Author: donhall930

or

How I spent New Year’s Eve with Tom Bodet at Motel 6

I seem to have an affinity for finding Terrorist Organizations to hold me hostage.

          I think that my definition of a Terrorist Origination would be apropos here. In my mind, that Organization has a power that they wield indiscriminately and without any caring. You are at their mercy, and powerless to do anything about your situation as an individual. They may strike at any time. Usually, with an outcome that is less than desirable, and for which, there is never an apology, for in their eyes, they have done nothing wrong.

          The first, and most obvious one, is the NJDOT, with whom I had the displeasure of dealing with when we sold the Chatterbox.

          My latest hostage crisis commenced the day after Christmas at the airport in Houston. I was innocently waiting there to board an aircraft that would take me to Denver where there would be an hour plus layover before the next leg of my journey that would hopefully end in Durango. I say hopefully because there was one time, a few years ago that, had I not informed the Flight Attendant that we were going the wrong way, we would have landed in Grand Junction, Colorado instead of Durango.

           How could this be, you may ask?

          The answer is simple, but scary.

          I was sitting at the gate where there was one of the flight crew waiting also. Another member of a different crew showed up and I was able to overhear their conversation. It seems that here was to be a change in their assignments, namely, Grand Junction and Durango.

          Don’t know why and don’t really care except that someone forgot to tell somebody about something.

          Sounds confusing?

          Hey, I’m just the guy sitting and listening. Mind you, I have no idea at this point that what I’ve overheard will have any bearing on my situation. We board the aircraft, a smaller regional jet because the flight takes only 45 minutes from wheels-up to landing. I always get a window seat on the right-hand side of the aircraft because that offers the best view  flying southbound from Denver to Durango. There are nice valleys, the Flatiron Range is pretty to see behind Denver and then  the peaks of the San Juan’s  come into view. We took off and started to fly due west. I know this because we were immediately over the mountains, none of the usual scenery unfolded below me. Maybe they are going different route and will turn southward soon, I said to myself.      

Nope.

          Westward we fly.

           I now recall the conversation about the crew swap that I overheard at the gate. These guys think they’re going to Grand Junction! That is the only logical explanation.  By now I’m getting agitated because I can just picture the scenario in Grand Junction:

          “Good afternoon Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a slight mix-up and we are now in Grand Junction instead of Durango. Unfortunately, we cannot take off and deliver you to Durango, because this aircraft needs to be delivered back to Denver for its next leg. The airline will be happy to arrange whatever alternative transportation you would like for you to get to your final destination of Durango. Thanks for flying the Friendly Skies and we apologize for any inconvenience”.

          That is what I was afraid of hearing as I watched the unfamiliar landscape unfurl below as we flew further and further westward over the Rockies.  I said to my seatmate, “We’re going the wrong way.” He just kind of looked at me as I tried to explain what I thought was happening. He was mildly interested or amused; I can’t tell which.

          I finally couldn’t hold it in  anymore and signaled for the Flight Attendant. I told her we were going the wrong way. Her look was a tad on the incredulous side as you may imagine. I explained about the conversation that I had overheard at the gate. She looked at me with a “What do you want me to do about it,” look on her face.

          I asked her just to please, check with the Flight Deck and confirm that we are indeed in route to Durango, not Grand Junction. She breathed that “Ok, just to humor you” sigh, and walked to the front and picked up the phone that communicates with the cockpit. I saw her glance back at me as she spoke intro the receiver and they had a back-and-forth conversation for a few minutes. About 30 seconds after she hung up, we banked and turned 90 degrees to the left and headed southward. I know the geography over that way from driving that part of the state. I watched Telluride slide beneath us as the course correction was made . We came into Durango over a half hour late and our approach was from the West.

          I don’t know.

          Somebody has to pay attention to what is going on!

In the immortal words of that sports guy on TV, “You make the call.”

          Anyway, as you can tell, my confidence has been severely eroded.          As I stood there waiting for my first leg that would get me to Denver, the Gate Attendant got on the PA and announced, “Good Morning. Flight ### to Denver will be delayed for a few minutes as we are awaiting the arrival of one of the Flight Attendants. We are not permitted to start the boarding process until the full complement of crew is aboard. We apologize for the delay, and we should start the process soon.”

          As you can imagine, the collective groan from the Gate was definitely audible. The first thing that goes through your mind, at this time, is my ‘connection’. That dirty word that gives us all a reason for Xanax.

          We all wait patiently.

