Nana Pam

Nana Pam recently attended her high school class reunion in her home town where she met quite a few former classmates. I tried to get her to wear an Arcadia Valley Tigers tee shirt, but she refused to consider it. After this reunion, she began to earnestly log into “facebook” and communicate with her old friends.

I don’t have a “facebook” account, and it’s probably just as well. I do my own “communicating” writing in this blog and I can keep it a “one-sided” communication. This permits me to speak (or write) my own mind without the annoying critique that would surely come from a “certain someone” in Lenexa, KS. I don’t really expect anyone else to even want to comment on this drivel and besides, I’m quite sensitive and might get my feelings hurt if someone was to post a comment that is moderately critical of my writing style or if they found a typo or grammatical error or factual inconsistency.

But, I digress.

Nana Pam has been in touch with some old friends from high school via “facebook”. Some of those “old friends” have turned out to be very successful people, such as doctors and lawyers and Indian chiefs and whatnot. Some of her “guy” friends could have ended up being married to Nana Pam if they had played their cards right. But, as it turned out, it is I, a hillbilly from Nowhere, MO, who raided Raider country and stole away the diamond within their midst.

Now, please understand, I’m not gloating, and after three and a half decades I don’t mean to sound like I’m reliving some high school rivalries, but I do feel like I can brag a bit.

Actually, maybe it’s not so surprising that Pam fell in love with me when she did. After all, I was a fairly good looking guy – at least as good looking as any guy in North County High School. And I was a pretty good student - I could add and subtract with the best of them, and if really pressed could probably still do it. And even though I never played sports, I was really pretty athletic, mostly from the necessity of evading bullies and other female ruffians in my hometown.

But, considering the notability of Pam’s former classmates and listening to her talk about their accomplishments has recently made me wonder just what it was she saw in me. Perhaps I will never know. As we’ve grown older and wiser, Pam’s standards have changed and she now sees something completely different in me and obviously still loves me for who I am.

And that thought really confuses me, because truthfully I can’t say that I’ve improved. The only thing about me that hasn’t changed since high school is my height – I haven’t grown an inch since the eighth grade. But, I have gained weight. And I have lost some hair (– OK, so I’ve lost a lot of hair). And I now wear bifocals. And I have to wear suspenders to keep my pants up. And my idea of a good “date night” is taking Pam to the local Farm and Feed store where they serve free popcorn to entice the customers.

I can see what she saw in me then, but I can not for the life of me see what she sees in me now.

And me being me, I am not discouraged by this realization. Rather, I feel a heightened sense of contentment within my weary soul. What I mean is this: It’s safe to assume that the standards of a normal person will rise with greater wisdom and experience as a result of normal aging. Thus, Pam’s standards must be higher now than when she was in high school. So, if her standards have risen, and she still wants me around, then either she’s currently suffering from an acute mental incapacity for rational judgment . . . OR . . . I must be doing something right.

And far be it from me to accuse Pam of mental incapacity.

At least not in a public forum.

Home from Hospital

OK, here’s a short update:

The bottom line is that after being honest with Nana Pam about some chest pains, I was cajoled into going to the emergency room, was subjected to countless prodding and probing, forced to submit to an angiogram procedure (and if you can’t appreciate just what THAT entails, google it), and ALL FOR NAUGHT. They didn’t find any heart problems that needed to be fixed.

So, in spite of my best efforts to delay the home renovation, the hospital DID NOT find any additional blockage in the coronary arteries. Thus, after a three-day “visit”, I was summarily kicked out of the hospital after being verbally abused by Mizz Burley (RN) and the entire Critical Care Unit staff for being a malingering slacker, a freeloader, and a faking scam artist accused of trying to get some hospital food and other goodies.

As far as I’m concerned, the only thing I got out of this whole deal is a couple of days off work – which I have to make up, by the way – and the realization that I still have to go the doctor to find out just why I have these chest pains – or “chest discomfort” or “angina” or “heart burn”, or whatever the heck it might be.

And to top it all off, when I got home I found a “birthday package” from the in-laws. I want to be gracious about the effort they made to send me a “gift” – after all, they do drive a hybrid car. But take a look at this thing:



Nana Pam thought it was cute and promptly named it “The Birthday Bear” (not very original, but appropriate). I initially thought it was a nice effort on the part of the in-laws to get on my good side, but soon realized that this was some devious joke designed to just piss me off. Soon, the little monster began taking over the entire house.



