When I first moved to Oklahoma City, there was only one seafood restaurant.  Herman’s, the lone venue, served mostly fried catfish and shrimp because there were no shipments of fresh seafood from the coasts at that time.  Thank goodness, things have changed!

It is now possible to enjoy fresh seafood at many restaurants in the area.  Marilyn and I like Pearl’s for its Cajun and Creole fare.  Every Saturday and Sunday, they have a brunch featuring several variations of New Orleans-style breakfasts.  While they do not serve this dish at Pearl’s, here is one of my personal breakfast favorites.

Oyster Omelet

2 doz. Oysters

1 tbsp butter

4 shallots

1 clove garlic

2 tbsp minced bell pepper

2 tbsp minced celery

2 bay leaves

4 eggs

2 tbsp chopped parsley

   Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in saucepan and add minced garlic, bay leaves, pepper and celery.  Drain the liquid from the oysters and put them into the butter with the seasoning.  Lower heat and cook about three minutes.  Beat the eggs, add salt and pepper and turn them into saucepan with oyster mixture.  Do not stir.  When lightly browned, turn onto hot platter and garnish with chopped parsley.

Eric’s Website

   I have often talked about the mysterious Ouachita Mountains where I did my geology thesis.  I am sure most everyone remembers the movie Deliverance that stared Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds and the frightening hillbillies encountered.  On one of our field trips to the Ouachitas, my ex-wife Gail and I met our own pair of scary hillbillies. It was late fall, the days dull and weather dreary.

Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS).  The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States.  Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.

The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War.  Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners.  The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities.  I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine.  It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.

We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road.  Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction.  When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path.  The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.

Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.

"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer.  "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere.  "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.

We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip.  "Don't look back," I told Gail.

Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction.  I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand.  Were they being friendly?  No!  I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger.  These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.

My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds.  Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.

Eric’s Website

My cell phone rang as I sat here just now, contemplating what I should put on my blog tonight.  The call was from a person that owns a well-servicing company that often does work for me.  Faced with making payroll tomorrow and not having enough funds to do so, he was calling his client companies, canvassing for unpaid invoices.

“I found an invoice that you never paid.  I faxed a copy to your office.  It’s only a couple thousand dollars but would you please look at it tomorrow and cut me a check?”

“I apologized in advance, just in case I had failed to pay the invoice.  I do not think I made a mistake, but then again I am not a perfect person.  What worried me was the palpable anxiety in the man’s voice, and he and I both knew that my two thousand dollars would make little difference to the situation in which he had found himself.

This is the third such late night call that I have had in the past month, the other two, both friends, asking to borrow money, one to make payroll and the other just to buy groceries.  I helped one man but was unable to assist the other.

Unlike many in the U.S. population, the oil industry has experienced hard times before.  The oil bust of the 80s saw my then wife Anne and me down to our last dollar.  I learned that when times are tough, helping out your fellow sufferers is a little like trying to rescue a drowning person.  Don’t get too close, or they might grab you around the neck, hold on tight and drag you under with them.

One reason so many people love Elvis Presley is because he was a man of the people – no different from the average person on the street, except that he could sing like no other, and he eventually earned lots of money.  Elvis once said, “You never know how short a month is until you have a Cadillac payment to make.”  Yes, Elvis, I know how it feels, and so does the man that called me tonight.

Eric’s Website

   During my first trip to Mardi Gras, my fellow drill team members and I hiked a portion of the distance from Jackson Barracks to Bourbon Street.  Along the way, we stopped at an old wood-framed bar in Arabi, a small town located in the Lower 9^th Ward devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita.  We drank several pitchers of Regal Beer before continuing on our way.

The beer was good, and cheap – a pitcher costing less than a dollar.  There were thirteen breweries in the New Orleans area during the time, the most famous being the Jax Brewery.  Since Hurricane Katrina, there are no operating breweries in New Orleans.

Those of you that have read my novel Big Easy will remember detective Tommy Blackburn ordering Dixie Beer.  Sadly, Katrina also destroyed the Dixie Brewery.  Dixie Beer still survives, but is presently produced and distributed by proxy brewer Huber Brewery in Wisconsin.  If Dixie owners Kendra and Joseph Bruno have their way, this will all soon change. 

The Brunos are fighting to bring the Dixie brewery back to the Big Easy, planning a complete renovation of the facility – state of the art equipment and a European-style beer garden on the rooftop.  The Brunos hope their renovation of the Dixie Brewery will ignite an economic area upturn.  I for one hope the Brunos succeed, and for sure, Detective Tommy Blackburn does.

Eric’s Website

  There is a park in New Orleans not far from Bourbon Street. Officially, it is Beauregard Square, also known at various times during New Orleans’ past as Place Du Cirque or Place des Negres. Most locals still call it Congo Square.

            Before the Civil War, wealthy New Orleans slave owners would let their slaves congregate on Sundays at a place that became known as Congo Square.  There, they would sing their songs, dance their dances and practice their religion. When the West African Vodoun religion reached Jamaica, it rapidly integrated with Catholicism and many of the prevailing pagan practices of the Caribs, the native population of the Caribbean. This amalgam of beliefs known as voodoo, had offshoots often called hoodoo.

            Not knowing the true meaning of the various ceremonies that took place at Congo Square, many benevolent white slave owners often participated in the drumming, and the dancing of the wild bamboula, a frenzied and sensual dance. The songs created at Congo Square were the musical seeds that sprouted, matured and grew into what we is now jazz.

            There is a cultural center located in a part of Beauregard Square, known as Louis Armstrong Memorial Park after the man that brought jazz to the world.  Everyone has heard of Louis Armstrong, but few realize that his musical roots began with the rhythmic beat of West African drums and the dancing of the wild bamboula.

            The Louis Armstrong Park is a must-visit.  The entrance to the park, a large white arch that proclaims the name Armstrong, lies at the intersection of St. Ann and N. Rampart.  The park is also close to Basin Street, made famous by both song and myth.  It is also near the St. Louis Cemetery # 1 and the Iberville Project.

Eric’s Website

Eric's Website

Marilyn’s favorite bourbon is Weller’s and I have to confess that I also like it.  She ordered a Weller’s and water at one of our favorite watering holes a while back and was told that it was temporarily out of stock.

