A creek runs through the area where I live and trees, ferns and creepers grow thickly around it. As I walked past it today, I had to step around a tree that had fallen across the sidewalk. Long dead, it had shattered when it hit the cement. One protruding branch looked like an arm, extended, perhaps, in a last attempt to break its fall.

The fallen tree reminded me of the bony remains of an old man. It also reminded me of an email I got from longtime friend and fellow North Caddo High graduate Clarice White Stephenson. Clarice grew up in Oil City, ten miles down the road from Vivian. She asked me if I remembered something. She has a poetic gift with words and this is part of her query:

“I dreamed about "old" Oil City last night, in particular the Chester Hotel that used to sit next to the Ford dealership.  It was on the way home from school on the rare occasions my mother allowed me to walk with a friend. The unpainted frame hotel was never open while I remember it.  It sat on the east side of the "old highway" and railroad tracks, and there were usually old men sitting on wooden benches under the porch overhang.”

I do not remember the old hotel so I asked my Aunt Dot. Her husband Bert grew up in Oil City, his parents the owners of the Pourteau Hotel and Café. She didn’t remember the Chester either but reminded me of the proximity of Bert’s hotel to the train tracks. The same track continued through Vivian, Myrtis, Rodessa and Bloomberg, and there were similar train tracks that ran through Belcher and Hosston.

These little Louisiana towns are only ghosts of what they once were - no longer the boomtowns that king cotton and big oil built. Some vestiges, like the fallen tree across the sidewalk, remain but many of the buildings and people that populated them are now little more than a close friend’s fading memories and watercolor dreams.

Eric’sWeb

With the temperature approaching triple digits as I began my walk today, my thoughts regressed to a time when my then business partner John and I sponsored a men’s slow pitch softball team.  We did not win many games but we drank lots of beer, and the team was great for PR.

Most of the players on the team were geologists, or at least married to one. John and I traded off pitching duties.  Neither of us could claim to be either a great pitcher or wonderful athlete, but since we footed the bill, we took advantage of our power. No one complained because we also picked up the tab for the beer and pizza after the games.

We usually went to a now defunct pizza chain called Shotgun Sam’s because they were kid, and obnoxious softball player, friendly. It was a common occurrence for the rowdy members of the team to become even rowdier after a few pitchers of beer. One night, they became more boisterous than usual.

The evening started with an unexpected win on the softball diamond. Our exuberance began with lots of rah-rahs and high fives, and continued as the entire team and their families gathered to celebrate the win at Shotgun Sam’s picnic-style tables. What started out as rowdy soon became even noisier.

The management was usually tolerant because we always spent lots of money, and the pizza place served as a haunt for many other loud softball teams. Things would have been fine, except for one of the players dancing exhibition.

Terry was a geologist and single at the time. Caught up in the revelry, he stood on the table and began dancing to a Creedence Clearwater Revival record blaring on the jukebox.  Even that might have gone unnoticed, had everyone at our table not began chanting, “Take it off.”

Terry was no shrinking violet. Except for my friend Mickey, I have never known another male that liked to take his clothes off in public more than Terry. He quickly stripped down to only his red bikini briefs when the stunned manager could take no more.

Out of coins, the jukebox stopped abruptly, and all sound ceased in the large open room as the angry restaurant manager stood glaring at me, hands on his hips. Quickly, I handed wife Anne a handful of ones and nodded toward the jukebox. Instantly getting my drift, she hurried toward it.

My hand was still on my wallet and I extracted a hundred dollar bill that thankfully I had stashed for such an occasion. “We are so sorry for the disturbance.  We don’t win many games and this was a special celebration. If you will take this for your trouble, we will calm down, finish our beer and pizza and leave.”

Eric’sWeb

During the last oil boom, my friend Andy and I both liked motorcycles a lot.  One gorgeous spring weekend we decided to trailer our bikes to Fort Smith, Arkansas, spend the night and then ride up Highway 23 to Eureka Springs.  My wife Anne and his girlfriend Cathy would drive the car and trailer and meet us there.

We were both into racing-style bikes.  I had a pocket-rocket a 1000 cc Suzuki.  Andy had inherited lots of money and owned nineteen motorcycles.  The one he took that particular weekend was a special racing Laverda that he had imported from Italy.  It was Ferrari red and looked like something out of Star Wars.

Even though taking Highway 23, known locally as the Pig Trail, to Eureka was quite a bit further than the route the girls intended to take, we planned to beat them there and be waiting at the first available tavern, swilling beer when they got there.  It did not quite work out that way.

Highway 23 traverses the heart of the Ozarks and is one of the most scenic roads in all of Arkansas.  The road is hilly and narrow with long sweeping curves mixed with hairpins that almost come around and meet themselves, all the while bordering a dangerous precipice, often on both sides of the pavement.  And there are lots of trees to get in the way if you happen to careen off the blacktop.

My bike was fast, a Katana as I remember, but it was still in the early days of street bikes that emulated full-blown racers and kind of clunky around corners.  Andy’s bike had no such problem.  His expensive Laverda was a real racing bike converted to street use.  The first part of our journey I spent watching him disappear around distant sweepers, always far ahead of me.  When I finally caught up to him, he was standing beside his cycle on the side of the road.  Oh, and did I mention that Andy had a custom-made, bright red leather racing suit that made him look like Captain America?

A transducer or some other exotic electrical part was malfunctioning, causing the Laverda’s engine to die.  Andy tapped and wiggled it, finally getting fire to the engine.  It was not a permanent fix as we had to stop several more times down the road.  We finally decided to take an excursion through Fayetteville and see if we could find a replacement part to fix the problem.

We finally managed to drag into Fayetteville.  Yes, there were motorcycle shops there but none had the three-dollar component needed to repair the Laverda.  Someone at one of the shops directed us to a local junk shop where the owner, a cycling enthusiast himself, found a well-used part that somehow worked with the Laverda’s electronics.

There were no cell phones during the early eighties and no way to call Anne and Cathy to tell them about our problems.  With Andy’s cycle repaired, we raced the remaining distance to Eureka Springs.  Eureka is a scenic village in north central Arkansas.  It has one street that makes a large circle through the town built directly into the surrounding bluffs.  Many of the buildings are tri-level, having ground entrances on all three stories.  We quickly located Andy's car and bike trailer at a rustic biker bar on the edge of Eureka.

It was five in the afternoon when we joined Anne and Cathy in the dark bar, swilling beer and playing pool with some of the locals.  They were already deeply into their cups and none too happy about us showing up three hours late.  A group of our friends joined us a while later and we were all laughing, enjoying the situation.  Everyone except Andy, that is.  He wasn’t at all pleased as we ribbed him unmercifully about his twenty-five thousand dollar imported Italian racer’s electrical problems.