First, it demanded some breakfast.



Then it took over my easy chair AND the TV.



And then, as if that weren’t enough, it dipped into my wine supply and began playing show tunes on the piano – all the while incessantly singing “Happy Birthday” with those silly little hat-lights flashing on and off.



So, here I am, recuperating from a near-death experience, not able to drive or even go to Danger Lane Workshop, confined to my own house ON MY BIRTHDAY, and my only “companion” is this little alcoholic.



At least the goofy thing knows how to celebrate – I just wish he had brought his own booze.

In the Hospital

OK, here I am lying in this hospital bed in the Critical Care Unit of Midwest City Regional Hospital with a plastic urinal beside my head delivered with instructions from Mizz Burley (RN) to fill it up. It all started a few weeks ago. I’ve been fatigued and have been experiencing some tightness in the chest and some pain. And while on a walk with Jackson Danger this past weekend, I felt a distinct pain in my carotid arteries. I knew from past experience what was happening to me, i.e. I had some blockage in one or more coronary arteries. No big deal, I’ve been there before, and this time I was ready for it. Not like last time when I spent months thinking I just needed more exercise and almost exercised myself into the morgue.

This time is different. I monitored myself for a few days and decided I needed to start the ball rolling by making a doctor’s appointment for a checkup with my cardiologist.

But, apparently, merely making a doctor’s appointment was not enough for either the doctor or for Nana Pam. Those two conspired to make me go to the emergency room. This didn’t sit too well with me – after all, I wasn’t ignoring the situation and I was willing to do the unpleasantness of going to the doctor and facing another angioplasty. Nana Pam apparently just wanted to be in control of the situation.

So, I was at work yesterday, and Nana Pam called my cell phone and told me I had to immediately go to the emergency room upon doctor’s orders. I thumbed my nose at her (through the phone, of course) and told her to “come and get me, copper.” I felt smug in the knowledge that I was in a secure building only accessible with a key card, which Nana Pam did not have.

But, I didn’t realize Nana Pam had the number to the base security K-9 unit, and the next thing I knew I was being herded to the parking lot by a couple of burly SPs with a dog nipping at my butt every time I tried to get away. Nana Pam got me safely to the emergency room where upon I was immediately told to get into a wheel chair and was taken to a room where an EKG was administered. I told the technician that the EKG would be normal, along with a normal blood pressure, normal pulse rate, normal temperature, normal, normal, normal, everything NORMAL.

Tired of being normal, but feeling so bad. So, while in the emergency room, I experimented with the blood pressure machine and found out I could manipulate my blood pressure through force of will to make it appear abnormal. This I did on occasion, just to irritate Nana Pam, who was closely watching my monitor. Once I got my blood pressure to go from 120/80 all the way down to 103/59. Nana Pam demanded that I stop playing around – just as the doctor came in to chit-chat. He took one look at the last recorded blood pressure then signed an order to admit me to the hospital’s critical care unit - - STAT.

At one point, during all the poking and prodding and “prep-to-move” work, one of the lines on my chest monitor came unhooked and the pulse rate on my monitor stopped working, displaying only a flat line. Nana Pam, who was monitoring the monitor, saw that and said to me, “Your heart line thingy stopped working. I’ll go tell the nurse.” She left the room and I heard her tell the nurse, “Excuse me, but my husband’s heart has stopped.” The next thing I knew there were red lights flashing, alarm bells ringing, medics rushing into the room and loudspeakers blaring “CODE RED, CODE RED!!” Before the situation got all straightened out, I had been zapped three times, had been CPR’ed by a former-NFL linebacker-turned-medic, and had been given the “kiss-of-life” by an UGLY male nurse who was still eating a lunch of garlic-laced seafood pasta.

I told Nana Pam she needs to work on her communication skills.

I’ve been in the hospital two days now. Today was a bunch of tests and monitoring to ensure that the angioplasty needed to happen. And it was determined that since everything else is NORMAL, the only recourse is to do an angiogram to take a look.