           No that is a lie.

          We all waited impatiently for the next announcement. In the meantime, I receive an auto-text from United. ‘Hi! We’re excited to have you on board with us today. Unfortunately, there will be a slight delay in your boarding time. We will have you on your way shortly. Thanks for choosing United.’

          What a load of crap.

          Now the next announcement from the overly-friendly-not-really-sincere-because-my-shift-is over-soon gate attendant “Good morning, Unfortunately, we have not yet located replacement for the crew member. We anticipate that there will be at least another half-hour delay. We apologize sincerely for any yada-yada-yada…..”

          Then another text message from Miss Auto-United-Text-Maker.

          This post is already too long and there is still a way to go so I’m going to ‘cut to the chase’ Two and a half hours later, they finally scrape up, twist as many arms as needed, or threatened other crew members from arriving flights to work this one. It turns out that, in the beginning, there were zero flight attendants for this flight on board.

          By now, I’ve taken my Xanax because I’ve definitely missed my connection to Durango. So now there is no way that I’m going to trust anyone to re-book me. They’d probably send me to Grand Junction. I got on my phone, located the next flight out of Denver to Durango and booked it. I would worry about the refund for my original flight later. I just wanted a seat!

          We finally board our aircraft, usual process, and are now waiting to push back from the gate. Mind you, this plane has been sitting there for two plus hours and everyone on the ground crew knows that it is late.

          Here it comes: “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it seems that Murphy is working against us today. Someone on the ground crew reassigned the tug that would normally have pushed us back to another flight. It shouldn’t be long, maybe ten minutes or so and then we’ll have you on your way. Thanks for your patience and understanding. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

          You can’t make this stuff up.

          I looked at my watch and tried to do the math with a one-hour time difference. It’s going to be close. We landed in Denver and with Covid making disembarking a different process, my turn has to wait. I finally get onto the concourse and start the jog to my next gate which, of course, is at the absolute last, ‘end of the world’ gate.

           It always is.

          I flag down one of those jitney drivers and implore him to ‘step on it’ as I regale him with my tale of woes. His reply was re-assuring, and he was possibly the only person that I encountered that day with any sense of urgency.

          “Don’t you worry Sir; I won’t even stop for anyone else. This is a direct non-stop flight to your gate!” Horn beeping, old ladies and their walkers jettisoned, and passengers being run over, we zoomed through the crowds in a way that would have made Moses proud as he parted the Red Sea. Screeching to halt in front of my gate I hear, “Durango! Durango! Hey, you goin’ to Durango?  I tried my best to get the boarding pass up on my phone as the groundcrew guy waited (?) to push me forward. As soon as I boarded, he closed the door and saluted the crew.

          I was aboard.

          Thankfully, the days spent with my daughter Lorelyn, and her husband, Travis were really nice. It was a great visit, I helped with some projects and was able to get an ‘Ancestral Puebloan’s’  expedition in. There will be photos in a subsequent post.

          Five days later I am back at Durango Airport to get my next flight to Denver. The day is cold and crisp, not a cloud in the sky, perfect for flying. We are the first flight of the day and fortunately , we don’t have to wait for an aircraft to arrive to get us. The last flight from the previous night is still there, waiting patiently for us.

          With frosty wings.

          I looked out at it basking there in the morning sunlight and said to myself, “We are going to have to be de-iced.” A fairly normal procedure.

          We boarded without any issues and waited.

          You know what’s coming next.

          “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, there will be slight delay as we get de-iced. It should only take about ten minutes or so and then we’ll be on our way. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

          Now I’m not worried much, yet. I have 90 minutes between flights, so I should be ok. Now mind you, no one flies from Durango to Denver for fun, they all need to make … here it comes…. ‘a connection’.

          As we watched the de-icing guy do his thing, I wondered why the delay. I knew it need to be de-iced, why wasn’t the crew ready to do this process sooner? Who knows?

          When the de-icing was complete, we just sat there.

           Ok, now what’s wrong?

          We sit there a while longer.

          Now the Captain gets on the PA, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we seem to have a small mechanical malfunction in the starter motor for one of the engines. We’re going to cycle through the start-up sequence again and see if that fix’s it. If not, we will need to call on of our on-call contactors or fly someone in on the next flight from Denver to fix it.”

          Ok, that’s it, I’m done.

          The passengers started talking amongst ourselves, and the lady across from me asked, “If I was going to drive to Denver” I guess hoping to get a few of us together and carpool. I replied, “No mam, I’m going to rent a f##king car and drive to Houston.” She just nodded.