Darla, a friend of ours at our neighborhood liquor store, informed us that the Chinese are buying up every bottle they can get their hands on.  I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, the Chinese have good taste in bourbon whiskey.

For those of you kindred souls, here is a recipe for New Orleans whiskey sauce that goes great with bread pudding and many other desserts.  Hey, and if you can’t find Weller’s, you can use just about anything out there.  Jack Daniels is good and so is Wild Turkey.

New Orleans Whiskey Sauce

1 cup heavy cream

½ tbsp cornstarch

3 tbsp sugar

¼ cup bourbon

Bring cream to a boil in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Combine the corn starch, sugar and bourbon, then add heated cream while whisking.  Bring to a boil and be careful not to burn the mixture.  Whisk and let sit just a bit before removing from heat.

I visited New Orleans for the first time when I was eleven. My Aunt Carmol was an elementary school teacher there and she made sure my brother and I saw every historical site, museum and park in the City. Having grown up in rural northwest Louisiana, New Orleans was the first cosmopolitan area I ever visited. It wasn’t the last, but it remains in my mind as the most unique city in the United States and perhaps the world.

My first visit wasn’t my last. As a college freshman I marched in the Venus parade during Mardi Gras, experiencing Bourbon Street and the French Quarter for the first time as an adult - or at least close. Most of that particular visit was spent in a drunken haze, much in the manner of college students today visiting the City and savoring Mardi Gras for the first time.

I worked in the City once during summer break from college. My job title was assistant micro-photographic technician seismologist. From my salary of two dollars per hour, you can tell the description was a bit overblown, but it did look good on my resume. It was the year that I bought my first camera, a 35 mm Yashica range finder. And New Orleans provided a plethora of scenic opportunities.

Shortly after that sweltering summer I married a girl from Chalmette, a city separated from New Orleans only by name. My marriage to Gail didn’t last but during our seven years together I learned to love her French Acadian parents, Lily and Harvey, and her entire family. It’s a shame sometimes that you can’t divorce a wife and keep her family.

Gail had two brothers, four sisters and many aunts, uncles and cousins. Most were wonderful cooks but none better than Gail’s mother Lily. No two pots of gumbo are ever exactly alike. I know because I’ve consumed my fair share. Taste, like I guess just about everything else, is subjective. That said, Lily’s gumbo was the best I ever tasted and, in my opinion, the best in the world.

Harvey, Gail’s father, was a cattleman and fur buyer. During trapping season the shed behind Harvey’s house was filled with raw fur. He gave me a lesson once on how to grade a nutria pelt. Like calculus and religion, the lesson didn’t stick. One short story: Harvey and Lily once found six hundred dollars in cash in their deep freeze. Since trappers do not take Visa or MasterCard, Harvey always had large amounts of cash around the house.  They did not own a safe, so -.

Eric’s Website

Next Tuesday is Mardi Gras Day, the fourth since Hurricane Katrina ravaged the city of New Orleans.  This year's celebration returns my memory to a Mardi Gras Day some thirty-six years ago.

I was in my last semester of graduate school at the University of Arkansas and still married to my first wife Gail. Our best friends, Toni and Terrence went with us to Chalmette to celebrate Mardi Gras.  Terrence was an animal husbandry major and we spent a day and night in Ferriday, Louisiana where Gail's father was the supervisor of a large cattle ranch.  We enjoyed a personal tour of the ranch and some of Ms Lili's gumbo before heading to Chalmette.

Gail had four sisters and two brothers.  Each regaled us with drinks, dinners and frivolity, leading up to Mardi Gras Day.  That Tuesday morning we awoke early and headed downtown.  Drinking on the street was legal and we began imbibing by ten in the morning.  We watched every parade we could get to, and along the way, we continued drinking.

We tried to pace ourselves, eating hot dogs and gumbo from various street vendors.  All we really succeeded in doing was sobering ourselves for an awkward moment before plunging back into the depths of drunkenness.  Somewhere around ten that night, we finally stumbled to the car and headed north to Fayetteville.

When we reached Jackson, Mississippi, we stopped at a Denny's for breakfast.  My stomach felt like hell, but still slightly better than my head.  We reached Fayetteville at six the next morning, hardly time for a shower before I had to take a final test at eight.

Do not ask me how, but I aced the test, perhaps the best score I ever had in grad school.  A few months later, Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City and never saw Toni and Terrence again.

I have never really thought much about that Mardi Gras, my lost friendship and failed marriage.  Maybe because youth is a strange encumbrance whose weight you never really feel until long after Father Time finally lifts it.

Eric’s Website

I had marched in two Mardi Gras parades before I finally watched one from the sidelines.  My first wife Gail and I were dating at the time.  She had seen many parades and I was preparing to see my first.

We parked my ’67 Mustang on a side street, safely away from the police patrol that towed away car after car parked in places where they did not belong.  Gail directed us to a special spot where she assured me the car would be safe from both police and marauding thieves.

We arrived on the parade route more than an hour before the first float appeared.  We were still late and had to make our way carefully through the crowd of parade watchers that packed the route in a shoulder-to-shoulder mass of humanity.  The crowd grew even thicker as the first float appeared.

I can only say that my heart rate increased dramatically as float after colorful float passed our vantage spot.  Masked men and women dressed in tights and colorful costumes responded to the shouts from the crowd.

“Throw me something, mister!”

The parade took more than an hour to pass by our location.  It was my indoctrination into the chaotic situation that ensued when the masked Krewe members showered the crowd with colorful beads and Mardi Gras doubloons.

It was not long before someone smashed my hand with their foot as I reached for a rolling doubloon.  No fights broke out, but the melee could only be compared to someone in a boat, tossing live bait to a circling group of bloodthirsty sharks.

I was a shark that day, reaching and diving for doubloons and beads.  I had a few strands of hard-earned beads encircling my neck and a pocketful of colorful doubloons in my pocket after the parade ended and Gail and I made our way back to the Mustang.  My skinned hands throbbed and I was exhausted, but hooked for life.  I knew that I would be back again.