And that is what is on tomorrow’s day planner. Although I have been through this procedure before, the doctor insisted I watch an instructional video of the procedure to “prepare myself” in case there have been some changes.

There have been no changes – I will have a conduit shoved into my femoral artery to allow access for the doctor to snake a wire through the artery into my heart to poke around and do his thing – kind of the same thing a plumber would do at your house to unclog a sewer line.

There are some hazards with this procedure. I mean, after all, the doctor causes an intentional breach of a major artery with the inevitable possibility of massive loss of blood, and then inserts a wire through the artery and into your heart with the potential of knocking loose a bunch of arterial plaque that could go like an express train up to your brain causing a stroke – or getting lodged in your heart somewhere causing a heart attack. Not to mention the possibility of the wire breaking or becoming lodged some where (this is one time you don’t want to hear your doctor say “oops”). This definitely isn’t something you would try at home. Maybe, if you’re adventurous, you would do this as an experiment on a stray cat, but if you ever see kids attempting this while playing “doctor” you may want to stop them.

While I was worrying about all the possible hazards, Nana Pam tried to reassure me: “Don’t worry, if something goes wrong at least you’ll already be in the hospital. By the way, is your insurance paid up?”

Had an Earthquake the Other Day . . .

And the event was so exciting that the only thing I can say about it is . . . we had an earthquake the other day.

However, it has been interesting listening to the news. Oklahoma being Oklahoma, where news items generally begin with the word “football” or “wheat” or “gunshots”, an earthquake that can be even slightly felt is enough to provoke comments from retired ex-reporters and former football coaches who I thought had recently died.

The latest reports have been about the magnitude. You wouldn’t believe the amount of news chatter discussing and debating just how strong the earthquake actually was. The official USGS earthquake website shows the temblor at 4.3 on the Richter scale. But, every hour since the quake, reporters have “revised” the measurements ranging from 4.1 to 5.6 to the unofficial OMG scale of “pants-crappin’ strong”.

I was at work on the base when the earthquake hit, but me being me, I was busy and not paying too much attention to my surroundings, not even noticing a rather large nearby cabinet falling over. I just thought someone had slammed a door a bit too hard. I’m so obtuse when I get busy that I probably wouldn’t even notice an active shooter alert, vaguely thinking that the background noise (i.e. gunfire) penetrating my consciousness was just some Islamic religious fanatics celebrating a birthday or something.

Of course, there was some damage in the local area. Some windows were broken in Midwest City, some walls were cracked, and one building on the O.U. campus was damaged, bringing whoops of delight from some O.S.U. aggies. A few minutes after the quake (and after my co-workers convinced me that the ceiling tiles on my desk were not there as a result of some office prank), I called Nana Pam at Buddha Belly Farm to see if the Danger Lane Workshop was OK. She told me she felt the whole house move, and thought that a truck had hit the house. And she knows what she’s talking about – a truck did hit our previous house when we lived in Moore. Funny thing – I remember her initial thought then was that an earthquake had occurred. I guess if an aircraft ever hits the place her first thought would be that a truck hit the house during an earthquake.

One of the first responses from the state officials was to check for any major damage on the most important infrastructures in the state, namely the O.U. and O.S.U. football fields. At O.U., it was noticed that the temblor had set up a harmonic resonance in one of the goal posts, driving moles and gophers from the all-natural turf and into the visitor’s locker room. After extensive analysis, it was determined that the presence of the moles and gophers had actually improved the condition of the visitor’s locker room, so the moles and gophers will have to be removed.

Some bright junior high-school kid suggested that bridges could be adversely affected by an earthquake. After berating the kid for adolescent fear-mongering, the state engineer announced that all the bridges in the state would be inspected immediately after he ensured the safety of all the buildings in the Valley Brooke area. (Note to people not familiar with the OKC area: Valley Brooke is the “racey” side of town – I’ve never been there.)

Aunt Linda called me from Tulsa to say that the 20 story building in which she worked swayed back and forth for quite a few seconds right after the quake, alarming her and her co-workers. I wanted to reassure them with my expertise in the matter, so she put me on speaker phone and I addressed her co-workers with the following: “Don’t worry, your building is sufficiently tall so if a major earthquake does cause a collapse, you would be killed quickly enough so as not to notice your bodies being ripped apart by the falling debris.”