Eric’sWeb

While Oklahoma City is mostly flat, rolling hills dissected by many creeks exemplify Edmond. I realized as much as I walked through the neighborhood tonight.  Fayetteville, the home of the University of Arkansas, also lies on rolling terrain, only with greater elevation changes per mile.  Walking in Edmond tonight reminded me of an incident that happened years ago as a student at the university.

It was the summer of ’73, my master’s thesis and all my course work completed, and my orals taken successfully. Dr. K, my thesis advisor advised me that I had one more task to complete. The geology department had a tradition that every successful master’s student must buy the first hundred dollars of beer at a pizza place down the street from the University.  It was a task I felt sure I could handle.

Pitchers of beer were cheap in ’73, three bucks or so, as I remember. I arrived at noon and staked out several tables. I didn’t have long to wait. Professors and students began arriving shortly, all wishing me well and toasting to my future success. I don’t know how many people dropped by but I was the only one left at midnight when the place closed.

I had spent my hundred dollars long before twelve and I soon lost count of how many pitchers of cold beer we actually drank.  All I know is that I sampled every one of them.  My wife at the time, Gail, had driven me to the pizza place, a few miles from the condominium where we lived, but had not stayed because she had to work.  It did not matter. The moon was full and I felt very much alive, even though I was toasted.

I began walking, and soon pointing downhill on one of those infamous Fayetteville slopes. I took a deep breath to clear my head, and then began to jog. The jog soon became a run, and then a lung-busting sprint. I did not stop running until I reached the condo door.

The streets were clear, no cars or pedestrians to see a drunk and crazy college student, dressed in street clothes and wearing loafers, racing up and down the hills of Fayetteville. To say that I achieved a runner’s high would be an understatement. As I fumbled with my keys in the door, I felt as though I had climbed Mount Everest and was basking in the accolades of an appreciative world.

Tonight, as I climbed an Edmond hill on my walk through the neighborhood, I remembered the feeling with a smile.

Eric’sWeb

This is starting out to be one of the hottest Oklahoma summers in years. The temperature exceeded one-hundred degrees more than once in June, an unusual occurrence, and will probably top the century mark many times before September.  Because of the weather, I have settled into an after dinner routine.

I usually turn on the backyard lights, fire up a few Tiki torches and then sit by the pool until well after dark. My two pugs, Princess and Scooter, always accompany me. Sometimes I take my laptop and write by the light of the moon, fireflies and torches. I usually swim a few laps in the pool and then sit on the steps at the shallow end, playing with the pups.

Scooter is fearless and loves the water. Princess accidentally fell in once as a pup and is more leery.  Tonight, Scooter jumped down into the few inches of water covering the highest step.  Feeling cocky about his accomplishment, he jumped out and chased Princess as she watched with curiosity.  Close to the edge, he bumped her a bit too hard. She tumbled into the water, he following her. The plunge surprised them both.

They were only a few feet from the steps so I calmly pointed them in the right direction and watched as they scampered out of the pool and began shaking the water off.  Thankfully, neither seemed too traumatized by the experience.

I petted them both, removed their wet collars, dried them with a towel and then gave each half a chicken strip. Dogs are like humans.  If something scares them, they often go out of their way to avoid the experience again.

Some well-meaning people dunked Lucky, my Lab in the pool as a pup.  It frightened him to the extent that he never wanted to go swimming, even though it is in his retriever genes.  Something similar happened when my Mother was young.  She had a frightening experience in the water and consequently never learned to swim, but made sure that my brother Jack and I did.

I hope tonight’s pug dunk has no adverse effect on them.  For Scooter, I am almost positive he has already forgotten about it.  I not so sure about Princess, though.  Like my Mother and Lucky, she may already have a permanent phobia, further strengthened by tonight’s dip.

Eric’sWeb

Here is a recipe I found in the wonderful cookbook Hot off the Press – Good Cooking from the Pages of the State-Times Morning Advocate published in 1977 by Capital City Press.  This recipe was submitted by Lillian Gremillion of Frisco.

BEIGNETS (The French Market Type)

½      pkg. Yeast cake                                               3 ½  cups plain flour

1       cup milk                                                           ¾      tbs salt

2       tbs sugar                                                           1       egg

2       tbs cooking oil                                                   powdered sugar

Soften yeast cake in 1/3 cup lukewarm water to form a paste.  Warm the milk and add sugar, oil and yeast mixture.  Gradually stir in 2 cups flour and the salt.  Stir until it forms a batter.  Stir in egg until it is mixed well, and then add rest of flour.  Mix well.  Cover and set in warm place about 1 ½ hours to rise.  Take dough out and roll until about ¼ inch thick.  Cut in 2 inch pieces.  Place on cookie sheet or pan and let rise another half hour.  Fry dough until it is brown and then remove and let drain.  Sprinkle with powdered sugar and enjoy.

Eric’sWeb

I recently had a dream about Anne, my dead wife. She was writing something on a piece of paper. What is odd, the pen was in her right hand and she was left handed. I must have awoken during the dream, explaining why I remember this odd occurrence.

I thought about the dream that morning as I dressed and prepared for the day. Why would a person that did everything with her left hand be writing with her right hand? Perhaps I was looking into a mirror. Maybe, but then why wasn’t she beside me as I gazed into the reflection, and why didn’t I see my own image in the mirror?

I have often wondered if there is a parallel universe, or perhaps many parallel universes, connected by portals, or “doors” that are invisible, or at least not readily visible. Beings from one universe can visit another universe only ephemerally - as spirits or ghosts - and can only converse in the world of dreams. The ancients believed this.

It gives me comfort to think that a person that I loved very much is gone only from the physical body that I knew and recognized, and her soul is still present – just in another form.  As a scientist, this coincides with the first Law of thermodynamics that states that energy can be transformed (changed from one form to another), but it can neither be created nor destroyed.

If this is true, then the body can die, but not the energy of the soul. Released from the physical body, the soul could pass through the portal, or “door” into another universe, and perhaps into another physical body that is a mirror image of the one they just vacated.

Is any of this based on reality? I don’t know. Maybe I’m only dreaming.

Eric’sWeb

When many people think of New Orleans, they think of Mardi Gras, wild parties, parades and pretty girls baring their breasts.  The old city actually hosts many celebrations.  The biggest of these celebrations, after Mardi Gras, would be the Jazz Fest.  I attended my first Jazz Fest more than twenty years ago and it has only grown bigger since then.

I cannot remember which artists were playing during my first Jazz Fest but it is safe to say that every recording artist performs there sometime during their career.  In 2008, there were hundreds of acts, headlined by Billy Joel, Robert Plant and Allison Kraus, Al Green, Dr. John, Tim McGraw, Keysia Cole, Stevie Wonder, Jimmy Buffett, Diana Krall, Sheryl Crowe - the list goes on.

I even bought a couple of the signed, limited edition 2008 Jazz Fest posters online.  I purchased one many years ago on a whim and now it is worth lots of money.  Yes, they are more collectible than Mardi Gras doubloons.