          The flight attendant, sensing that a riot was about to break out, tried her best to keep cool. She looked at me and I said to her. “Just get me off of this plane.” There was not a smile or anything like it in my voice. She gulped and nodded also.

          Inside I went to the Gate Attendant and said, “Cancel my flight and give me a refund.”
 Five minutes later I was at the Enterprise Rental Counter.

“Good Morning Sir, how are you today?”

          “I was fine until United screwed me for the last time. Do you have any Maserati’s or Lamborghini’s to rent? He laughed, “All I have is a Nissan Versa”

          “I’ll take it.”

          I got into my new best friend, Miss Versa, and went back to my daughters’ where she set me up with snacks and supplies for the two-day drive back to Texas. If you have only lived on the East Coast and driven around there, you have no concept of how gigantic some of our Western States are.  To drive across Texas is a two-day affair, its 1000 miles from East to West. This particular trip was 16 hours of driving.

          I started out at around 11 AM and drove down into New Mexico, finally on my way back home. The drive southward was just incredible, see photos attached.

There was a time that I drove for 75 miles with no one in front of me or behind me. I took this opportunity to play ‘Slot-Car Driver’ and stay in the exact middle of the road, leaving plenty of room on either side for unanticipated course-corrections. There are no lights, and it is REALLY  dark!

          I finished the day in Roswell, home of the infamous UFO sighting in 1947, at around 7 PM New Year’s Eve. Tom Bodet was at Motel 6 waiting for me, yes, with the light on.

          I awoke at 3 AM and was back on the road by 3:15, obviously with the road all to myself. I hit Interstate 10 in Texas at 8 AM, sailing along at 80 MPH, which by the way, is the speed limit. The weather was just gorgeous, not a cloud in the sky and a brisk 14 degrees. But apparently a swift-moving system brought about 10 inches of beautiful white fluffy stuff down the night before, please note how nice it was in the photo.

          The only downside is that they are not really skilled at clearing the roads from inclement weather down there.

          Screeching to halt about 20 miles onto the highway, I could sense that this was not a good scenario.

          I was correct.

          You know, when you sit on a highway, not moving, you notice lots of things, like the poor lady in front of me that probably had way too many cups of coffee that morning and never intended to spend that much time without a bathroom. Yup, she needed one three times! Her husband would judiciously open both driver-side doors and stand guard as she went in between them. Or the truck driver who decided to clean out his rig while hanging out of it. He was not the only thing hanging out, check the accompanying photo. I couldn’t resist.

          After sitting in the exact same spot for 3 plus hours, we finally started moving. Up ahead, the carnage on the road was still evident. 18-wheelers all askew, one car upside down, and numerous other vehicles just parked and left there.

          But it was still a beautiful day!

          Needless to say, a three-hour delay never turns into 3 hours on the other end. For some reason it always seems to work like high school math and at least square itself. I finally rolled into Brenham a little after 8 PM.

           I was scheduled to arrive in the early afternoon.

          It kind of reminded me of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

          I’m not sure if I was Steve Martin or John Candy.

Please forgive me if I take a moment for a little self-indulgence.

          Yesterday we finally had a closing on the Chatterbox.

          Yay !!!

          You may ask, “What took so long?”

          There is a remarkably simple explanation to this debacle, and it is all summed up in one easy acronym, NJDOT.

          It is a terrorist organization.

          Anyway, it is finally over. Two plus years ago was our last day. A few days after that we had a get-together for any and all, present and past employees. A chance to come in, see old co-workers and say good-bye to the one old friend that we all had in common, The Chatterbox.

          The next morning when I came into the Chatterbox, I sat down and wrote the following essay.

          I hope you like it.

          Thanks for the indulgence.

It was early evening on April 30 of 2003. Twilight was setting in and I was still able to walk around in the cavernous dining room without turning any lights on.  I ambled around flipping various switches saying to myself, “I wonder what this one does?” 

        About an hour previous, I was handed the keys to what would become The Chatterbox Drive-In. Poking around the rest of the building and still flipping random switches, I wondered again,

         “What have I done, what have I gotten myself into?”

        This morning I walked into the same cavernous dining room and flicked on the small lights over the booths that light the room with an incredible welcoming glow. It was beautiful.                                                                            The sights and sounds of this once vibrant building, while now somewhat reduced, are as much a part of me as anything that I’ve ever done.