It gives me such a warm feeling inside to use my technical education to reassure others.

Continuing Saga of House Renovation

Just a short note that serves two purposes:

1) To let everyone know that the renovation of the house is proceeding, although not on schedule and not within budget. In other words, this renovation is pretty much like any other renovation, taking too much time and too much money. But we're happy doing the work, and as long as Jackson Danger is pleased with the results our satisfaction will be guaranteed.

2) To get the stupid koran burning thing off the front page.

Delete-a-Koran Day

Have you heard about that church in Gainesville, Florida? The pastor announced that he and his “flock” will burn Korans on September 11. I hope at least one enterprising member of the congregation will bring some all-beef wieners, or at least some marshmallows.

The reason is a bit unclear, but It almost seems that the Koran burning ceremony is supposed to make some sort of silly little political point (as if it’s the job of the Christian church to make silly little political points). It sure isn’t going to make a dent in the Koran publication industry.

Now, it’s just my opinion, but it seems to me that a printed copy of any sacred writing is not the sacred writing itself, but just a printed copy. This is true for the Christian Bible as well as for the Islamic Koran. And therefore burning printed copies of the Koran is a meaningless and moronic religious-political act done solely for self-aggrandizement and is needlessly provocative toward Islamists. And since the action is bound to provoke the Islamists, it is also part of my opinion that any reaction by the Islamists to this meaningless and moronic religious-political act would be just as moronic, just as meaningless, and just as political.

In other words, the Koran burning is just a childish display of stupidity by the party of the first part that will result in childish displays of stupidity by the party of the second part.

If you ask me, these modern church attendees are taking a step backwards by resurrecting the medieval tactic of book burning. During the middle ages, burning books actually meant something because books were hard to reproduce. Back then, if you burnt someone’s book, you really affected the person’s ability to distribute what he had to say. But, with today’s computerized publication processes, burning a book is just a politically symbolic waste of time.

So, I suggest the following:

To keep up with technological advances over the last one thousand years, this little group in Gainesville should bring laptop computers to the church, each with a copy of the Koran on the hard drives. Then, at the appointed time, each one command their computers to “format c:/”. They would have accomplished the same thing as a book burning, but without all that nasty smoke smell in the clothes. And they wouldn’t even need a burn permit.

But, they would have to be ready for the inevitable Islamist back-lash. I’m sure imams around the world would call for a “technical jihad” – a sort of computerized “eye-for-an-eye” retaliation. They would probably start by downloading copies of the Bible and the Torah onto their hard-drives and deleting them in unison while quoting the Koran (except maybe 60.6). Then, they may download pictures of the “Koran deleting infidels”, print those pictures onto film-quality paper, and then encourage their children to cut the heads off the pictures (with those cute little snub-nosed safety scissors, of course) while yelling “Allahu Akbar”.

(Hey, I know that’s silly. Rational people practicing a peaceful religion would never consider teaching their children to cut the heads off of perfectly good pictures - - - right?)

Anyway, the church in Gainesville say they are committed to doing this absurdity. And the Islamists say they are just as committed to responding with even more absurdity and some level of maliciousness. Like Forest Gump used to say, “Stupid is as stupid does.”

DIY Project Plans

Each Sunday morning, Nana Pam and I like to watch a bit of TV while drinking our morning coffee and eating our donuts. Some of our favorite shows are about do-it-yourself projects gone awry and construction projects that weren’t done properly. During these shows, Nana Pam and I discuss our own DIY projects and ideas, snickering occasionally at some of the problems created by the inexperienced DIYers and telling them (through the TV) what they should have done.

For instance, while watching DIY Disasters show, or whatever it’s called, we saw a guy who decided that a piece of kitchen wood trim “wasn’t quite right”. His solution was to completely gut his kitchen – which he did, but then didn’t know how to put it back together again. The wife told the television audience that the kitchen had been torn apart for about 7 months and that they were staying with the in-laws while the husband contemplated the mess he had made of his kitchen.

I was just finishing up my fourth cup of coffee and when I saw this and shouted at the TV, “What has he been doing to take so long on this job?!?”

And Nana Pam, slowly sipping her first cup of coffee, replied: “He probably sits on his dead butt watching DIY shows instead of working.”