During my first Jazz Fest, friend Ray and I were wandering through the French Quarter.  It lay deserted because almost everyone was at the Fairgrounds, attending the Fest.  We were browsing in a gift shop and there was an old woman sitting at a small table in the back.  She had a deck of Tarot cards and asked if I wanted my fortune told.

It was a bad time in my life.  My little oil company had just gone "belly up" and I was struggling to find some answers.  "Okay," I said, putting twenty dollars on the table.

I seriously doubted that the old woman could tell fortunes any better than I could, but when she began dealing the cards and telling my fortune, I truly felt that she was reading from the master account of my life.  She accurately told me things that had just occurred in my life and continued to tell my future.

"Everything will work out for you.  You will be redeemed."

 As the old woman predicted, everything did work out for me.  As far as the redeemed part, well, that is open to interpretation.

Eric’sWeb

A few years ago, Marilyn was driving back and forth to Dallas, watching her daughter Kate while her ex-husband and Kate’s father Rusty was out of town on business. One night while she was gone, I decided to go for a swim in the pool. I thought I was alone, but soon learned that I was not.

We have a large backyard with tall shrubs blocking the pool from the neighbors view.  It was dark and I was alone (I thought) so I decided to swim au natural, only the flickering glow of a few Tiki torches lighting the pool.  When something bumped into me in the water, I turned to see a black snake swimming in the water.

The young (small) snake had apparently gotten into the pool to quench its thirst and been unable to get back out.  I netted it with the pool net and put it over the fence into the grass. I got a clear look at the snake, as it lay exhausted from its lengthy swim.  She was almost solid black, except for a red stripe that stretched from its neck to the tip of its tail.  This was the first time that I saw the girl but it was not the last.

The snake is now six feet long, or so, and I have given it the name Nessie.  Marilyn and my brother have both seen her, as it likes to come rapidly out of the flowers and directly across your feet.  It has done this at least three times.

I Googled Nessie’s description and learned that she is likely a harmless garden snake known as a red racer.  The last time I saw her was last summer as she dropped at my feet when I opened the back door.  There is a bird’s nest in a flower arrangement on the wall and I suspect she was either trying to eat the baby birds, or the eggs. I did not do a thorough investigation of the nest to find out if she had succeeded because I did not want to disturb it.

Nessie’s precipitous fall initially frightened me and I wrote about the experience in an article called Hoodooed in Edmond. It took me only a moment to realize that it was only Nessie. She knew I would not harm her and she took her time crawling away, probably upset that I had disturbed her meal.

Nessie is still in the backyard – her backyard - just waiting to race across someone’s feet. She has the run of the place and neither Marilyn nor I would ever harm her, and neither would we let anyone else.

Eric’sWeb

The last full lunar eclipse reminded me of an episode in my past.  I was between wives and suffering from both bruised ego and self-esteem.  During that time, I met a young woman that I liked quite a lot.  She was blonde and gorgeous, and heavily into just about any form of drug that you could imagine at the time.

As a Vietnam vet, I had already experimented with drugs but I was hot for Miss C and desperately looking for a change in my dull life.  During the short five months that I dated Miss C, I achieved the desired change in spades.

Miss C and I had a short and fiery romance during which I met many of her often-shady acquaintances.  We once visited the apartment of a dentist.  The young man was handsome, refined and obviously intelligent and I wondered at the time why he was sitting alone in an apartment lighted only by candles and decorated with psychedelic rock posters.  He was high on weed as he listened to The Dark Side of the Moon, a moody album by Pink Floyd.

As Miss C and I smoked dope with the man, our conversation mostly concerned drugs and psychedelia.  I remember him saying that The Dark Side of the Moon was the most important album ever pressed.  He suggested that Miss C and I should attend a laser concert of Pink Floyd music held every Friday at the fair grounds.

Miss C and I did attend the laser concert along with a thousand stoned young people listening to Pink Floyd through state-of-the-art amplifiers while watching a laser light show on the ceiling and walls of the stadium, the odor of marijuana so strong that you didn't even have to light up to get high.

Months after splitting for good with Miss C, I read the young dentist's obituary in the newspaper.  Like so many young people during that era, he had overdosed, and died alone on the floor of his dark apartment.

Years have passed since that short episode in my life but whenever I hear Pink Floyd's rock anthem Eclipse on the radio, I remember - a common occurrence as the album remained on the Billboard 200 for fourteen consecutive years, the longest amount of time in history for any album.

I am sad because when it occurred, it was much too cloudy in this part of Oklahoma to see the rare eclipse, perhaps an inspiration for Pink Floyd’s song.  I doubt the young dentist ever left his dark apartment to try to experience such an occurrence.  I wonder what else he missed because of choosing drugs instead of life.

Eric’sWeb

We are in the midst of a heat wave in central Oklahoma, temperatures reaching 106 degrees already. I went for a walk before it got quite that hot, but it caused me to recall an event that had occurred years ago when I was in basic training at Fort Polk in Louisiana.

Our company had four drill sergeants that constantly told us how sorry we were and what poor soldiers we made. I was the heaviest I had ever been when the Army drafted me but I began dropping the excess weight rapidly.

The Army Diet consisted of this: you could eat anything the mess hall served, but you only had about ten minutes per meal to do it. There were no sodas, beer, in between or before bedtime snacks. Oh, and we were physically active about twelve hours a day, seven days a week.  I lost forty-six pounds during the six weeks of basic training.

A seven-mile forced march marked the last athletic challenge of our six-week course. It was June in Louisiana, the weather hot and sultry. The drill sergeants kept reminding us of the upcoming march, predicting that none of us would make it. They had Pluchino, one kid from New York believing it.

When the day finally arrived, Pluchino was distraught; convinced he would keel over in the ditch and die. Marching directly in front of me, he began fretting and talking about dropping out almost immediately.  We were all in great physical condition by this time, Pluchino included. All the talk of failure had simply psyched him out.

To help him along, I began saying things like “this is a piece of cake,” and “you’re looking great. Keep moving.” Soon, I began feeling like his personal trainer, determined that he was going to complete the entire march.  Unaffected by the heat, humidity and distance, he and everyone else easily completed the march.

As I walked slowly up a gentle Oklahoma hill today, I thought about Pluchino, remembering a truth I had long ago learned: all human beings are capable of much greater physical and mental accomplishments than they are aware.  All they need to reach the end of their forced march is lots of hard work and an occasional cheerleader walking close behind saying, “yes we can.”

Eric’sWeb

  There is a scene in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds where the protagonist, Tom Logan is deep in the Ouachita Mountains in search of his brother's missing journal.  He and teenage guide Mary Ann Stewart have spent the day, trekking steep paths and exploring caves, crevasses and mineshafts.  Taking a potty break, Tom ventures off the trail for a little privacy and finds himself surrounded by rattlesnakes.  The scene is fictional but, like a good fiction, has a basis in fact.