Eric’s Website

Sometimes I do crazy things like this when I’m wide awake.

http://www.boingboing.net/2009/02/18/emailing-while-aslee.html

Eric’s Web

Another interesting top 10 list.

http://www.abebooks.com/books/funniest-books.shtml?cm_ven=nl&cm_cat=nl&cm_pla=cme_fb_brit&cm_ite=feature

Eric’s Website

King Cakes are a New Orleans Mardi Gras tradition.  A small plastic baby is baked into the cake decorated with icing of gold, purple and green, the colors of Mardi Gras.  The lucky person finding the baby in their slice of cake will have a year of good luck, and must host the King Cake party the following year.  Recipes are varied but here is a version from Emeril Lagasse, the King himself.

King Cake Recipe

for the Brioche:

1  Envelope Active Dry Yeast
2  Tbsp Warm Water (115 degree F)
1  tsp Iodized Salt
2  Tbsp Granulated Sugar
¼  Cup Milk
2  tsp Orange Zest, minced
2 Cups All Purpose Flour, sifted
1  tsp Cinnamon
2  Eggs, beaten
1 1/4 sticks cold Unsalted Butter, cut into very small dice
1  Egg beaten and 2 Tbsp water, for the egg wash
1  plastic baby trinket

Dissolve the yeast in the work bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook attachment, let stand until frothy.

Dissolve the salt, sugar, orange zest and milk in a small bowl. When dissolved combine the milk mixture with the yeast mixture. Mix the cinnamon with the flour.

With the mixer on low speed, add the eggs, and then gradually add the flour, until all is incorporated. Knead on low speed for 10 minutes, or until a smooth elastic dough is formed. A little more flour may be necessary. With the motor running, incorporate the butter into the dough, a little at a time but rather quickly so that it does not heat up and melt.

Turn the dough into an oiled bowl, loosely cover with plastic wrap and let rise for 1 hour in a warm spot.

When the dough has doubled in bulk, punch it down, cover and place in the refrigerator overnight.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Roll the dough out to a 6 x 18 inch rectangle. Spread the Pecan filling (recipe below) out in the middle of the rectangle along the whole length, leaving about 1 1/2 inch on each side. Place the baby trinket somewhere with the filling. Fold the length of the dough over the filling and roll up tightly, leaving the seam side down. Turn the roll into a circle, seam side down and put one end inside of the other to hide the seam, and seal the circle. Place the cake on a baking sheet and let rise, loosely covered with plastic wrap, for 45 minutes or until doubled in bulk.

Place the king cake into the oven and bake for 30 minutes or until golden brown.

When the cake cools, brush with some of the glaze (recipe below) thinned out with more cold water. This will help the sugars adhere. Decorate the cake with the colored sugars and drizzle some of the thicker glaze onto the cake.

Place on a large round serving plate and decorate with Mardi Gras beads, doubloons and whatever else that you like.

For the Pecan filling:

1 Cup Pecan halves, broken up slightly and roasted until fragrant
2/3 Cup Brown Sugar
1 tsp Vanilla extract
1 tsp Cinnamon
1/2 tsp Ground Allspice
1 pinch of salt
4 Tbsp Steen’s Cane Syrup

Combine all of the ingredients.

For the glaze

1/2 Cup Powdered Sugar
1 Tbsp Bourbon
Water (enough to make a paste that can be drizzled)

Combine the sugar and bourbon, whisk in enough water to make a glaze that can be drizzled.

 Eric’s Website

Most Americans remember Justin Wilson as the humorous host of a long-running Cajun cooking show hosted by PBS, a pioneer and innovator in cooking shows.  Arriving on television a decade, or so before Emeril or Rachel Ray, he helped change our perception of chefs performing in that media.  With Mardi Gras in full swing in Louisiana, it is time we recognized his immense cultural contribution to this country.

Before Justin Wilson became a celebrity chef with his own television show, he was a very successful stand-up comedian.  He was also a great Cajun cook and combined these two diverse talents to create a humorous and entertaining performance rather than just another dull – at least for most of us - “dump and stir” cooking show.

The Food Network began in 1993 and eventually - and quite successfully - changed the dry and dull cooking show into engrossing entertainment.  They did this by hiring great chefs that also had the talent and personality to turn their cooking segments into highly entertaining television episodes with millions of viewers.  Justin Wilson was, at least in my mind, the prototype for today’s culinary superstars such as Emeril, Rachel and Bobby Flay.

I had never seen Justin Wilson perform in person, even though he had twenty or so comedy albums in circulation and was a legendary performer in Louisiana.  A newspaper article helped change that for me.  I was a partner at the time with longtime friend John K.  John, like me, was from the south, and a fan of Justin Wilson’s humor.  He, also, had never seen a live performance of the Cajun comedian.  When we noticed a small article almost hidden in the back pages of the Daily Oklahoman, that all changed.

The article said that Justin Wilson would be performing at the local clubhouse of the Fraternal Order of Police.  This event was not open to the public, only police officers invited.  John and I decided to sneak into the performance.

Waiting until the show had started, we slipped in the backdoor of the FOP clubhouse.  The place was crowded with police officers and I don’t mind telling you that my rear end was more than a little puckered.  The large room was dark and crowded, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder to see and hear the show.  We had a few stares in our direction as we slipped through the crowded room and found an empty spot against one of the walls.

Justin Wilson’s performance was great and well worth our risk – at least considering that we managed to slip back out the back door undetected before the overhead lights came on.  The mood of the crowd was jovial - everyone dressed in their street clothes and off the beat for the night.  Still, John and I breathed sighs of relief as we drove away, neither of us thinking about what might have happened if someone had asked who we were.

Justin Wilson was an educated man, an engineer, but he maintained a thick Cajun accent during his performances.  He would ask the audience “How ya’ll are?” and like Emeril’s trademark “bam,” Wilson would always say “I gar-on-tee.” 

Considering the consequences of sneaking into the FOP hall to see the comedian, our actions were probably stupid and juvenile.  Still, realizing now that it was probably our only chance of ever seeing Justin Wilson in concert, the risk was worth it.  And that I gar-on-tee!