During my fifth cup of coffee, I thought about Nana Pam’s comment, and realized (somewhat belatedly) that she was making some off-handed commentary about our own renovation project. Yes, we may have experienced a bit of a “slow-down” recently, as evidenced by the unfinished dining room trim work and the unfinished entry way – OK, and the unfinished kitchen as well. Or maybe she was remembering our last renovation job at our last house, specifically the entry way that was “delayed” for about 8 months, or maybe the bathroom job that took only a year and a month. (Hey, I was busy).

But, here at the Buddha Belly Farm house we have finished the living room and are pretty happy with it, in spite of the fact that we still have some unfinished work to do. It’s not my fault that Nana Pam keeps coming up with projects that keep side-tracking us, like her latest brainstorm to rebuild our staircase.

For those of you who haven’t climbed our staircase you may ask, “Why rebuild a functional staircase?”

Answer: When we first looked at the place, we failed to notice the very thing that everyone else first notices about the stairs, namely, each step is a different size. Not only that, but each step consists of a rough-cut piece of 2-by-12 covered with cheap carpeting. Not only THAT, but the first step is so steep that it’s always reminding me of my hike in the Albuquerque Sandia Mountains, as described in a previous entry.

Now, I’ve never built a staircase before, but I’m willing to try anything. Of course, as “Dirty Harry” Callahan once said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

I’m not yet sure if building a staircase is beyond my limitations. I do realize that such an undertaking would take careful planning and a proper logistical process. One cannot merely jump into the demolition phase without first having some idea how to get Nana Pam safely to the second floor if she wants to take a nap after her morning chores. And for that reason, this would be one renovation project that leaves no room for the occasional “slow-down”. I mean, once the demolition phase is complete and we have a great big empty spot that was once our only access to the shower and the toilet and the bed and the computer, we can’t just take our usual two- to three-day break before we get on with the rebuild phase.

So, I’ve come up with a plan:

Before any demolition of the staircase can begin, the parts for the replacement staircase must be precisely cut and shaped and ready to install. And these parts must be carried from Danger Lane Workshop to be “dry fitted” next to the existing staircase to ensure they are the correct size. And before THAT can happen, a complete dimensional draft must be drawn. And before THAT can happen, precise measurements must be made to obtain the proper dimensions. And before THAT can happen, the complete construction project must be visualized and carefully thought out (this phase involves me standing in front of the existing staircase for hours, or maybe days, with a contemplative look on my face visualizing every aspect of the installation).

This plan is sufficiently comprehensive and should validate my basic DIY renovation philosophy: “The more time spent preparing for a project, the better the odds of Nana Pam forgetting about the whole thing.”

It’s a bit Hot . . .

The entire town is all-a-twitter about the news. The local news media features this story each and every hour. You can’t go anywhere without being asked if you heard the news. During routine speed-trap traffic stops, McLoud Police officers break with proper decorum to share this bit of news with law-abiding travelers caught unawares.

Yes, everyone is talking about the upcoming change in the weather anticipated this weekend. A “cold” front is moving in and is expected to give us cooler weather starting around Sunday and continuing into the next week.

Yessiree, we are finally going to get a break from these hot temperatures and FINALLY the temps will be . . . only . . .

IN THE MID NINETIES.

It will be kinda like spring all over again. We’ve had triple-digit temperatures for about three weeks now (which is normal for this part of the country at this time of year).

Nana Pam and I still remember that one summer from ‘hale’ a few years ago when we experienced triple-digit temperatures for about 60 or 70 days straight. The local bookies were losing their shirts (sweat-soaked though they were) taking odds on when the hot weather would break.

But, here at Buddha Belly Farm the heat is not as nearly as hot as the rest of the state (see photo – it’s cooler in the shade).