I attended geologic summer field camp in northern Arkansas, the terrain there similar to the Ouachita Mountains, but more eroded and less angular.  Joe Martinez, my mapping partner, asked me to climb a steep slope to see if I could find the contact between two geologic formations.  Boulders, slumping down the hill, covered much of my path up the slope, along with lots of gravel that had sloughed off the slowly moving boulders.  I moved uphill quickly, my thoughts focused on locating a color change in the rock.  Finally, I found it.

"I got it, Martinez," I yelled down the hill.  I did not hear his answer as I used a marker to pinpoint the location on my topographic map.

I had found the contact just as a wall of rock halted my progress.  I did not need to go any further because what I sought was right before my eyes.  What I felt at that moment was the elation of discovery.  When I turned back toward the valley, my euphoria turned to immediate dread.

I was on a flat plain of rock, standing amid a wad of snakes that stretched at least five feet in all directions.  The inert reptiles were huge, some thicker than my thighs.  When I saw a head protruding from the mass, I knew they were rattlers.  I had apparently walked across them in my zeal to find the outcrop contact (I know! It must seem like I'm making this up but every word is true.)

I tried to yell but my voice seemed locked deep in my throat.  Finally, I managed a squeaky call for help but Martinez was too far away to hear and nothing that he could have done anyway.  My heart was about to pound out of my chest as I searched my mind for a solution to my problem.  My back pasted the vertical wall of rock behind me.  The only way past the snakes was over them, a path I was not prepared to take, even if I could have persuaded my legs to move.

I finally caught my breath and grabbed a loose rock from the wall behind me.  When I tossed it on the snakes, they did not even move.  The next rock did the trick, causing the snakes to begin slithering away in all directions, providing a path of escape, one that I quickly took down the hill.  When I reached a large flat rock, I collapsed on my butt, refusing to move until my heart rate finally returned to normal.

The lethargic reptiles were sunning on the ledge, using sunlight to raise their temperatures - the reason that I did not suffer the death of a thousand bites.  Still, it was lucky that I was young or I would probably have had a heart attack.

Unlike Tom Logan, I still do not have a terrible fear of snakes but I have had an experience or two that gave me the insight to describe a person that does.

Eric’sWeb

Commercial coal-bearing sediments are located at or near the earth’s surface in many parts of eastern Oklahoma. Coal, first mined in Oklahoma in 1873, resulted in miners from many European nations immigrating to Oklahoma. They brought their culture and cuisine with them.

These German, Italian and eastern European immigrants adapted their culture and cuisine to the lifestyle of eastern Oklahoma, its people and its food sources. They learned how to brew Choc (short for Choctaw) beer from the Indians, and adapted their native cuisine to fruits, vegetables, etc. grown in Oklahoma.

The largest Italian population west of the Mississippi once resided in western Arkansas, eastern Oklahoma, and many wonderful restaurants such as Venetian Inn, Mary Meister’s, Pete’s Place, Isle of Capri and Roseanna’s still serve authentic Arkansas/Oklahoma-influenced Italian fare. Here is an Italian pasta sauce recipe with an eastern Oklahoma/western Arkansas flare.

v     28 oz whole tomatoes

v     12 oz tomato paste

v     1 med onion, chopped

v     1 to 2 cloves garlic, minced

v     ¼ tsp black pepper

v     ½ tsp thyme

v     1 tbsp parsley

v     1 tbsp oregano

v     1 ½ c Arkansas red wine (yes, grown from native grapes)

v     2 tsp salt

v     1 tsp sugar

v     1 tbsp olive oil

v     ½ c chopped green pepper

v     ½ c mushrooms

Use a 6-quart stew pot to sauté onion and green pepper in olive oil.  When onion is soft and clear, add remaining ingredients, except the mushrooms. Stir well. Simmer over medium-low heat for at least an hour (longer is preferable). Add mushrooms 15 minutes before turning off heat. Buon appetito, pardner!

Fiction South

I discovered the little resort town of Eureka Springs while at the University of Arkansas.  My then wife Gail and I would drive over once a month, or so, and continued to visit even after we moved to Oklahoma.  My first marriage ended but not my fascination with Eureka Springs.  My love and fascination continues and I have made the trip many times since my first visit.

My second wife Anne also loved Eureka Springs and she and I went there many times during our marriage, the last time about a year and a half before to her premature death.  She was sick during the trip but at the time we had no idea how serious was her cough and persistent lung infection.  Of all of our Eureka visits, one stands out in my memory, and for a reason I would never have anticipated.

Anne and I were close friends with Gary and Carroll.  They also liked Eureka Springs so a trip was not a hard thing to coordinate. Cheryl, a friend of ours, accompanied us on the excursion.  Gary's brother Roger and his wife Patty joined us the following day.

We had rooms at the New Orleans, a hotel in downtown Eureka built in 1892.  Although we did not know it, the hotel was in financial disarray during our visit.  The two elevators in the three-storied hotel were not operational and we had to use the stairs to reach our rooms.  Supposedly, a contractor had fallen into an open shaft, and there was talk that his death may have been self-inflicted because of a love affair gone sour.  There was also talk that the ghost of the contractor might still haunt the hotel.

The owners at the time had a large Maine Coon cat named Cajun.  The friendly cat usually napped on the front desk during the day and prowled the hallways and guest rooms at night.  Anne, Gary, Carroll and I were all cat people and instantly taken by the beautiful feline.

We had a great time, shopping, dining and sight seeing, but something strange and unexplainable happened our last night in town.  It was late, almost midnight.  Anne and I were lying in bed, reading when we heard something scratching on the door.

"It's Cajun," Anne said.  "Let him in for a minute."

I got out of bed and padded toward the door, expecting to see Cajun when I cracked the door.  Instead, I stared down at bare carpet and no kitty.  Then I heard a noise down the hallway.  Dressed only in my pajamas and house shoes, I hurried out the door toward the stairwell.

The old Victorian-style hotel was dimly lit and sound buffered by the porous wooden walls.  As I gazed over the banister, expecting to see Cajun walking down the stairs, I saw something quite unexpected - a smoky cloud, lit by an ephemeral, pulsating light.  My own unexpected reaction was to call out.

"Hey!" I said.

The specter halted, flashed brief phosphorescence, and then disappeared.

"Who was it?" Anne asked when I returned to the room.

I had no answer.

Eric’sWeb

Being from Louisiana, I was twenty-six before I ever went snow skiing for the first time.  I had such a horrible time that I was twenty-eight before I went again, this time with my second wife Anne.

Anne's roommate, Cathy, asked us to join herself and her boyfriend John on a ski trip to Red River, New Mexico.  They were going in an RV with a group of other people.  Anne convinced me that we would have a great time so I reluctantly agreed to participate.  Anne had a surprise coming when we met the group at the RV.

One of the couples on the trip was Gary and Carroll.  Carroll is a geologist and was Anne's best friend in grade school.  Her husband Gary became an Oklahoma County deputy sheriff, but he was a bookstore owner at the time.  Go figure!  In addition, there were two more geologists, Doug and his wife Mary, and Ken and his wife Cassie.  Altogether, there were five geologists and their significant others on the trip - a sure recipe for impending disaster.