Eric’s Website

As a freshman in college during the 60s I joined a precision marching group called the Fusileers.  The college I attended required two years of ROTC and the national paranoia concerning Vietnam hadn’t yet begun to set in.  Besides, we got to do some neat things like take trips to Mardi Gras and march in parades.

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

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

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

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

Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again.  Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.

John T dropped out of school, was drafted, sent to Vietnam and dead within the year - one of the war’s many victims.  I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier.  I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything.  It might come true.”

Eric’s Web

After spending Saturday morning with a book cover designer, I have a greater appreciation for this article.  Sometimes you can tell a book by its cover.

http://www.abebooks.com/books/great-fiction-covers.shtml?cm_ven=nl&cm_cat=nl&cm_pla=cme-nwb&cm_ite=feature

Eric’s Web

The true beginnings of Mardi Gras are likely more lore than actual history.  Here is a colorful version of Carnival's storied history by Times Picayune writer Becky Retz.  While perhaps not completely accurate, it is one-hundred percent entertaining.

 A History of Mardi Gras

Article courtesy of Becky Retz – Times Picayune

 Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday is the final day of Carnival, which begins on the Feast of the Epiphany, Jan. 6.  Also known as Kings' Day or Twelfth Night, Jan. 6 celebrates the arrival of the three kings at Jesus' birthplace, thus ending the Christmas season, and in New Orleans, simultaneously starting Carnival. This festival of fun finds its roots in various pagan celebrations of spring, dating back 5,000 years.

 Pope makes it official

 Pope Gregory XIII made Mardi Gras a Christian holiday when, in 1582, he put it on his Gregorian calendar (the 12-month one we still use today).  He placed Mardi Gras on the day before Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. That way, all the debauchery would be finished when it came time to fast and pray.

 Much of the first part of the Carnival season is invitation-only coronation balls and supper dances hosted by private clubs known as Krewes.  The public portion comes to life a couple of weeks before Mardi Gras when the Krewes hit the streets, staging more than seventy parades in metropolitan New Orleans.

 Mardi Gras arrived in North America with the LeMoyne brothers, Iberville and Bienville, in the late 17th century, when King Louis XIV sent the pair to defend France's claim on the territory of Louisiana.

 America's first Mardi Gras

 The explorers eventually found the mouth of the Mississippi River on March 3, 1699, Mardi Gras of that year.  They made camp a few miles upriver, named the spot Point d'Mardi Gras and partook in a spontaneous party. This is often referred to as North America's first Mardi Gras.

A couple of decades later, Bienville founded New Orleans and soon Carnival celebrations were an annual event highlighted by lavish balls and masked spectacles. Some were small, private parties with select guest lists, while others were raucous, public affairs.

Collectively, they reflected such a propensity for frolic in the local citizenry that historian Robert Tallant wrote in his book "Mardi Gras" that "natives would step over a corpse on the way to a ball or the opera and think nothing of it."

 Parades officially began in 1838.  On Ash Wednesday of that year, The Commercial Bulletin read: The European custom of celebrating the last day of the Carnival by a procession of masqued figures through the streets was introduced here yesterday."

Over the next twenty years, Carnival became an increasingly rowdy event defined by drunkenness and violence. Eventually, churches and even the press began to call for its demise.  In 1857, Mardi Gras found itself on the verge of death.

The Birth of the Krewe

 Then along came Comus, which actually started twenty-seven years earlier in the wee hours of Jan. 1, 1830 when a group of young men walking home after a New Year's Eve celebration in Mobile, Ala., passed a store featuring an outdoor display of rakes, hoes and cowbells.

 Making the kind of decision inebriated young men are apt to, they picked up the supplies and headed to the mayor's house where they caused a stir. An obviously patient man, the mayor sobered them up and, according to historian Buddy Stall, made the motley Krewe's leader an offer.

 "Next year," he suggested, "why not organize yourselves and let everybody have fun?"

Led by Michael Kraft, the group called themselves the Cowbellion de Rakin Society, paraded the following New Year's Eve, and was so successful that the procession became an annual event.

 Now, jump ahead to 1857 when New Orleans city leaders were on the verge of canceling Mardi Gras for good. Six Cowbellions now living in the Big Easy proposed forming a new private club to present a parade based on a theme, with floats, costumed riders and flambeaux (torch carriers who lit the way) an orderly alternative to the chaos that Carnival had become. They chose the name Comus after the Greek god of revelry and coined the "Krewe" appellation.  City leaders agreed and Comus was credited with saving Mardi Gras.

 Then came the Revelers

It was not until after the Civil War that the second Carnival Krewe made its debut in 1870. The new group chose Jan. 6 to present their parade and ball, naming themselves the Twelfth Night Revelers.  Although they no longer parade, the Revelers' ball (along with the Kings' Day streetcar ride of the Phunny Phorty Phellows) marks the official start of the season.

 During the Revelers' first fete, an innovation was brought to Mardi Gras -- a queen. Well, almost. After their tableau was presented, court fools carried out a giant king cake, the traditional pastry of the season, which contained a golden bean. The plan was that pieces of cake would be presented to a group of young ladies and the one who found the bean would be crowned Carnival's first queen.

 However, it seems the fools were drunk and instead of presenting the cake, they either dropped it on or threw it at the women. When the flour cleared, none of the appalled females would admit to having the bean. The first Carnival queen was not, until the next year.

 By 1872, new troubles were brewing in the city. Post-war carpetbaggery had reached its zenith and rumblings of revolt against the city government could be heard. As Carnival approached, fears of masked reprisals surfaced.

Rex and the Grand Duke

Then came the diversion city leaders needed. News arrived that Grand Duke Alexis Romanoff Alexandrovitch, brother of the heir apparent to the throne of Russia, had accepted the city's invitation to attend Mardi Gras.

 A plan was hatched. A new Krewe of prominent citizens from both the government and its opposition would be formed and a king of all Carnival would be chosen. The group would call itself the School of Design and its ruler was to be Rex (Latin for king).

What no one knew was that the duke had accepted because his visit would coincide with the New Orleans opening of singer Lydia Thompson's touring musical, in which she performed a nonsensical ballad called "If Ever I Cease to Love." (Supposedly, she had also sung the number privately for the duke during a Big Apple rendezvous.)

