sounds of the dark honky-tonk.

During a particularly frenetic drum solo, a young woman stood on a table and began stripping off her clothes.  Once the frenzied crowd realized what was happening, they began encouraging her with shouts and screams.  She was almost naked when her husband, or maybe her boyfriend, wrestled her off the table and carried her outside, the performance earning her and her boyfriend a resounding round of applause.  My eyes had begun to adjust to the dimly lit room and it was then I noticed the woman sitting across the table from me.  She was staring at me and she was smiling.

Already feeling the effects of several strong beers, I said, “Hi gorgeous, what’s your name?”

“Sonney,” she answered without hesitating.  “What’s yours?”

“I’m Eric and these two gentlemen are Gary and Gary.  Can I buy you a drink?”

Sonney wasn’t alone.  “Sure, if you’ll include my girlfriends.”

The three of us were more than happy to buy drinks for them and we would probably have continued to do so the rest of the night but they soon had to leave.  Before going, Sonney strolled around to our side of the table, gave me a big hug and slipped a piece of torn napkin into my hand before she and her two friends disappeared into the rampant humidity of a Nebraska summer night.  I didn’t look at the note until I was alone in my motel room.

The napkin bore Sonney’s hastily scrawled phone number and said simply, “Call me.”

I was married at the time and even though the marriage was floundering, I had never cheated.  It was one thing to flirt with someone in a dark bar after several strong beers but something quite different to take it a step further.  Still –

Two days passed before I called Sonney and made a date.  I picked her up at her apartment where her mother was baby-sitting for her three-year-old daughter.  I took her to Falls City’s only nice restaurant and we had a good time.  Somewhere along the way I invited her to Oklahoma City for the weekend.

I drove home a few days later leaving Gary to watch the well.  On the way I heard the Eagles’ Lyin’ Eyes at least what seemed a dozen times.  The lyrics caused me to wonder if I could ever live with myself again after deceiving myself, my wife and a young woman that had no idea about my situation.

I never saw Sonney again.  I remedied my state of affairs by giving Gary Sonney’s phone number and begging him to call her.  Sonney wasn’t enamored with me.  She was only looking for a father for her three-year-old daughter and Gary fit the bill as good as me.

Gary and Sonney never had much of a relationship even though she did spend a couple of weekends with him in Oklahoma City.  My marriage continued for another year but thinking back, it was effectively dead the moment I decided to call Sonney’s number and ask her out.

It’s been years since the Eagles last released an album.  As I listen to the poignant lyrics and complex guitar riffs of their new album tonight I realize why a generation loved their music.  I also realize something about myself that I never knew before, or perhaps never before admitted.

http://www.EricWilder.com

My friend Dave Beatty lives in Livingston, Louisiana.  He’s forgotten more about south Louisiana than I will ever know and like many south Louisianans, he can tell a good story.  Here is Satsuma Twenty, a Lake Pontchartrain story from Dave, my first guest contributor.

SATSUMA TWENTY

By Dave Beatty

My older brother, Billy, and I were spending some time on his son's thirty-six foot trawler.  The boat is berthed at a marina on the north side of Lake Pontchartrain, Madisonville to be exact.  This area has become known as the Northside and is a bedroom community for New Orleans, maybe not so much after Katrina.  It is, if not the fastest growing area of Louisiana, then for sure the second. 

Billy's son told us of a very good place to get po-boys and hamburgers and it was just down the street from the marina.  So, off we went.  It is a typical po-boy shop.  You order at the counter from the menu hanging on a sign behind the counter, wait for you name/number to be call when ready.  Well, our number was called and up we jumped to get a taste of the great po-boys and fried onions, with ice tea.

I was feeling very generous so I jumped in and said I would buy.  Here's where the fun starts.  You see while ordering I did a little addition, as it turned very little, and thought I had it.  We get to the counter and I whip out twenty dollars to cover the bill.  Remember, I don't get out much.  I flashed my twenty dollar bill, submitted it for payment expecting a little change, not much just a few coins.

The girl out look down at the money and then did it.  She extended the old open hand, palm up and started curling her fingers towards herself.  You know the signal, it says either to come on, you want some more of me: or, and in this case, signal that there is not even enough.  So, I pulled out another five, and you can guess, more fingers.  It seems that a "Satsuma Twenty" doesn't go very far on the Northside. 

After this, the big joke around is that "There is no way a Satsuma Twenty will cover that." 

The laugh was on me, but it was worth it because to this day me and my brother still get a big laugh out of the story of the Satsuma Twenty. 

By the way, Satsuma is the little country road where I live.

http://www.EricWilder.com

For the people that remember Katrina, please say a prayer for Iowa City.