John is no longer with us but he was one of the most intelligent persons that I have ever known.  He was tall, at least six-foot-six, and he liked his liquor.  At two in the morning, as we descended into the Red River Ski Resort, the roads turned deadly icy.  Luckily, John was wide-awake and drove us into the resort without mishap.  Anne and I were awake, holding on for dear live as the RV slid from one side of the road to the other, coming dangerously close to the precipice more times than I care to remember.

The sun was coming up over the mountains as we arrived.  Our reservations, we soon learned were slightly screwed up.  The ten of us ended up staying in a single large room with a single bathroom.  When Anne informed the very German innkeeper that our bathwater was tepid, we all proceeded to get an earful.

"If you don't like it, you will get out," she told us, her thick accent informing us that she was serious.

The ski trip went mostly without incident, except for my badly dislocated thumb that I got when I had a disastrous meeting with an unexpected mogul.  Oh, and I managed to drive about eighty miles in the wrong direction on the way home after being awakened at a gas station late at night to take my turn at the wheel.

We all grew close and Gary, Ken and Doug became the core of the softball team that I organized that weekend, John volunteering mostly to be a spectator.  The following year I really learned how to ski well, not sobering up for seven days - but that is another story.

Eric’sWeb

They say that life goes on.  Yes, it is true.  Shortly after the passing of my wife, I headed north to Garfield County where I had a well drilling.  My heart was sad but it felt good to be away from the sterile hospital walls I had haunted for the past fourteen months.  I spotted the derrick ten miles before I actually reached it on the flat Oklahoma plain.

We had a drilling break earlier in the day and I had called a drill-stem test for the elusive 1^st Wilcox Sand zone that we had encountered.  They were pulling the pipe as I drove up on the location.  Bill met me as I drove up on location.

Bill was the crusty completion man for the company to whom I had sold the prospect – the best completion man in the business, I heard.  He did not seem so crusty when he greeted me.

“Steve told me your wife just passed away.”

“Last week,” I said.

Bill slapped me on the back.  “Hang in there, Pardner.  It’ll all get better.”

It was a glorious early spring day, a slight nip still in the air.  We stood in the doghouse, fifteen feet off the ground, watching as the roughnecks yanked stand after stand of drill pipe.  The diesel engine groaned every time it pulled the heavy steel pipe toward the crow’s nest.

“I was about your age when my first wife died,” Bill finally said.

“You had a wife that died?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“She had cancer, just like your wife.”

The sun was beginning to set and the roughnecks had most of the pipe out of the hole and still no show.  I was beginning to get discouraged but Bill said, “We’re going to get oil on this test.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

Bill pointed at the swarm of flies, by now almost covering the rig floor.  “They smell it,” he said.  “It’s coming.”

The next stand of pipe the roughnecks pulled proved him correct.  Black gold poured onto the rig floor when they broke the joint between the two stands.  We were four stands off bottom, every stand filled with oil.

“How long did it take for you to get over the death of your wife?” I asked as they pulled the last stand of pipe from the hole.

“Never,” he said, “But it gets easier with every passing year.  I am remarried now. Oil wives have to be understanding and my wife is the best person in the world.  Someday soon you’ll find some one too.”

“But why us, Bill?”

“Unless they die in a car or plane crash, every couple, sooner or later, will have to face what we’ve already faced.  You might say we’ve got a leg up.”

We sat pipe on the well with high hopes.  The 1^st Wilcox Sand, it turned out, was depleted and we came up the hole to another zone that made a commercial, although marginal well.  I thought of this story when oil topped first topped a hundred-ten dollars a barrel for the first time ever.

Ninety percent of all the wells in the United States produce less than ten barrels of oil or ten MCFG per day.  Most of the majors left the country a decade or more ago.  What are left are mostly mom and pop oil companies drilling a few wells every year for the dregs of the keg.

Do not hate the oil industry.  For every billionaire like Boone Pickens there are a thousand, nay a million, Bills out there, and two thousand roughnecks toiling from dawn until dusk, often seven days every week.  If it were not for them, oil would already be two-hundred dollars a barrel.

Eric’sWeb

We experienced the “Summer of Love” in 1969, along with Woodstock and the first man on the moon.  There was also Vietnam.  I had just graduated from college and planned to marry in August.  Before the marriage occurred, I sat my first oil well.

It was early July and I waited in Houston, Texas for my first assignment as a mudlogger with a company called Core Lab.  My new mentor was a degreed geologist named Ed M. and we were soon on our way to Mississippi.  The 60s in Mississippi were still racially charged and we had to peel off the Core Lab sticker from our company car before driving into the state.  Many in Mississippi thought of CORE as the Congress of Racial Equality, not an oil industry service company.  Being from Louisiana, I was somewhat used to racism, but not even close to what I encountered in Mississippi.

My first well was a 17,500’ wildcat, just outside of Laurel, Mississippi.  Ed and I found a room at a local boarding house.  Ed liked boarding houses – he had married the owner of the last boarding house where he had stayed in Monroe, Louisiana.  I liked them too because I did not have a lot of extra money for the local Hilton.

The drilling rig was big and noisy, but I was not destined to see the well through its total depth.  Instead, I drove to Weslaco, Texas to finish logging a well drilling there.  I never finished that well either because Core Lab sent me to log yet another deep wildcat, this one near Talco in east Texas.

While young hippies were smoking dope, cavorting around with no clothes, and listening to rock music, I spent the “Summer of Love” on an assortment of noisy drilling rigs from Mississippi to Texas.  My boss begged me to sit a wildcat for him in Nicaragua and put off my marriage until later.  I thought about it, and the extra money he offered, but my bride-to-be would have none of it.

Five months later, I was married, drafted into the Army and training for a traumatic trip to Southeast Asia as a hired gun for Richard Nixon.  Yes, I missed the wild and decadent parts of the “Summer of Love” but I tried making up for it during the “Disco 70s.”  Maybe it is a good thing because I don’t think I could have survived both.

Eric’sWeb

I jogged today for the first time in almost three years.  I didn’t go very far before I had to start walking but I eventually covered a distance of more than two miles.  My mind cleared as I pounded the pavement, albeit slowly, and I remembered a time long ago when I experienced my first runner’s high.

I was a freshman in college, attending summer school after graduating high school.  Every evening, I would run with some of the members of the cross-country team that were also attending summer school.  We ran five miles every night at a fast clip.  The college, Northeast Louisiana had the best track team in the area and was the college home of John Pennel, the first man to clear seventeen feet in the pole vault, and perhaps the greatest vaulter of all time.

“The key to cross-country is that we run as a team,” John, the Captain of the team told me.  “We are no stronger than our weakest link and everyone on our team always finishes.  If we have to, we drop back and run with the weak man.  There are no stars on our team.”