And though it’s hot, the chickens have been laying well and the garden gave us a surplus of produce before going on strike and proclaiming it too hot to . . . well, “produce” any more. All except the okra, that is. That stuff seems to love the hot weather. I’ve had to pick it twice a day to keep up. The last time I brought a basket of okra into the house, Nana Pam told me to cut down all the plants, that she didn’t want to see another okra stalk, and that her favorite son-in-law (I quote) “damned well better like okra as much as he says he does, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

(Note from Nana Pam: That is NOT a quote - I did NOT say that. All I said was that I’m sick and tired of seeing okra – I don’t even like okra that much - I didn’t want this much okra – we have okra coming out of our ears right now – the freezer’s full of okra – every time Grumpa comes in from the garden he’s carrying a basket of okra with a sadistic grin on his face and I’M SICK OF IT . . . So, Robbie dear, come get your okra – that’s a good boy.)

Anyway, it’s hot and miserable and hot and dry and hot, and we haven’t had any rain for months. (For consistent use of complaint metaphors, see blog entry, dated March 8, 2010)

But, we will get relief THIS WEEKEND WHEN THE HIGH TEMPERATURES WILL ONLY BE IN THE NINETIES !!! YAAAAAAH !!!

Wittle Gway Wabbits

I am not as concerned about the rabbits in the garden as I am about the deer and raccoons – and birds, and turkey vultures, and hawks, and coyotes, and possums, and skunks, and potato bugs, and termites, and squirrels, and moles, and gophers, and snakes. In fact, it is safe to declare that the rabbits are by far the least of my problems.

But, the furry little creatures have found ways of getting into my fenced-in garden. I’ve tried to plug all the holes in the fence, but they keep getting in there. I don’t think they’re intelligent enough to physically open the gate – and I don’t think they are big enough to do so. But, somehow, they get in, as evidenced by the little teeth marks they leave behind on the low hanging tomatoes and other veggies. It just galls me to see these little nibble marks – it wouldn’t bother me so much if they would eat up an entire tomato or cucumber instead of going from plant to plant test-tasting like an AARP member at a buffet.

A few nights ago, Nana Pam and I were finishing up our evening chores and came upon Bailey da Hound Dawg reclining in the grass. In the dwindling light, we noticed that he was unduly interested in a grayish-brown blob, which turned out to be a wittle gway wabbit, thoroughly chewed and covered with dog slobbers and quite dead, apparently a victim of Bailey’s over-exuberant style of playfulness. How he caught the animal is beyond my comprehension – he must have used a trap, because even though he’s pretty fast, I really don’t believe he’s fast enough to catch a wabbit.

I fully expected Nana Pam’s reaction to be one of horror, filled with tears and remorse and a desire to take the carcass to the emergency veterinarian in the remote chance that there might be some miracle cure for the near-decapitation that Bailey had inflicted. But, I guess living in the country has changed Nana Pam a bit more than I thought it would. After her initial surprise, she scolded Bailey with the words, “Bailey, that’s gross. At least drag it into the woods and bury it, for pete’s sake. No cookie for you.”

(Note: Whenever Bailey does something that Nana Pam likes, she gives him dog biscuit, which she calls a “cookie”. He gets a “cookie” for delivering the newspaper intact to the porch, for not terrorizing the chickens, for pooping in the north field instead of next to the car, for not digging in the flower gardens, and for leaving Petey the Weiner Dog alone. Under these criteria, Bailey really doesn’t deserve many “cookies”, but Nana Pam gives him some anyway.)

Needless to say, Bailey ignored Nana Pam and did not drag the wittle gway wabbit carcass into the woods, nor did he bury it. So, Nana Pam continued with her chores and gave me an additional chore, namely, to “get rid of that.”

Have you ever read Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men”? If you haven’t, read it sometime, or see the movie with John Malkovich and Gary Sinise. It’s a good story. And it will give you some idea of the relationship I share with Bailey da Hound Dawg. And it will serve as a reminder to you to guard yourself against Bailey’s playfulness upon your visit to the farmage. The end of the story also explains just why Bailey may “disappear” after a particularly frustrating day of mayhem.

We have a new door . . .

Nana Pam has been holding onto a few hundred dollars (cash) for over a year now to buy a new door for the house. During that time, she has researched and dreamed and admired various doors, planning for the time when she would find the right door.

She decided upon a steel clad door with a nice rectangular window for the same price as the money she had been holding onto. But, as is normal for Nana Pam and cash money, it was just last week that she had spent the remaining cash that she had been holding onto for the past year.

According to Nana Pam, the money just sort of “went away” into thin air.