Iowa City 'at God's Mercy' as River Rises - AOL News.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Caddo Lake is a large, naturally-formed body of water that encompasses parts of northeast Texas and northwest Louisiana.  Legend has it that Caddo Lake was formed by the New Madrid Earthquake.  One thing is certain.  It is little changed since since the early 1900’s when the world’s very first offshore platform found oil beneath its shallow surface.

Geologically, Caddo Lake is situated at the highest structural point of the deep-seated subsurface feature known as the Sabine Uplift.  In the early 1900’s, many high-flowing oil wells already surrounded the lake.  Most oil explorers had little doubt that the strata below Caddo contained even more oil.  The problem was how to get to it.  When the federal government dammed the lake in 1911, returning it to a deeper depth, the problem grew even larger.

Oil leases beneath Caddo’s shallow 8,000 acres were controlled by the Levee Board.  When the Levee Board put these leases up for bid, only one entity, Gulf Refining Company of Louisiana, did so.

Little is known about the discussions that must have ensued in order to convince Gulf’s management to make its last minute bid for the leases.  One thing is certain, they must have been interesting and heated.  What occurred is that some unknown person with vision, great foresight and an explorer’s mentality convinced Gulf to risk a lot of money and effort on a technology never before attempted.

The risk was worth it.  Once Gulf had secured the leases it had a crew drive pilings into Caddo’s shallow water.  A platform was constructed on the pilings.  From this platform, the Ferry Lake #1 was drilled and completed in 1911.  Historically, the Ferry Lake #1 was the world’s first offshore well.

If you rented a small fishing boat today and motored out across Caddo’s sleepy surface you’d find little has changed since 1911.  The coffee-colored water is still shallow and you might see the head of an alligator as it peeks up from the bottom.  Giant cypress trees still grow in the water, Spanish moss draping from their limbs in lazy waves.  And you’d still see the remnants of many of the original wooden platforms.  Some of them are operational with timeless pumping units still at work atop of them.

Books chronicle many heroes, innovators, inventors and explorers that have shaped the history of the world.  But like the unknown person or persons that convinced Gulf Refining to drill the world’s first offshore oil well, many more heroes, innovators, inventors and explorers have shaped the world in ways we’ll never know and can only imagine.  Although unknown, their contributions are just as important.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Buck McDivit was my (Eric Wilder’s) first protagonist in Ghost of a Chance.  He is set to encore in my novel in progress tentatively titled Panther Stalking.  Ghost took place in east Texas.  Panther Stalking occurs in Logan County, Oklahoma, the county just north of Oklahoma City.

In Panther Stalking Buck does some detective work for Clayton O’Meara, his former employer.  O’Meara owns a large cattle spread and some of his cows are coming up missing.  There are complications.  One of Clayton’s employees and maybe even his longtime business partner are possibly involved.  Buck’s former girlfriend has a secret that could cause him a problem.  A rural community of right-wing whackos has focused their attention on him, and an all female commune in the middle of Clayton’s ranch complicates the situation.  Look for Panther Stalking early in 2009.  Until then, here is a short excerpt from the work in progress:

Shorty’s horse sidled forward, directed only by instinct as their path began dropping downward into a deep hole in the ground - a narrow canyon fully one hundred feet below the area’s normal surface.  The deeply dissected gully disappeared into blackness and Shorty quickly melded into the shadows as he hurried after Garth and Johnny.

Spooked by being herded away from their normal nighttime shelter, the cattle continued voicing their alarm, their hooves clattering against cobbles in the dry streambed and echoing against steep walls of the narrow canyon.  No light penetrated the thick mass of tree limbs that enclosed the deep void almost like a dark tunnel.  The three men had an answer, treading their way by the spare illumination of headlamps they wore on their hats.  It was all they needed.

The canyon followed a straight line for almost a mile.  No one, even were they near, would have detected the presence of the rustlers, their mounts or the lowing cattle thanks to the foliage-covered tunnel.  The three men soon slowed the cattle and herded them up a camouflaged trail, flicking off their headlamps as they exited the trees.  Though still dark, full moon and starlight seemed like Broadway on New Year’s Eve compared with the eerily-lit tunnel they had just exited.

Up ahead they saw an oilfield tank battery and a slow-moving pumping unit singing a sad tune with its moving rods.  A cattle trailer attached to an old Ford pickup awaited them, along with a newer Chevy and horse trailer.  Shorty dismounted without bothering to tie his colt.  Opening the trailer’s rear gate, he yanked out a ramp so that Garth and Johnny could begin herding the cows into the trailer.