I didn’t feel like a star but I was young and I was fast – very fast - and I sometimes had a tough time moderating my speed for what I considered a maudlin pace some of the others preferred.  One evening, toward the end of the summer semester, I could take it no longer.  With little more than teenage forethought (a phrase meaning zero) I took off at an unheard of pace, intent on running off and leaving everyone in my wake.

I did manage to leave the other runners in my wake, except two of them, that is.  When I reached Sterlington Road, finally pointing back toward the college, I heard someone coming up behind me.  I turned around briefly to see John, the team captain and Jim, the fastest cross-country runner in the old Gulf South Conference.  They were about a hundred yards behind and closing fast.  I am not going to let them catch me, I vowed.

Our course ended at the dormitory and you had to cross an athletic field to reach it.  We were about a hundred yards from the dorm when John and Jim passed me.  It didn’t matter because something else occurred that I had never before experienced.

Something so strange happened to me that it is almost impossible to describe.  I had no weight to my body and I had no feeling or sensation from my neck down.  It was almost as if my head had become detached from my body and was flying low to the ground, carrying my psyche along as an interested passenger.  It was a sensation you have to experience to appreciate.  It was my first runner’s high, and I will never forget it. 

I didn’t lose the race that day.  I won something so valuable that I have kept it with me to this very day.  I remembered when I ran for the first time today in almost three years.  I am no longer young, skinny or fast, but believe me when I tell you that I experienced a runner’s high before going a hundred yards.

Eric’sWeb

A fun read.

http://www.abebooks.com/books/big-longest-novels-tolstoy-dumas/hugo-kaye.shtml?cm_mmc=nl-_-nl-_-cme_longn-_-bot-cta

Eric’sWeb

I am always looking for tasty recipes that are also healthy. I found this recipe in an insurance company’s member update brochure, the author or authors not credited.  It sounds so good, and healthy, that I am sharing it.

Lemon Vinaigrette Grilled Chicken with Arugula

Ø      4 packed cups baby arugula leaves

Ø      2 packed cups baby spinach leaves

Ø      6 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice

Ø      ½ tsp salt

Ø      ¼ tsp ground black pepper

Ø      1 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Ø      1 lb. skinless and boneless chicken breast, cut into 4 pieces

Heat grill to medium-high heat.  If using a ridged grill pan indoors, set over high heat until very hot.  In large mixing bowl, combine arugula and spinach. Cover and refrigerate

In small mixing bowl, whisk lemon juice and salt until salt dissolves.  Add ground pepper and whisk in oil until combined.  Set dressing aside.  One at a time, place each piece of chicken breast between two pieces of wax paper.  Using the flat side of a meat mallet, pound chicken until evenly 1/8-inch thick.  If chicken pieces are thick, turning over several times may be necessary.  Coat chicken lightly on both sides with cooking spray.  If desired, season lightly with salt and pepper.

Grill chicken until white in center, turning once, about 3 minutes each side.  While chicken grills, pour dressing over greens.  Using tongs, turn until well coated.  To serve, place one piece of chicken on each of 4 dinner plates. Mound ¼ of salad on top of each. Makes 4 servings.

170 calories, 5 g. total fat per serving

Louisiana Mystery Writer

I jogged today for the first time in almost three years.  I didn’t go very far before I had to start walking but I eventually covered a distance of more than two miles.  My mind cleared as I pounded the pavement, albeit slowly, and I remembered a time long ago when I experienced my first runner’s high.

I was a freshman in college, attending summer school after graduating high school.  Every evening, I would run with some of the members of the cross-country team that were also attending summer school.  We ran five miles every night at a fast clip.  The college, Northeast Louisiana had the best track team in the area and was the college home of John Pennel, the first man to clear seventeen feet in the pole vault, and perhaps the greatest vaulter of all time.

“The key to cross-country is that we run as a team,” John, the Captain of the team told me.  “We are no stronger than our weakest link and everyone on our team always finishes.  If we have to, we drop back and run with the weak man.  There are no stars on our team.”

I didn’t feel like a star but I was young and I was fast – very fast - and I sometimes had a tough time moderating my speed for what I considered a maudlin pace some of the others preferred.  One evening, toward the end of the summer semester, I could take it no longer.  With little more than teenage forethought (a phrase meaning zero) I took off at an unheard of pace, intent on running off and leaving everyone in my wake.

I did manage to leave the other runners in my wake, except two of them, that is.  When I reached Sterlington Road, finally pointing back toward the college, I heard someone coming up behind me.  I turned around briefly to see John, the team captain and Jim, the fastest cross-country runner in the old Gulf South Conference.  They were about a hundred yards behind and closing fast.  I am not going to let them catch me, I vowed.

Our course ended at the dormitory and you had to cross an athletic field to reach it.  We were about a hundred yards from the dorm when John and Jim passed me.  It didn’t matter because something else occurred that I had never before experienced.

Something so strange happened to me that it is almost impossible to describe.  I had no weight to my body and I had no feeling or sensation from my neck down.  It was almost as if my head had become detached from my body and was flying low to the ground, carrying my psyche along as an interested passenger.  It was a sensation you have to experience to appreciate.  It was my first runner’s high, and I will never forget it.

I didn’t lose the race that day.  I won something so valuable that I have kept it with me to this very day.  I remembered when I ran for the first time today in almost three years.  I am no longer young, skinny or fast, but believe me when I tell you that I experienced a runner’s high before going a hundred yards.

Eric’sWeb

I had just started a new job in 1976 and was undergoing a divorce from my first wife.  With the divorce finally finalized, I found myself truly free for the first time in seven years.  I was already drinking and partying too much, so the only thing left for me was to buy a motorcycle.  When Dave, a fellow geologist and my closest friend, told me he was going to put an ad for his motorcycle in the newspaper, I naturally asked him how much he wanted for it.

"Five hundred bucks," he told me.

"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it."  I had never been on a motorcycle.

A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake.  Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle.  That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson.  The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike.  I know!  There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one.  Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.

I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway.  I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me.  I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement.  I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike.  Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.

My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it.  One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers.  Do not ask me to explain!  We were incompatible and did not hate each other.  I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.

The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times.  The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends.  Did I mention that we were all drinking?

No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches.  I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle.  It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.

Eric’sWeb

Caddo Lake, in east Texas and northwest Louisiana, is the location of Ghost of a Chance. Protagonist Buck McDivit leaves his home in Oklahoma and travels to east Texas. Someone has murdered his newly found Aunt Emma Fitzgerald. Buck is apparently the sole heir to Fitzgerald Island, the marina and fishing lodge on it. Here is an excerpt from the murder mystery Ghost of a Chance:

James T. "Buck" McDivit goes to Texas for answers. What he finds is a giant lake amid a maze of vines, creepers and lily pads - a place that seems more like Louisiana than Texas. He quickly realizes it is different from both states. Cypress trees grow in abundance, both in the water and out, and Spanish moss, wafting in slow-motion waves, hangs from their limbs, caressing the lake's coffee-colored surface. Only the head of a slow-swimming snake disrupted the lake's tranquility.