         But little by little the building is slowly dying.

         Not from any disease or ailment, just from the natural course of events that change things from year to year.

         Last night this “home away from home” was filled with many of its past and present workers. We closed the doors this past Monday, Labor Day, for the last time.

        A “farewell party” as it were. 

        It was a truly magical event that will help the Chatterbox live on in the hearts and minds of those of us who love it so much.                                                                                I know that our customers loved it, but until you live and experience the true everyday “life” of the Chatterbox you cannot appreciate the inherent vitality that was here……..

      Runners sweeping in and out of the kitchen where, if you listen closely when the door opens, you can hear the crackle of the fryers, the incessant whirr of the giant exhaust fans, and the seemingly incoherent chatter on the cooking line that keeps the kitchen running like a well-rehearsed ballet.

        “6 burgers all day”

        “Drop 3 dogs”

        “Where’s my clams?”

        “86 Lobster rolls!”

        “T5 is ready!”

        Ding! Ding! Ding! goes the bell, hurriedly summoning a food runner back who was coming anyway.

        It was all music to my ears.

        Out front, the constant patter of the customers, talking over the music, sometimes made listening to orders a challenge.

“Did you say Chatterburger or Cheddar burger?”

“No ice?”  

Or the ever popular, “You want fries with that?”

         Again, music to my ears.

        Now there is silence.

        Even the hum of the ice machine is gone.

        Somehow it seems……. right?

        For 15 years I came here early in the morning, every day, even Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter.

         Just to check.

         Make sure all is good.

         Now I still get here early.                                                               I’m not sure why.  There are no orders to place or receive, no employees to greet or customers to serve.

        Only silence.

        As I sit here and write this, I am both smiling and on the verge of tears. The Chatterbox was a singularity, a compendium of human recipes that when mixed together defied the old adage,

“Too many cooks spoil the broth.”

        I think we were the best “broth” I have ever had.

Don Hall

5:30 AM, Sunday, 9/9/2018

I found my new favorite State.

Tennessee!

          Now THIS is a State with a sense of humor.

There are several classic cinematic dialogue lines that have been uttered over the years,

          “ I love the smell of napalm in the morning!”

          “Luke, I am your Father!”

          “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

          “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

Most of us are familiar with the Christmas favorite,

          National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase.

           The BEST line from Christmas Vacation…..

          When Clark looks outside in the morning and sees Cousin Eddie with a large hose in his hands emptying the holding tanks on his motorhome,

          “Shitters full!”

          Now take a look at what the Tennessee D.O.T. has posted on their electronic highway message boards…..

I rest my case.

You may remember the quandary in the post entitled, “Soliloquy” To Retire or to Re-Tire.

          Unfortunately, we need to do both at the same time. We came back East to tidy up a few loose ends and while we were here, I took advantage of our proximity to Tire King in Sussex. Charlie is a good friend and was a good customer of mine at The Chatterbox. Before we left to head West, I had been meaning to get the motorhome over to Charlie so he could give me an opinion on one of the tires. It seems that the dreaded “Dry Rot” had infested it and I did not know to what degree it was considered an issue. I knew that I could trust Charlie to give me a straight answer.

          It was not the answer that I wanted.

          Not only was this tire (right front) not safe, but it turns out that the right side of the motorhome was probably exposed to the sun more than the left side because Charlie could see some issues starting on the right rear tire as well. He also discovered slit in the left rear tire. There are six tires on the motorhome, and we are now up to three that should be replaced. The two inside ones on the rear axle ,which are not exposed to any sunlight were fine. Charlie’s recommendation was to get four new tires, that way they will all be the same age and wear and put them all around on the outsides.

          He said and I quote, “ It’s really nasty when one of these blows. It tears up your motorhome. Just go over to Mike Ceccini at Country Classic Autobody and see the bunch he has over there waiting to be repaired. Not many places do repairs on these things.”

          Driving around the country, away from our normal homebased local repair facilities is nerve wracking enough without adding issues that can be simply avoided.

          Needless to say, our departure Westward will be delayed by a day so that the work can be done.

          Interestingly, Charlie’s tag line which he has had since he opened about 35 years ago is:

          “Tire King, Where anyone can afford to Re-Tire”

          I guess so!

Do you ever find yourself questioning the decisions that you have made in your life?

          Do you find that sometimes you need to rationalize said decisions in order to justify your position when someone asks you why you stand where you do?

          Are you constantly searching for concrete examples of your rationalized reasons for your behavior?