“We got too many.  They ain’t all gonna fit,” Shorty said.

http://www.ericwilder.com

I found this article very interesting.

http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/lit_crit/does_science_fiction_speak_to_our_condition_more_than_fancy_literary_writing_86692.asp

http://www.ericwilder.com

The world’s one-time largest oil field celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2005.  The discovery well for the Glen Pool, located 14 miles south of Tulsa, Oklahoma, came roaring in during the early morning hours of November 22, 1905.  At its peak, the field produced 117,000 barrels of oil per day.  The field was so prolific that oil was stored in shallow ponds dug around the producing wells.  The real story though is how the Ida Glen #1 was discovered in the first place.

Oil was first noticed in Oklahoma by Native Americans.  They found oil seeps and springs that they collected and used for medicines and lubricants.  News of these “medicine springs” first attracted oil explorers to the state.  One of the explorers, drawn by the promise of black gold and untold riches, was Robert F. Galbreath.

Galbreath came from Ohio, drawn by earlier successful drilling in the area by others, to seek his fortune.  He soon convinced a local investor, Frank Chelsey, to bankroll his dream.  Drilling for oil in 1905 was very different than drilling for oil today.  Leases were cheap and most of the drilling done by cable tool rigs made of wood, on location, by local rig builders.  After acquiring a block of leases for no apparent geologic reason other than they were cheap and accessible, Galbreath and Chelsey had a cable tool rig built and began drilling.

Cable tool drilling was very slow, about 3’ per hour.  Galbreath and Chelsey did the work themselves, each taking turns while living and sleeping on the rig floor.  Oil had been discovered in commercial quantities nearby four years earlier.  When they finally reached the Red Fork Sand, the producing zone at the earlier discovery, they encountered only a puff of gas.  Galbreath and Chelsey had drilled below 1,400’, their money for the project all but depleted.

Little is known of the actual conversations that followed between the two men.  One thing is known: their money and their energy were exhausted.  They had already penetrated the deepest known producing reservoir in the area.  No one at the time had any idea of what might lie below.  Smart men would have packed their bags and gone home.

Galbreath and Chelsey weren’t smart men.  They were something more:  among the first of the breed known as wildcatters.  They’d followed their hearts and guts, not their brains, to that field in northeast Oklahoma.  Thankfully, they decided to drill deeper.

The next 100’ proved fortuitous.  During the early morning hours of November 22, 1905, Galbreath heard a gurgling sound.  He pulled out the percussive bit and lowered the bailer into the hole.  When he pulled it up, he witnessed the first evidence of the black gold that he and fellow wildcatter Chelsey had sought.  When pressure broke through the cumulus in the well bore and oil blew out of the hole, over the crown block, the two knew for sure.

Near destitution, Galbreath and Chelsey quickly became millionaires.  The Glen Pool, to date having produced more than 325 million barrels of oil, has made more money than both the California gold rush and the Colorado silver rush.  The discovery led to the founding of Tulsa, once known as the “oil capitol of the world.”

The Glen Pool is 100 years old but the real story is that of Galbreath and Chelsey – two original wildcatters and, for sure, true American heroes.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Much technological advancement to the science of drilling and completing oil wells has occurred since Colonel Drake brought in the first commercial well in Pennsylvania.  Perhaps the most important was the development of the electric logging tool.  This long, slender device is lowered into the borehole on a cable.  It transmits various signals out into the formation as it is raised from the bottom of the hole and the return signals are recorded on linear graph paper.

By studying this graph known as an electric log, geologists and engineers are able to precisely determine the depth of a formation from the surface, how thick it is and whether or not it is likely to contain recoverable quantities of oil and gas.  This study is called log analysis because, with all the advancements that have taken place since electric logs were first implemented, they still only hint at what a company will find when they actually perforate a possible oil and gas producing zone.  To this day, the most important tool is the geologist’s knowledge of the area and his visual examination of the sample cuttings as they come out of the borehole of a drilling well.

There is no tool that informs a company without reservation that a formation will be productive.  As a result, zones that would be productive are often overlooked and go untested.  In the real world, this is the rule rather than the exception.  I am often asked, why re-enter an old plugged hole?  Didn’t the company that drilled it know there was oil there?  Well, sometimes, apparently not.

One such mistake occurred in Coal County, Oklahoma in 1937.  Conoco, then Continental Oil, drilled the Daniels #1.  The company had originally drilled the well because of information derived from a seismic study and surface mapping.  The resultant well was drilled and subsequently plugged as dry.  In April, 1949, someone had a different idea.

J.A. Roberson, et al re-entered the Daniels #1 in 1949.  The company perforated zones known as the Basal McLish and the Oil Creek and completed them for 203 BOPD and 2 MMCFGD.  This became the discovery well for the East Oconee Field that has since produced more than 4 million barrels of oil.