East Texas is a place far different from Buck's own home on the flat plains of central Oklahoma. Caddo is a mysterious locale that seems like a virtual botanical garden replete with subtropical greenery and a climate to match. Buck feels a thousand miles from home.

Interstate highway, replaced by rural Texas blacktop, had long since disappeared in his rearview mirror. Untended hollyhocks, blooming in lavender flower falls that saturated humid air with their cloying fragrances, grew wild beside the road. Damp pathways, none leading anywhere in particular, pierced the tangle of vegetation as a flock of cattle egrets winged high overhead.

Egrets were not the only wildlife in abundance, nor were oak, cypress and hollyhock the only plants bordering the road. Cascades of blue impatiens, crimson-blossomed rosebushes and clumps of green willow painted the terrain from a diverse palette of color.

East Texas is indeed an exotic and mysterious area. Buck meets Pearl and Raymond Johnson, caretakers of Fitzgerald Marina, and their two sons, Ray and Wiley. He soon learns that someone has designs on the islands and is intent upon wresting it from him.

Could it be ruthless land developer Hogg Nation?   Possibly Colonel Clayton Richardson, bank and ultra-wealthy plantation owner that has a mortgage on the island? Maybe it is Jefferson Travis, racist judge and head of the New Southern Right, a local hate group.

Could it be Bones Malone, amateur archeologist and relic hunter, and former lover of Emma Fitzgerald? Two recently released recidivists, Deacon John and Humpback, are also suspects. These skinheads are after lost Confederate gold from a sunken riverboat and don't care who they have to kill to find it.

Buck is instantly smitten when he meets beautiful Lila Richardson, local antiquities expert and daughter of Clayton Richardson. Is she as complicit as her father and racist uncle, Judge Jefferson Travis? Can Buck really trust her?

Many interesting characters inhabit Fitzgerald Island and the touristy village of Deception. Will Buck get the girl? Will he save the island? Will he save himself? Read Ghost of a Chance and find out.

Eric’sWeb

Several years ago, I serialized a story called Chicken Fries. It is a semi-fictional account of my experiences during a well I sat (watched) in the late seventies in Grant County, Oklahoma.  While fictionalized, the reality of the story is almost as strange as make believe.

If you can imagine the wild days of the California or Alaska gold rushes, then you can picture how wild Oklahoma was during the late seventies, mid-eighties. The state abounded with wild men, wild women and wildcatters.

People poured into Oklahoma from all parts of the U.S., and the world to cash in on the boom. Former used car salesmen began reaping the windfall profits encompassing the State, many selling multi-million dollar drilling deals that they couldn’t comprehend themselves.  Soon, there were shady promoters driving Ferraris and flying to Vegas in their own jet planes. Everyone in the State was getting rich and people all over the world wanted to get in on the action.

As a deal-generating geologist during this time, I sold a viable drilling prospect to a legitimate oil and gas company. Part of my agreement was that I would sit (monitor) the well from start to finish.  Anne, my deceased wife, and I rented a recreational vehicle to accomplish the task.  According to the man from whom we rented the RV, Wanda Jackson, Oklahoma rockabilly superstar, once owned it. Not only was Jackson a star in her own right, she dated Elvis Presley during his early years.

The RV was large, almost too large for the narrow Grant County roads, and well appointed.  A close friend Ray, also in the oil and gas business at the time, accompanied us on the trip north of Oklahoma City.  We parked the behemoth at the site of the drilling wildcat, soon learning there was no place close to get a meal. The nearest restaurant, the Curb Café, was twenty miles east.

The sheriff of Grant County owned the café and he was somewhat of a celebrity.  During the last real oil boom, crop circles and cattle mutilations dominated the news on many a day. No one really knew what caused the anomalies but much of the population suspected Satanists or extra-terrestrials.  The sheriff of Grant County was an expert on both and the person news agencies called whenever there was an incident.  During the late seventies and early eighties, there were incidents almost every week.

A well site geologist studies sample cuttings washed up from the borehole of the well.  This well had enough positive indications of success that everyone was prematurely counting their money. Despite the positive indications, the well ended as a dry hole, just one of the many strange occurrences during the ten days Anne and I “sat” the well.

Chicken Fries is a fictionalized account of our adventures in Grant County that summer. Truth, as they say, is often stranger than fiction. As I recall stopping on the country road, wondering about the flashing lights and the troopers in the adjacent field, gazing at a dead, mutilated cow, I understand the reality of that statement.

Eric’sWeb

    Some years ago, I was visiting Tulsa on business.  Tulsa is a gorgeous city in northeast Oklahoma.  A large river winds through it, making Tulsa one of the first cities in America with walking, jogging and biking trails.  On a whim, I decided to return to Oklahoma City along a different path.

It was mid March, much like today in Oklahoma, and there was still a nip in the air left over from a recent snowstorm.  Most of the snow had melted and now there was a warm breeze blowing in from the south as I followed the rural highway toward the little town of Red Rock.

Despite the recent snow, trees and flowers were beginning to bloom on both sides of the road.  Northeast Oklahoma is almost in the western foothills of the Ozarks, the terrain rolling and large boulders often appearing in the tiny streambeds that dissect the rolling terrain.

Red Rock is a small town, nay, a tiny town, I learned as I took an excursion off the highway.  Then I saw something quite out of the ordinary.  It was a very large building surrounded by acres of parking lots, filled with tour buses with licenses from all the surrounding states.

"They're here to play Indian bingo," a local told me.  "They give away thousands of dollars every week."

That morning in the Daily Oklahoman, OKC's newspaper, I had read about an old man that had vanished from his home in a snowstorm. As best as I can tell, he disappeared forever.  That gorgeous morning, driving from Tulsa through Red Rock, I concocted a story about that old man to set it straight, at least in my own mind.

Why did he run away from home?  How did he survive?  Whom might he have met along the way?  What was he searching for and what did he ultimately find?  I answered all these questions in my book Prairie Sunset and to this day, when I re-read it, the story still feels as real to me as that wonderful drive that I took from Tulsa to OKC that day, many years ago, just off the beaten path.

Eric’sWeb

The devastation of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana caused by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 ranks as the worst natural disaster in the history of the United States.  New Orleans alone suffered more than 1,500 casualties.  Bad as it was, the single biggest killer of citizens of New Orleans was not Katrina.

Some called New Orleans, founded in 1718 by John Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, a “damp grave.”  Each spring brought flooding to the city, along with rats, mosquitoes and snakes.  The mosquitoes and rats, in turn brought cholera and yellow fever.  These two diseases, along with many other tropical fevers, killed far more than 1,500 citizens of New Orleans that died because of Hurricane Katrina.

How many you say?  Perhaps as many as 41,000 people died of yellow fever from 1817 to 1905.  Many more likely died before 1817, but accurate records only began that particular year.