 When news of Thompson and the duke finally hit the grapevine, public interest in the visit grew. Mardi Gras morning found the duke sitting in the official reviewing stand as Rex atop a bay charger led 10,000 maskers in a line more than a mile long.

 Among them were a number of bands, all of which broke into "If Ever I Cease to Love" as they passed the prince. The romance was ill fated, but after 134 years, Rex remains King of Carnival and "If Ever I Cease to Love" is still the official song of the season.

 A parading African-American Krewe is the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club, which first took to the streets in 1909. Not taking themselves as seriously as the staunch white Krewes, the group dressed its king, William Story, in a sack and a crown fashioned from a lard can. A banana stalk was his scepter. Over the years, Zulu has become a perennial favorite and the Krewe's gilded coconuts (painted gold and decorated with glitter) are one of the season's most prized throws.

 By the 1950s, truck parades, composed of floats built atop flatbed trucks usually by families, had become well established. The late '60s saw the advent of the "Superkrewes" Endymion and Bacchus, which broke with tradition by offering open memberships, larger floats and celebrity kings.

 Carnival faced new challenges in the latter half of the 20th century. A 1979 police strike caused parades to be canceled in the city, but a number of them moved to the suburbs.

The City Council's anti-discrimination ordinance of 1988 called for Krewes to open their ranks or get off public streets. In response, three of the four oldest Krewes Comus (1857), Momus (1873) and Proteus (1882) took their floats and went home.

 Rex remained and the other slots were filled. Proteus even returned in 2000 and the following year became the first Krewe to parade in the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries.

In 2002, Mardi Gras was celebrated under the shadow of the 9/11 terror attacks.

 Because Super Bowl that year was delayed, the two weekends of Mardi Gras parades were split, with a weekend of parades, then Super Bowl weekend in New Orleans, and then the final long weekend of Mardi Gras. The celebrations took place with troops in the streets and warplanes circling overhead.

Article courtesy of Becky Retz – Times Picayune

Eric’s Website

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090216/ap_on_sc/falling_debris

Eric’s Website

My mother had three sisters, Wardie, Marguerite and Dot, and a brother, Grady, and they would all usually congregate at my grandparent’s house for Thanksgiving.  I loved it, playing outside with all my cousins and inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.

No one loved it more than my grandfather, the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt.  On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him.  On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”

It was never really cold in northwest Louisiana.  Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.

What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside.  What I remember is the sound level caused by four sisters and a brother, all talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.

My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face.  My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation.  Whenever he raised his hand the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.

My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert.  They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces.  They had all been there before.

Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts.  Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now.  Still, when I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”

Eric’s Website

  It's Valentine's Day and cold again here in central Oklahoma.  My business partner r.r. bryan and I are meeting two people from Oregon today to show them our oil well south of Norman.  The two we are meeting both design book covers and have no idea that r.r. and I are writers.  Should be interesting.

Eric’s Website

  Actors and actresses tend to have huge egos.  William Holden was no different.  Born in 1918, a year before my dad, Holden died at the tender age of sixty-three during a drunken ramble through his two-storied apartment.

Holden starred in dozens of movies and won the academy award for best actor in 1953 for the movie Stalag 17.  His wife at the time said it was because the Academy overlooked his role in Sunset Boulevard.  Holden likely believed that this because his acceptance speech, “Thank you,” was the shortest ever given.

I did not see Sunset Boulevard or Stalag 17 (although I am going to make it a point to do so) but I saw him in my three favorite Holden movies:  Picnic, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and The World of Suzie Wong.

William Inge, one of the greatest American playwrights of all time penned Picnic.  What a movie!  There were too many wonderful performances to mention, but Kim and Bill stole the show.  The intimate scenes will rip your heart out, I promise.

The Bridge on the River Kwai is so powerful that it defies description.  Even the bad person, played by Sessue Hayakawa, has depth and substance, and Bridge has possibly the finest ending in cinematic history.

Still, my favorite Holden movie is The World of Suzie Wong.  A disillusioned American gives up his secure career and moves to Hong Kong to be an artist.  Living in a Chinese brothel, he soon becomes enthralled with a prostitute named Suzie Wong.  Holden’s character and Suzie fall in love through the course of the movie, a production that does not have a standard Hollywood ending.

The cinematography is wonderful, and remains in my memory long after viewing the film.  When I saw the movie as a teenager, I fell in love with Nancy Kwan and her inevitable tragedy broke my heart.

Yes, I like William Holden movies and The World of Suzie Wong is my favorite.  As I think about it now, maybe I liked Nancy Kwan the most.

Eric’s Website

  My dad served in World War II and earned five battle stars. I hero-worshipped him my entire life. My brother and I both served in the Army. I was in Vietnam and when I bought the picture book Vietnam Zippos, it flooded my brain with so many memories.  I apologize in advance for the x-rated language, but I am including it because I think it is relevant in our understanding of a very dark era.  Here are just a few inscriptions borne on the famous lighters:

“Always ripped or always stoned, I made it a year, I’m going home.”

“God made grass, man made alcohol, who are you going to trust.”

“I’m sure to go to heaven because I’ve spent my time in hell.”

“If God made anything better than pussy, he kept it for himself.”

And, my favorite -

“Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.”

Hey, I did not serve in the Big One, but I was there during a darker period in our history - one we would all probably rather forget.

Eric’s Website

“The good news is they are going to spend a trillion dollars.  The bad news is they don’t know how.” – James Cox, managing partner at Harris Financial Group when speaking of the government bail-out plan.

Eric’s Website

Sitting at my computer yesterday, I was surprised to hear the shriek of tornado sirens.  The sky was dark, but not that dark and there usually are no Oklahoma tornados in February.  When I turned on the radio, I learned that this February, there were not only one but also maybe as many as three tornados passing through central Oklahoma.

My stepdaughter Shannon called to say that a twister had passed directly over her house located in southern Logan County.  Just south of where she and her husband Ron live, another tornado touched down, severely damaging ten houses and several businesses.  An overturned fishing boat sailed through the air, landing more than a block from its journey began.