Two companies had arrived at very different conclusions after careful analysis of the exact same data.  The company that committed the multi-million barrel mistake was none other than Conoco, not some fly-by-night mom and pop organization.  It was, in fact, a mom and pop oil company that made the correct interpretation of the data and brought in the discovery well.

Big oil may rule, but it is the little independents that keep the bulk of the oil flowing in the heart of America.  As in the case of the East Oconee Field, one man’s trash became another man’s treasure.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Here’s an interesting article from USAToday.

Book buzz: In Washington and at BookExpo - USATODAY.com.

http://www.ericwilder.com

The non-profit organization that operates the museum in Mark Twain’s famous house is running out of money.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/03/nyregion/03twain.html?_r=1&ref=books&oref=slogin

http://www.ericwilder.com

This recipe appears the French Acadian Cook Book published in 1955 by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc.  I really like this cook book because in addition to its many wonderful recipes, it also contains lots of historical explanation, some in Cajun French.

GUMBO FILE

Gumbo, which originated in New Orleans, is the most characteristic dish of the “Crescent City.”  The file gives that slippery smoothness to the dish which is so characteristic of a Gumbo.  Sliced okra is used in other parts of the south to give practically the same quality but file belongs to Louisiana alone.  File is a powder made originally by the Choctaw Indians from young tender sassafras leaves.

1 4-pound stewing chicken                               Salt, pepper, cayenne

2 quarts water                                                  ½ chili pepper, chopped fine, optional

½ pound ham, cubed                                        2 tablespoons file

2 onions, chopped                                            2 cups cooked rice

1/8 teaspoon thyme

Cut chicken in serving portions and simmer in salted water until tender.  Remove bones and cut meat in cubes.  Fry ham.  Brown onions in ham fat.  Combine chicken, ham, onions and oyster liquor.  Cover with boiling chicken stock, ad salt, pepper, cayenne and chili pepper: simmer for 2 hours.  About 10 minutes before serving.  Add oysters and just before serving moisten file with a little of the soup and add to remaining soup.  Do not cook after adding file.  Place a mound of cooked rice in each soup plate and serve the gumbo over it.  Serves 8.  Creole Gumbo – Use 1 knuckle each of beef and ham instead of chicken, cubed ham and oysters.  Omit onions, chili pepper and file and use 2 quarts okra, 1 pound tomatoes, 4 quarts water, a sprig of thyme and parsley.

http://www.ericwilder.com

BookExpo America, the biggest yearly event in bookselling, is in full swing in Los Angeles.  Here is an article with a little buzz from the convention.

Booksellers talk big, act quietly at convention: Financial News - Yahoo! Finance.

http://www.ericwilder.com

All geology students are required to take a course called Field Geology.  I took mine near Batesville, Arkansas where I learned how to use an alidade, brunton compass and map surface formations.  The real purpose of the course, I learned much latter, is to immerse aspiring students of geology in the sight, taste, and smell of the earth.

Like every other profession, geology is mostly male dominated.  That said, there are many excellent females in the business.  Geologists are all a weird bunch (myself included) and female geologists seem to take this trait at least one step further.

What I mean is, don’t argue with a female geologist about anything unless you have your facts down pat.  If you don’t, be prepared for an ass kicking.  All female geologists have minds of their own, and beware the fool.  Here is a story told to me by the former head of the University of Missouri geology department that exposes my point.  Well, something gets exposed here.

Missouri’s field camp one summer had twenty-five males and only one female geology student.  The camp was in the foothills of Colorado where the summers are always hot.  Mid-afternoon, all the male geology students would doff their shirts while out in the field, mapping the local geology.

This went on for a week or so and it apparently played on their female counterpart’s psyche.  She must have thought about it because one day when they began taking off their shirts, she doffed her own, bra included.  Did I mention that she was quite attractive? 

The students were spread out across the mountainous terrain, but news of their female counterpart’s topless display spread quickly, resulting in lots of ogling, staring at her through their alidades, and moving their stations closer to get a better look.  Lady Geologist didn’t mind the attention and continued doing her job as if nothing had changed.

Once wasn’t enough but the novelty of Lady Geologist’s nudity wore off with her male counterparts before very long.  When summer camp ended, she had a pretty good tan, and all the male students had new respect and understanding concerning the weaker sex. 

Geologists, as I’ve mentioned, are a strange bunch.  Nothing was ever said, or made, of Lady Geologist’s nudity and none of the professors running the camp reprimanded her for her actions.  They already knew about female geologists and realized that she was just demonstrating that she could do anything that the boys could do. 

 http://www.ericwilder.com