During the spring rains, as many as one-third of the population of New Orleans would evacuate the city leaving those that remained to face the wrath of the killer known as “Bronze John,” the “Saffron Scourge,” and “Yellowjack.”  From 1851 to 1855 along, 7,000 to 12,000 citizens succumbed to the disease, fully 10% of the population.

Families buried bodies in mass graves and the profession of corpse carriers formed to meet the daily need.  They would pull their carts down the streets, collecting bodies and announcing, “Bring out your dead,” to the people in their houses.

Yes, the people of New Orleans are a hardy bunch.  Hurricane Katrina was devastating, but the City survived – just as they have survived the hostile environment surrounding them for almost three-hundred years.

Eric’sWeb

I love cheese balls and found this recipe on the back of an Underwood Deviled Ham wrapper.  I haven’t tried it yet but the recipe sounds yummy, and Marilyn promises she’ll whip up one for Father’s Day.  I can hardly wait!

• 2 cans (4.25 oz. each) deviled ham.
• 1 (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened
• 1 package (.04 oz.) dry ranch style dressing
• ½ cup diced tomato
• 2 cups (8 oz.) shredded Cheddar cheese
• ½ roasted, unsalted sunflower seeds

 Directions:

In a medium bowl, combine all ingredients except sunflower seeds.  Refrigerate until firm enough to handle.  Form into a ball and roll in sunflower seeds.  Refrigerate until ready to serve.  Makes one large cheese ball.

Eric’sWeb

I recently wrote about Dave, my friend from whom I bought my first motorcycle.  He read the story and emailed me.  Dave, now living near Baton Rouge, was my best friend when I worked at Texas Oil and Gas.  The rock and roll world of the last oil boom was hell on marriages, including Dave’s and mine.  Both freshly divorced, we became close friends and Dave's email reminded me of one of our adventures.

Between us, Dave and I knew practically every female that worked in downtown Oklahoma City.  One night, six gorgeous oil and gas secretaries persuaded us to take them to see an Elvis impersonator.  Three of the young women were crazy about the recently departed Elvis.  The band, backup singers and Elvis impersonator sounded exactly like Elvis - well, if you'd had a few drinks and were sexually excited because of being the center of attention of six adoring ladies.

The concert was entertaining, further enhanced when one young lady in particular began hitting on me, another on Dave.  When we returned to my apartment, Dave and five of the women departed while Cyndi (not her real name) came inside with me for a nightcap.  Hell, it was two in the morning!  We both had our intentions and for the moment, I assumed that they were the same.

We were sitting on the floor in front of a fire that I had hastily built in the fireplace and we were groping around on the rug like a couple of boa constrictors in heat when the phone rang.  I have waited to say that Cyndi was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Mike (not his real name).  Mike was married, Cyndi only his girlfriend, and it is safe to say that he did not intend to marry her.  Cyndi and I were both single.

"Have you seen Cyndi?" he asked, she's not at her apartment.

"Maybe," I said, our legs encircled and my hand under her blouse, still clamped on her right breast.

I began to smell a setup when he asked, "Is she at your place?"  Cyndi, I suddenly sensed, had used me to make Mike jealous.  Still very much engulfed in the throes of extreme passion, I said, "She was here but she just left.  I think she’s on her way back to her apartment.  You need to go home," I told her after hanging up the phone and zipping up my pants."

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, standing and adjusting her own clothing.

"There's nothing I would like better than spending the night with you but I think we would both regret it."

Cyndi must have agreed because she was gone in less than fifteen minutes, leaving me to contemplate my unexpected predicament.  After all these years Mike is still my friend, as is Cyndi, although their relationship ended years ago.  I never made it with Cyndi but later I had a little fling with Sandy, one of the other girls that Dave and I took to the concert.  How did Dave do that night?  I never asked and he never volunteered the story.

Eric’sWeb

My first wife, Gail, and I separated a dozen times before we finally divorced.  She would move out of the house for months at a time, and then return, wanting me to leave for a while.  During this time, Ann, a draftsperson at Texas Oil & Gas, and a good friend of mine, introduced me to Carol.

Carol was a gorgeous and very intelligent blonde woman with whom I feel instantly in love (maybe more like lust!).  Divorced herself for many years, Carol had no dependence on men, but she smoked dope and used other drugs, including cocaine and LSD.  Oh, and she liked to drink and party.

Carol’s former boyfriend owned a strip joint on Pennsylvania.  One night, she, Ann and I visited the club to watch the naked dancers and shoot pool.  We had some drugs and a few drinks before arriving at the club, and many more drinks once we got there.

Ann, Carol and I returned to her little house much later that night (or early the next morning!).  We did more drugs and drank more liquor while listening to heavy metal rock music.  Somewhere along the way, Ann and Carol decided to paint my toenails.

I was young at the time and somehow made it to work on time the next day.  After work, I returned home to the mostly furniture-depleted house that belonged to Gail and me.  When she arrived at the house unexpectedly, I was standing barefooted in the living room.  I never thought about my painted nails until I saw her staring at them.

Gail never smiled or asked about my toenails.  She had come for something she needed.  After finding it, she left without saying bye.  Not really knowing how to get the polish off my toes, I kept my socks on until it finally wore off.  Carol and Ann laughed their butts off when I told them the story.  They never painted my toenails again, but they often threatened to do so whenever I would have too much to drink.

Eric’sWeb

I still remember my first trip to New Orleans.  It was with my Dad's sister, Aunt Carmol.  Carmol was a schoolteacher in New Orleans and she was quite a woman.  When WWII broke out, she joined the Marines and served with them throughout the war.

She was a liberated woman, even during a very un-liberated time in Louisiana.  When New Orleans first integrated, it was at her school and she walked the children into the building every morning to insure their safety.

When I was eleven and my brother Jack thirteen, she took us to New Orleans for a visit, and a grand tour of everything cultural in the venerable old city.  We stayed with her and her husband Tack.  We did not go alone.  She also brought two very young north Louisiana schoolteachers.  I cannot remember their names but I will call them Sandra and Dolly.

Sandra and Dolly were as excited about their first visit to the Big Easy as Jack and I.  They were both young and pretty and they flirted with Jack and me all the way to New Orleans.  As best as I can remember, it was the first time that I fell (no, tumbled head over heals!) in love.

Aunt Carmol showed us the French Quarter, the zoo and the museums and we saw little of Sandra and Dolly during our visit.  Before we left, however, we all took a nighttime excursion to the Lake Pontchartrain Amusement Park; Sandra was Jack's date, Dolly mine.  The memory of riding through the Tunnel of Love with Dolly remains as one of the all time highlights of my life.

Aunt Carmol died in her forties of a kidney disease that today’s medicine could easily cure.  I miss her but I feel that she is still somehow with me.  Her early passing goes along with my theory that only the good die young, in which case I expect to live until a hundred-twenty, or so.

Eric’sWeb