          If you are basically insecure in any way (like I am) having these concrete examples to fall back on gives one some reassurance that the correct decision has been, in fact, made.

          These examples stand out as bold facts in the otherwise namby-pamby world of always questioning oneself.

          Why did I leave New Jersey?

          What am I running away from?

          Can’t you just travel a bit?

          Why does it have to be full-time?

          Are you afraid of long-term commitments?

          All of these, and countless more questions like these, beg for well thought out answers.

          Here it is.

          I have found the root solution to all of our collective wishy-washy, Charlie Brown, basic insecurities.

          Yup!

          It is as simple as that. There on the shelf sat these babies. Never seen them before, not sure if anyone else has anything like them. H.E.B. (our Texas based grocery chain) manufactures them themselves in their own facility.

          Need I say more?

          But there is still a reason to travel back east.

          Gravy Master.

          Seems that you cannot buy Gravy Master anywhere in the South. I have been through quite a few States down here so far with no luck in procuring any. Not even before Thanksgiving.

          Down here gravy is White, you know, as in Biscuits and Gravy.

          It is delicious, but not for turkey!

Alas, the quest continues, but at least I am now comfortable with my decisions and potato chips (So far)  😊

Would you go on a picnic to anywhere with the word Ant in it?

          How about dinner?

          We did.

          In downtown Brenham, the seat of government in Washington County, there is a street named Ant Street. The genesis of the name escapes me, but on Ant Street you will find the Ant Street Inn. I guess the owners could not pass up an opportunity to cash in on such a bizarre name for their establishment.

          Brenham, and Washington County in particular, is the “Birthplace of Texas”. It was here that in 1836, a group of “Texans” met to declare their independence from Mexico in a little ferry-crossing town down the road from Brenham by the name of Washington-on-the-Brazos.

          Brenham is one of those towns that, through the decades, has been progressive-thinking and fortunate enough to move forward in time while embracing its past. The downtown Historic District of Brenham sparkles with period architecture while inside these buildings there are a proliferation of unique enough businesses to give  Brenham a coveted spot in local destinations.

Galleries, breweries, restaurants, inns, and retail shops are on practically every street in the District. Around Washington County you will find very nice lakes and parks and this region has some fine vineyards to add to its attraction. Just west of here, in the Hill Country, is where most of Texas’s wineries are located, but the spillover into this area gives a wine lover some nice choices to visit.

          The homes in the surrounding area are typical Southwest. Sometimes you feel like you are in a third-world country and then you go around the bend and there in front of you is a ranch that makes Southfork on Dallas look like an ordinary development house.

          JR would not be happy.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

But right down the road and actually on the other side of the tracks……

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

           And it seems that the western tradition of having some kind of gateway or signage over the driveway to proclaim the entrance to even just a regular home has been kept intact. Some of the ranches have quite the elaborate entranceway to their spreads. Cattle and oil, the Texas standards, are the money drivers around here. No surprise there!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

But Brenham has at least one VERY IMPORTANT corporation that makes its home here.

          Blue Bell Ice Cream!

          Blue Bell Ice Cream is the third best selling brand in the USA and it is only available in 22 states. The Company started in Brenham in 1907. It is a premium ice cream, meaning high milkfats and low overrun (or air). Remember Tom Carvel on his commercials yelling in his raspy voice, “We use no air pumps!”. Well, that was his way of letting us know that his ice cream did not have any air pumped into it to increase yield. Overrun is an accepted ice cream manufacturing practice, but the more that is used, the less quality is the product and the manufacturers are regulated as to how they label their products, i.e. Premium, Super-Premium, and Ultra-Premium. Any of the regular store brand ice creams are generally about 50% air, which, obviously , is not premium.

          Enough of Ice Cream 101!

          Blue Bell been owned by the Kruse family for over a hundred years and back in the day, when they made their Cookies and Cream flavor, line workers would open up regular bags of Oreos , crush them, and then mix them into the process! A dedication to quality that lasts to this day. (But I am sure that they buy Oreos in bulk now!)

          A visit to the creamery and the requisite sampling are must-dos for any visitor to the area. You can have as many samples as you would like (if you are willing to stand on line for a while 😊)

          Back to Ant Street we go.