Baseball-sized hail and heavy rain accompanied the tornados and even though the twisters bypassed my house, I had as much rain as two years ago when my house flooded.  Thunder continued to rumble outside as I penned this report on my computer.

This morning I learned that the storms had continued through the night, tornado or tornados striking the small town of Lone Grove, killing eight and injuring many others.

“It was just surreal,” one of the survivors said, again reminding me of the awesome destructive power of Old Mother Nature.

Eric’s Website

  It is a windy beginning to the month here in Oklahoma. Except for the wind, the weather is fifty degrees and gorgeous. Marilyn and I went to Pearl's Graveside for their Cajun brunch.  There was once a Pearl's Lakeside on the banks of Oklahoma City's Lake Hefner.  This restaurant abuts a large graveyard, thus the spooky reference.

Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us.  She was not kidding!

The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits.  Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour?  Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond?  I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject.  When I finish it, I will let you know.

Eric’s Website

Here is another wonderful recipe from my Aunt Dot’s cookbook All the Foods We’ve Loved Before.  It is adapted from Uncle Bertrand’s version of chicken gumbo.

1          large fryer (or equivalent in breast and thighs) cut up

1 ½      medium onions, chopped

1          large bell pepper, chopped

5          cloves garlic, chopped fine

4          cubes chicken bouillon

¾         tsp poultry seasoning

Cooked rice

File

Olive oil

Clean chicken and remove skin.  I use a Dutch oven for this dish.  Spray bottom of pan with Pam to avoid sticking.  Put in the chicken skin and cook the fat out until skin is crisp.  The fat rendered from the skin helps give the gumbo a little bit more chicken flavor.  Besides, Penny (our son Steven’s dog that is staying with us awhile) loves chicken cracklings.

Salt and pepper chicken pieces and fry them until they are light brown.  Set aside.  Add onion, celery, bell pepper and garlic.  Add oil, if needed, to sauté vegetables until they are limp.  Sprinkle vegetables with a small amount of salt and pepper.  The will smell soooo good.  Remove from pan and set aside.

Add 1/3 cup flour and make a roux.  Do not let the flour get too brown, just a light tan color.  Add about 2 ½ quarts boiling water, slowly, to roux, and 4 cubes of chicken bouillon.  Taste broth and add more seasoning if necessary.

Return browned chicken and vegetables to broth.  Just before serving, thicken with about 3 tablespoons cornstarch in about 1/3 cup cold water.  Slowly stir the slurry into broth, letting it return to a slight boil.  Cook very slowly, about ten minutes.

Serve over steamed rice sprinkled with file, as desired.  Serves eight.

Eric’s Website

   Like much of the country, central Oklahoma had ice this past month.  When I took my dogs out for a walk in the backyard, I noticed the sky was anomalously bright and had a pinkish glow.  For a mystery maven like myself, I had only to wonder about the cause.

I grabbed my trusty Pentax DSLR and snapped off a few pics, taken at 10:30 pm, Oklahoma time last night.  The pics have an eerie glow but were not retouched or edited in any way.  I think the light and the color may have something to do with ice crystals in the upper atmosphere, but I really do not have a clue.

Eric’s Photos

January 26 is the first day of the Chinese New Year and it is a time of rebirth, new beginnings, sharing and celebrating with family.  My accountant, Shu Chen was fairly bubbling as she prepared for the fifteen-day celebration.  She is a vegetarian, maybe because Chinese people connect the eating of meat with man’s animal nature.  Because of this belief, it is traditional that the first meal of the Chinese New Year is the vegetarian dish jai.

Jai is much more than a traditional dish; it is a state of mind.  James Lee, co-owner of Hee-Hing Restaurant in Honolulu describes it thusly:

"Jai actually is the Chinese word for principle. When you say 'lo han jai,' it means the five-hundred disciples of Buddha; so jai is really the principles of Buddha. Buddhism taught that you do not eat any meat and you do not slaughter any animals. It (jai) came to be the name of the dish and it is a strictly vegetarian food. The Taoist and Buddhist monks eat all forms of jai. Jai is a different form of cooking; when you say jai food, it is vegetarian food."

The Lee’s waver a bit from a true jai recipe because it includes oysters, an ingredient to which I can relate.  Here is a jai recipe from Lee’s family:

Lee Family jai – a recipe

6 cups water
½ pound Chinese brown sugar sticks
½ cup raw peanuts
2-ounce bundle long rice (dried mung-bean thread)
1 ounce black tree-ear fungus
1 ounce dried lily flowers
4 ounces dried mushrooms
1 ounce dried black moss
¼ pound fried wheat gluten
¼ pound fried tofu (see note)
¼  pound dried bean curd sticks (foo jook)
2 tablespoons oil
3 pieces red bean curd (about 4 ounces)
6 ounces garbanzo beans
4 ounces ginkgo nuts (see note)
4 ounces dried oyster, optional
2 cups shredded Chinese cabbage (won bok)
4 ounces sliced arrowroot (see note)
4 ounces sliced water chestnuts
2 ounces snow peas
1 tablespoon salt or to taste

Boil 6 cups water, add brown sugar and set aside to dissolve. To prepare dried ingredients: Soak the following in separate bowls of warm water for 15 minutes each: raw peanuts, long rice, black tree-ear fungus, and dried lily flowers. Then, boil raw peanuts 15 minutes; drain long rice; rinse and drain black tree-ear fungus; rinse and drain dried lily flowers, and cut off stems.

Soak dried mushrooms 12 minutes and discard stems.  Soak dried black moss in warm water 5 minutes, rinse and drain.  Boil wheat gluten in water 2 minutes; drain.  Boil fried tofu in water 1 minute; drain.  Soak bean-curd sticks in water, then cut in 3-inch lengths.

To stir-fry jai: In a wok, heat oil, add red bean curd, then stir and break up curd. Fold in peanuts, black tree ears, dried lily flowers, bean-curd sticks, garbanzo beans, ginkgo nuts and oysters, if used. Stir-fry 2 minutes.  To braise jai: Add brown-sugar liquid and bring to boil. Add long rice, black moss, gluten, tofu, Chinese cabbage, arrowroot and water chestnuts. Bring to boil, lower heat and simmer 20 to 30 minutes, adding water if needed.

Add Chinese peas and salt to taste. Lower heat. Makes 12 one-cup servings.

Thyme Flies

You do not open a drill-stem-test tool after dark; at least that was true twenty years ago when standard light bulbs commonly illuminated the drilling rig.  This is because an exploding light bulb can easily ignite natural gas.  It was not something we were worrying about on this well, but we should have been.

I stood on the drill floor, watching as the drill stem tester opened the tool for the first time, anything that might be in the formation sucked into the drill pipe by hydrostatic pressure.  If there were enough pressure, whatever gas or fluid in the pipe would flow to the surface.  In anticipation of this, we had a pipe from the test tool protruding out to the reserve pit.  I expected to see nothing at all, but I got a big surprise.

The sound of natural gas accelerating up through the pipe soon began stressing everyone’s ears.  When the gas hit the surface, it streamed from the relief pipe in a super-charged, jet-like whoosh.  My eyes were wide and I was holding my ears when the oil hit, spraying from the pipe in a jet of solid crude, projectile vomiting from the well.

Two minutes passed with the well showing no signs of abating its wild flow of oil and natural gas.  James W., the assistant Cities Service field superintendent stood beside me.  It took a minute for me to realize how stressed that he had become.  James was a big man that looked a little like an over-the-hill professional wrestler.  He was not acting like a macho wrestler.  There were tears in his eyes and I had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of passing out.

“James,” I said, grabbing his big right shoulder.  “What’s the matter?”

Daylight was rapidly disappearing, but even in the flickering luminosity coming from the rig floor, I could see that his face had taken on the ashen expression of someone suffering a near-death experience.  A sorrowful moan exited from his open mouth as his upper body rocked back and forth like a strong oak in a whistling gale.

“Are you okay?” I demanded, administering a vigorous shake to his arm.

All he could say was, “Oh God Damn, oh God Damn!”

It was then that I realized we were in trouble and I did not have a clue what it was, or what to do about it even if I did.  I am not a small man, but James was six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier.  Still, I was becoming quickly agitated by the scream of natural gas, roar of erupting oil and the look of total desperation on my big friend’s face.  Grabbing him by the shoulders, I wheeled him around, shook him as hard as I could and screamed in his face.

“You get a grip, James, or I swear I am going to slap the shit out of you.  Tell me what the matter is, now!”

James quit shaking and opened his mouth, as if to clear his plugged ears.

He was moaning when he said, “This is how my Daddy died, burned to death on a drill stem test pulled after dark.”

I was still shaking him and screaming in his face. “What do we need to do?” James did not answer me.  He just keep wobbling from side to side and shaking his head.  I let go of him and grabbed the tester.  “Shut in the well, now!”

Heavier than the air, natural gas had pooled around the drilling rig.  We were ten feet off the ground, but the liquids-rich gas flooded my nostrils.  The drill stem tester quickly shut in the well, instantly stopping the flow of oil and natural gas to the pit.

“Get off the rig!” I shouted, moving from one roughneck to the next.  “Get away from the rig!  Do it!  And don’t crank your cars.”

We were soon all standing a hundred yards from the abandoned drilling rig, the roughnecks and driller looking at me as if I were a crazy man.  It was in the days before the cell phone.  After threatening the crew, I returned to the location, cautiously starting my company car and driving ten miles to the nearest pay phone.

A company engineer reached the location from Wichita in about an hour.  He never told me if I had done the right thing, but he sent the crew home and told me to return to my motel room.  Next morning, a knock on my door awoke me.  It was Fred, the head geologist and my company supervisor.

“I’m relieving you for the rest of the well,” he said.

Fred and I had breakfast but he dodged every effort I made to try to find out if my rash actions of the previous night were met with agreement or discord.  I never learned.  No one in management ever gave me an atta boy, or reamed my ass.  I did not see James again because I never sat another well in that district.

I left Cities shortly after the incident, never learning from anyone in the company if I was a hero, or an idiot.  Looking back, I was probably more of the latter than the former, but it was not my fault.  Put in a position of responsibility for which I was sorely incompetent. I could only do the best that I could do.  As a Vietnam veteran, I well knew the look of desperation, and had only acted after seeing that expression on James’ big face.

There are few occupations as dangerous as drilling oil and gas wells.  I can live with the realization that I am probably a fool because it is better than the possibility, no matter how remote, of attending the funeral of a charred burn victim.

Eric’s Website

As a geologist, I “sat” many wells during my stint with Cities Service Oil Company.  Sitting a well included staying on or near a location during its drilling, usually in a small trailer.  The well site work was noisy, often dangerous but usually boring.  One of the last wells that I sat was anything but boring and it caused me to think about another line of work.

It was the dead of winter in Harper County, Kansas, twelve feet of snow on the ground.  I had a motel room in nearby Anthony where I would go to shower and take an occasional nap.  Drilling an oil well is a 24-7 operation that continues without pause until the intended total depth is reached.

The wildcat well was running low (a geologic expression that usually portends bad news) and we had just penetrated the top ten feet of the Viola Dolomite, one of the zones we had thought might be productive.  I saw some oil staining in the samples and had a slight “kick” on the gas detector so I called for a drill stem test to evaluate the zone, even though no one had much hope left for the well.

A drill stem test is simply a tool attached to the drill pipe.  It is lowered to the formation to be tested.  It is a little like putting your finger on the end of a straw and then sticking it into a glass of water.  When you remove your finger, the straw fills with water.  A DST is a little more complicated than that, but you get the picture.

A complete DST includes pulling the drill pipe, attaching the DST tool and then running it back in the hole.  Once the packers are set, the tool is open and shut for a prescribed period to see if anything flows to the surface (e.g. oil, gas or water).  After picking the packer seats, I left the location and went to my motel room for a much-needed rest.

A DST can take many hours, so that night I had a good rest.  I returned to the location to observe as they opened the tool for the first time.  We were running “low” and not looking very good, and I expected to see nothing more than a possible puff of natural gas.  What I actually saw came as an almost complete shock.