          The Ant Street Inn is a Bed and Breakfast with 15 unique and (some haunted!) rooms. Stained glass and period antiques abound in this two-story 1899 building. It was originally built by the Schmid Brothers as the premier mercantile building in downtown Brenham. Now it is home to a business that sports the overnight rooms, a ballroom that can seat 250 guests, and a wonderful restaurant, The Brenham Grill. That is where we had dinner. The menu is somewhat eclectic, from Mom’s Meatloaf and several Italian dishes to Carne Asada and other Southwestern tidbits.

All served in a Dining Room that has an authentic Old West style bar and incredible mid-room light source that defies the use of the word chandelier. We had a delightful evening and a very nice dinner. As you can see, the Ant Street Inn is just one of many reasons to visit Brenham and the surrounding area.

          As I am a card-carrying arachnophobe, I do not know what we would have done had it been located on Spider Street!

Scene: Officers Jim Reed and Pete Malloy (Kent McCord / Martin Milner) in Squad Car patrolling streets on the outskirts of Corpus Christi, Texas. Usual banter between them when the radio crackles to life:

“One Adam -Twelve, see the man in the motorhome stuck under the Route 77 northbound underpass to Labonte Park.”

Reed: “Roger Dispatch, we’re on our way.” (Turning to Malloy) “Again?”

Malloy: (Shaking his head in disgust) “Jeez! When are these motorhome Bozos gonna learn that you can’t squeeze large solid objects under a low bridge? It’s not like there isn’t a sign there!”

Reed: “Yea, this’ll make it, what, three so far this week? I wish I had the local RV roof repair concession around here!”

Malloy: (Rolling his eyes) “Wonder what we’ll find this time, the last guy was going so fast he peeled it back like a can of sardines! Did you catch the look on his wife’s face? Boy was she pissed!”

Reed: (Laughing) “Yea, I’ll bet she made him get a third job just to pay for it!”

Malloy: (Pointing out of the windshield) “We’ll find out soon enough, there they are!

Reed and Malloy exit their squad car and peer up at the top of the motorhome which is now sporting a brand-new Sunroof. All of the satellite domes, A/C units, and antennae which were once sprouting proudly from the roof, are now deposited in a jumbled mess behind the motorhome.

          Well, that’s TV for you, always exaggerating the specifics to get ratings! I guess that could have been the scenario, but as Sergeant Joe Friday would say, “Just the facts Ma’am, only the facts”, here is the true story of the “Close-Encounter of the Underpass Kind”.

          We were travelling on Route 77, just north of Corpus Christi, Texas. It was getting close to lunchtime and it was time to switch drivers, so we started looking for places to pull into. Paula was driving and I was Navigator. Looking at the map and my Google app, I could see this Labonte Park coming up soon. I suggested that we use that for our stop. It was located on the other side of the road, but typically, these parks are accessible to both sides, so we watched for the signs. Sure enough, we immediately spied the usual brown “Park” type signage coming up. Getting into the right lane, more signs, ok, here is the ramp, nice straight exit bringing us down a sloping grade and running parallel to the highway for some time. We could see that we were going to be directed left and under the roadway to the Park on the other side.

It was a good thing that the road had a right-angle turn to it which basically brings us to a stop before making the turn because there in front of us was the Underpass. Not just any underpass mind you, it was the sinister looking one with plenty of pre-existing damage to its concrete and steel.

          Grind to a halt.

          Signage reads 12’ 6”

          We are about 12’ 3’’

          Should be able to clear it, but….

          Ok, get your Geometry books out now, the approach to said underpass was not level! There was a small ramp getting into and out of it. We are 40’ long with the wheelbase shorter than that but if one set of tires is down and on level ground while the other set is still on higher ground, that actually increases our effective height! And besides, who did, and where from, were these measurements taken? Remember, these are the same people who did not bother to put up any Low Clearance signs before exiting the highway, and guess what?

           It’s a One-Way ramp going down to this turn!

          Trapped!

          I got out of the motorhome to survey the situation. In the meantime, an older couple who were fishing at the end of the road by the underpass, were frantically waving their arms at us in an effort to stop us before we came to disaster. I exited the motorhome and the gentleman said to me,

          ”Yo gonna hafta call the Poeleece ta getcha backed up da ramp!”

          We agreed.

          No sense in even trying to get under it. Even with one person outside to eyeball it and other driving, it just was not worth it. So, onto the phone we went. Three transfers later we finally got to the correct dispatcher who handles the “Motorhomes stuck at a one-way dead end because there is low clearance underpass and can’t get through” situations.

They all were very nice and it wasn’t too long before the Officer from the Corpus Christi Police Department showed up.