CONTINUED TOMORROW

Eric’s Website

While researching a story about Kansas, I came across some interesting statistics about that state’s liquor-by-the-drink laws.  It caused me to reflect on the liquor laws in the other states where I have spent time.

Kansas prohibited the sale of liquor-by-the-drink until 1987.  You could not buy a mixed drink, but there were many taverns where you could shoot pool and drink red beer (beer with tomato juice – try it, it is good) by the pitcher.  Kansas would not even let you have a mixed drink if you were flying over the state in a plane.  Airlines curtailed the sale of alcohol when in Kansas airspace.

Oklahoma was not much better when I moved here.  You had to bring your own bottle to a club, and then pay them to mix a drink for you.  If the people in the club knew you, you could get anything you wanted, a practice known as liquor-by-the-wink.  You could even get a roadie – the mixed drink of your choice in a large Styrofoam cup to tide you over on your drive home.  When Oklahomans voted to make liquor-by-the-drink legal, prices skyrocketed.  Go figure!

Nebraska has no adverse liquor laws that I know off and is one of the wildest states in which I have ever spent time.  The people there work hard, but party harder.

You would think that Texas would have the most liberal drinking laws in the country.  This is not so.  There are still dry counties, some adjacent to heavily populated areas.  Thankfully, most of the state has liquor-by-the-drink.

I grew up in northwest Louisiana.  I always enjoy visiting because you can literally “drive through” a liquor store and have a mixed drink passed out the window to you.  Driving with an open container is illegal; buying a mixed drink from the driver’s seat of your car is not.  Go figure!  The only other state where I have seen this practice is Georgia, but I do not know if this is still true.

As liberal as it may seem, Louisiana still has remnants of old laws.  In Oklahoma, you can buy 3.2 beer from a grocery store on Sunday - not so in Louisiana, at least north Louisiana, where there are still “blue laws” on the books.

I married my second wife Anne in Park City, Utah.  The State owned all the liquor outlets at the time.  Maybe they still do.  My memory is dim on this matter, but it seems like you could only buy mini bottles.  Alcohol was strictly regulated but a recollection that remains vivid in my mind is going to the little cowboy’s room at a bar in Park City and seeing two young men snorting a line of cocaine on the cabinet.

Many other states still have archaic drinking laws and I am sure there are many interesting stories out there.  Please let me know if you have one, as I would like to retell it.  In the meantime, I think I will fix myself a Wild Turkey and water, and then go to bed.

Eric’s Website

I took a trip from Oklahoma to my parent’s house in northwest Louisiana. I followed Interstate 40 west to Henryetta, then south down the Indian Nations Turnpike -- almost to the Texas border. Soon after crossing the Red River, you realize that you are truly in east Texas.

It was after five, already late in the day for mid September, when I reached the gently rolling, piney hills near Atlanta. Yes, Atlanta, Texas – probably named by Georgia transplants looking for fertile cotton-growing land. I had driven for miles in silence when I decided to play a CD. By coincidence, I chose a Leon Russell album that I had not heard in many moons. Russell’s songs were, it turned out, perfect for the remainder of my drive through an area that is sometimes called the "Pine Curtain."

When my Grandmother, Dale, was alive, she’d had a farm fifteen miles from Atlanta. It was down a narrow, winding blacktop road that continued past the O’Farrell Methodist Church. My Grandmother had been a longtime member. I presume the old wooden structure is still there, but I did not stray from my intended location to find out. An adventure saved for another day.

As I continued along the country road, shadows from tall pines beginning to darken endless curves, I had an epiphany. Having lived most of my adult life in Oklahoma, it suddenly dawned on me why East Texas is so guarded, secretive and mysterious. In Oklahoma, vision unhampered by trees, you can see for miles in all directions. In East Texas, you can’t see a hundred yards in any direction. Pine curtain, indeed!

Leon was belting out a tune, proclaiming his reasons for leaving the woman he loved and returning to an island. "To watch the sun go down," he sang, "And hear the sea roll in. I’ll be thinking of you and what might have been." His voice, at first blush, seems wavering and untrained. Then you realize his tremolo is calculated, his vocal range probably greater than Pavarotti’s. Like the haunting sound of a slide guitar in the able hands of a bluesy maestro.

To reach my Grandmother’s house, you would turn off the blacktop at the O’Farrell Methodist Church and follow a dirt road another five miles. She lived at the end of the road, both figuratively and in reality. Once, confronted by a dozen guinea hens in our path, my Mother said, "Slow down, Jack. You’ll hit the birds."

As if to prove her wrong, my Father stepped on the gas instead of slowing. "You can’t hit one of those crazy fools," he said. "They’ll get out of the way."

Three did not, laid testimony by the hollow thump, thump, thump of the birds being crushed beneath the car.

No one said anything, but I’m sure my Father felt terrible about the incident. Leon would have understood. You only have to hear his poignant lyrics to realize that.

I stopped at O’Farrell Road and took a picture. Everyone needs a memory. This is just one of thousands that sometimes recur when I hear a certain song, see a particular building, or drive a familiar stretch of road.

When I reached my parents home in Vivian, stopped the car and rolled down the windows, the sun was beginning to set, crickets and tree frogs, like Leon, harmonizing in the distance. As I switched off the singer’s last dulcet refrain, I realized there were people in my past that I had left behind in order to return to my own island, and that sometimes the destinations we think we simply have to reach are places that we never really left.

Eric’s Website

  I attended the Edmond Author Book Fair with my good friend and business partner r.r. bryan. We both renewed some acquaintances and had a good time.

The Author Book Fair is a yearly event meant to acquaint the public with the writer living in the little city of Edmond. It held at the Edmond Historical Society and Museum. About a hundred people attended, including Ray (r.r.), his wife Kelli, their son Jeremy and his wife Amy.

I didn sell many books, but I met many wonderful people, and I look forward to attending the event again next year.

Erics Web

A heartbreaking story about being homeless in Oklahoma.

http://newsok.com/norman-homeless-make-the-most-of-what-they-have-seek-to-improve-their-situations/article/3342301

Eric’s Web

  Here is a pic of old pilings protruding from the tranquil surface of Caddo Lake.  It was taken near Oil City in the Louisiana portion of the lake.

Erics Pics