          Grinning from ear to ear, he immediately put us at ease and even jokingly asked if I could do one of those high-speed J-turns that whip you around basically in the same spot. When he learned that Paula was driving at the time, his kidding got even more intense. Paula was a good sport about it and threw me “under the bus” because it was my suggestion that we come down this way. The Officer lamented to us that the State (isn’t it always the State?) D.O.T. does not have adequate signage on the highway warning everyone of a possible height issue.

So, we got a Police Escort back up the one-way ramp. He then blocked traffic so that I could execute a many faceted K, J, L, (pick a letter) turn and get onto the ramp to the highway.  Then drove over the grass to get behind us (still with lights a-flashing) to help us get up to speed without being rammed from behind.

          This officer was so pleasant and witty that we did not mind our short delay on our northbound journey.

          Paula remarked, “This will make a good post!”

          Hopefully, it did.

Hope that you enjoyed these!

Leaving today to go back to Central Texas, (Road Trip!)

To Retire or not to Re-tire?

          That is the question.

          Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous dealer prices, or to take arms against a sea of boredom, And, by 0pposing, try and figure out where to spend a few bucks while on a fixed income.

(In a) Hamlet (by-the-Sea) Act III Scene 1 (South Padre Island, Texas)

          Bill borrowed this quote from me when he wrote probably his most famous work, Hamlet. He took it out of context and was trying to decide if Hamlet should live with all of his problems or just end it all.

          I was talking about finally getting to retirement age, trying my best to keep busy, and having to eventually buy new tires for the motorhome.

          His work went to press before mine, so he gets credit for a cool quotation. Such is life.

       

           We were sitting on the deck of our “Site” at the KOA RV Resort on the southern tip of South Padre Island in Texas when my daughter, Lorelyn, called.

          Lorleyn – “Hi there!  Priority Z”

          (We came up with this Priority System years ago because invariably Lorelyn would call me from wherever she was and when I would see her name pop up, get nervous that she needed some assistance. It seems like Lorelyn left home in 6^th grade or something like that because she was always in some god-forsaken part of the world. Usually when she called, I was working, and the deal was if she got on the phone and said ‘Priority A, B, C,’ I would stop what I was doing and continue the call. If the Priority were ‘Z,’ then it could wait.)

          Me – “Hi, we’re sitting on our deck under some palm trees, at a Resort on South Padre Island in Texas, looking at egrets in a mangrove marshland, while having some cheese and fruit.”

          Lorleyn – “That’s what I always thought retirement was supposed to be, sounds like you finally got this thing down pat.”

          Me – Pausing for a moment and looking over at Paula who smiled and nodded in agreement, “I think that you’re right, this is what it should be like!”

          So here we are in sunny and tropical south Texas. This place reminds me of LBI. Not because of the palm trees and balmy breezes, but because it is a barrier island and we needed to go over a Causeway to get here. South Padre Island is the last island in the 100+ mile island chain on the Gulf of Mexico in southern Texas. If you embarked on a boat and sailed due east you would come ashore right around Naples, Florida after covering about 950 miles.

          The RV Resort could not be any nicer. The place is spotless, the staff very friendly and helpful, and the setting is awesome! Water views all around, especially if your site is on the perimeter like ours is. This is a “pull-in” site (instead of the usual back-in)  because all the views are forward-facing. We all have these gigantic windshields to look out of, so why not utilize them! On top of that, each site has its own deck complete with patio furniture. The palm trees add a little shade as the sun marches across the sky.  Our “neighbors” are nice, we’ve had small conversations with them so far, you know, “Where’re ya from?” and motorhome talk, things like that. I can see where we would get to know them a bit better if we were to stay for an extended length of time. Walking around and looking at other motorhomes is fun too. Newer, older, classics, they are all here. Seeing what people bring with them for outside/patio use has been informative also.

          This would be the kind of place that one would try (try being the operative word here) to book for an extended stay over the colder months. The “Snowbird” life as it were. I have not yet asked if there are any open slots in their reservations for this year, but I suspect that they are probably booked solid. But no harm in asking. This place is about a seven-hour drive from Brenham. We did it in two days to break it up a bit. We find that if we leave sometime in the afternoon, drive for a few hours, and then find the local Wal-Mart lot or Harvest Hosts to spend the night, and continue the next day, that it makes the trip a lot more enjoyable. We figure that we realistically need to add about 15 minutes to every hour that a trip would take by car. So, a 4-hour car trip is about 5 hours for us. If the driving is all highway, then it is closer in time.

          This area has all the things to do that a seaside resort has to offer. Tiki-bars, bike rentals, surf shops, golf cart rentals, (not for golf mind you, but for transportation. These forward-thinking areas have decided that having tons of golf carts zooming around is far better than having tons of cars zooming around. Much like the retirement villages that abound in Florida and Arizona.) There are also way too many good-looking restaurants to patronize in our short stay. Hence, we need to come back!

          That is one of the conundrums of retirement on that aforementioned dirty phrase, Fixed Income. One of the advantages of dragging your home around with you to environs such as this, is that you get to have your meals “at home” which we all know is a lot less expensive than going out for them. But it is a lot less fun also. Balancing the going out vs. staying in has become a favorite pastime. Coming from the restaurant business and serving folks for the last hundred years or so, I find it wonderful to go out and have someone else serve me! Not only that, but I revel in a well-run establishment. I thoroughly enjoy just sitting there and absorbing the heartbeat, rhythm, and cacophony of sounds that you can only appreciate if you have been in the business. All of you Chatterbox folks know what I am talking about!

          So, Restaurant Reviews by Paula and Don will be forthcoming as they (and funds) become available!

          Meanwhile we will be squirreling away a few sheckles for those new tires!

“Y’all have a nice day, Bye now.”

          These were the words uttered by the grocery clerk who bagged our order down at the H.E.B. grocery store, an exceptionally large, family owned and operated grocery chain and food manufacturer here in Texas. Uttered may be the wrong verb to use here because he said it clearly, with that “look you in the eye” confidence that can only come from someone who means what they say.

We “utter” those types of farewells back in the East also:

          “See ya”

          “Ciao” (I have never met an Italian who said this to me)

          “Peace out” (I have said this only to younger co-workers who just grin and shake their heads at me)

          “Toodles” (to be used after having Brunch at an up-scale café)

          “Hasta la vista!” (you can only use this one only if you can imitate Arnold’s accent and if you want to feel extra cool, pause and  add        ‘baby’ to the end of it.)

          And the ever popular, I’m just saying this because my company      policy says I have to, “Thank you for shopping at Walmart, have a nice day”

          Not one of these farewell expressions comes close to a “good-bye” spoken by someone with one of those wonderful southern accents. Make no mistake about it, Southern Hospitality is a genuine, every day, reach out and touch you, way of life down here. There is no question that the pace of life is a tad slower when you get away from the Northeast. Even when piloting the grocery cart in the store it is noticeable. At Shop-Rite, you’d best have your shoulder pads and gear on when going in on a busy day to do battle with the masses.

          Not here.

          I am almost embarrassed when I think that I have accidentally cut some one off or pass them on the way to the register. Everyone lets the other person go first. There is no battling for position. Just give way with a smile and a nod. And it is s l o w e r , sometimes maddingly so, until you realize that all is good, people are friendlier, and we will all get finished in due time.

           It is not a race.

          Here.

          Back in New Jersey, it is a badge of honor when you can take down the person with the large order and beat them to the check-out lane.

          Ha! I won!

          Let’s go back to accents. We all know what a Southern accent sounds like. Most of the time we only get an exaggerated form of it while watching television or a comedy sketch. To listen to this type of speech is like listening to butter melt on a serving of homemade mashed potatoes. I could listen to Loretta Lynn recite the phone book and would not care one little bit. Maybe if I am lucky, I can pick up a few stray syllables and work them into my speech patterns. Alas, probably not, I have been back East for too long. We have accents back East, all as colloquial as they come.

          Boston, Brooklyn, Maine, Joisey……

          Joisey…..    New Joisey?

          Did you know that no one in New Jersey has that accent, we don’t say Joisey. It is one of those annoying, pervasive things that get hung on anyone from New Jersey. But that’s ok, we can take it. My daughter has  tee-shirt that she wears . She lives in Durango, Colorado. The shirt has emblazoned on it:

                                      New Jersey

                             Only the Strong Survive

          When folks ask her about it her reply is, “If I have to explain it, you won’t get it.”

          Her other favorite is,

                             Welcome to New Jersey

                                      Now Get Out!

A far cry from Southern Hospitality, wouldn’t you say?

          But we do have an accent,

          The other day when we were down visiting Emma at the Voter Registration Office, Emma’s co-worker looked up from her desk and said to Paula,

          “Honey, I just love your accent!”

          Go figure.