But, that’s OK, she explained - the money would have gone into our general household fund anyway to be spent as needed for the maintenance of the property and to provide for the cooperative welfare of the occupants, namely us, so it really makes no difference if the surplus is now gone and that the cost of the new door must now come out of our general household budget.

With logic like this, Nana Pam should apply for work with the Obama administration helping to manage the national debt.



I really don’t know why we needed another door, anyway. The old one seemed just fine to me. It looked a bit rustic, but I thought that was the “look” we were going for when we first decided to move out here with the other rustics. Sure, it did have those small little cracks in it, but that facilitated the movement of fresh air into the house. And it did still have that cool door knocker with the previous owner’s name engraved on it. And it did have that wonderful storm door that gave me constant practice in finding new ways to keep it from flying off the house during those “rare” windstorms here in Oklahoma.

But, I digress.

We bought the new door and hauled it to the farmage. We considered having a professional install it, but due to inflation, unmandated federal fees, state and city taxes and all sorts of other hidden costs, we found out that we were going to have pay more to have the silly thing installed than it cost to buy it.

So, like every good do-it-yourselfers, Nana Pam and I installed the door ourselves, saving a coupled of hundred dollars that would normally have come out of the general household fund to be spent as needed for the maintenance of the property and to provide for the cooperative welfare of the occupants, namely us.

As usual, we spent more time in the demolition work ripping the old door out and preparing the opening than we did in actually installing the door.



Piece of cake. A bit of shimming and insulating and caulking and the new door was ready for hardware in a couple of hours. The hardware, by the way, has been in storage in Danger Lane Workshop for two full years now, having been purchased by Nana Pam in anticipation when she would get her new door. Other items waiting proper disposition in Danger Lane Workshop are a kitchen sink, a bathroom sink, entry way lighting, parts for a radio controlled airplane, parts for a Number 3 Ingersoll milling machine, and a few parts from an obsolete Air Force missile system (legally appropriated, of course). Yessiree, Nana Pam and I are pretty much ready for any contingency up to and including converting the house into a hangar for an unmanned aerial weapons delivery system to defend against pesky home-invaders in the off-chance they first get past Bailey da Hound Dawg.

Of course, that particular renovation project will have to come AFTER we get the kitchen finished.

Been Busy . . .

Too busy to make regular updates to this blog.

But, here is a short note to verify that we have not been lazy and sitting on our hands.

Since March, besides working our “day jobs” and being confronted by numerous spring weather challenges, and tending to the yard work and the gardens, we have vigorously engaged in home renovation.

In the kitchen, we have finished the pantry and have installed the entry door woodwork. We started assembling the shelves above the freezer and were getting things ready to install the baseboards and crown molding in the kitchen . . .

. . . but got side-tracked and started working in the dining room.

We ripped up the carpeting in the dining room and tore out the old baseboard and molding around the windows, then started painting the room. After that, we installed the new window and door moldings and began laying the new flooring. This progressed well until we encountered the entry way . . .

. . . whereupon we got side-tracked and began ripping out the old tile flooring in the entry way to begin installing the new flooring there, figuring we could get back to the dining room to finish installing the baseboard and crown molding sooner or later.

In the entry way, we found two layers of tile, the bottom layer even uglier than the top, so with great care we began removing the old tile – RIIIIIIGHT . . . if dynamite had been available, Nana Pam would have used it with gusto.

After spending a full day just getting the tile up and the old baseboard removed, we were finally able to lay the new flooring in the entryway . . .

. . . and got side-tracked and decided to go ahead and rip the carpet and old woodwork out of the south end of the living room and began installing the new flooring there too. Oh, and by the way, Nana Pam also decided the living room needed a new coat of paint.

Now, at this point, you need to understand two things about how Nana Pam and I work together. First, we may fight and fume at each other on a normal average day, but we really do work well as a team and are happy together while on a DIY home renovation project. And second, during home renovation projects, we still like having our stuff around us. So, try to imagine us putting down new flooring and new woodwork and painting walls while our furniture is still in the house being shifted from space to space as the space becomes available.

Hey, it’s just how we do things, OK?

OK, where was I? Oh, yeah, in the living room.

After shifting the furniture as required, we finally got the floor down – at least in most of the living room, until we ran into the entry to the kitchen. At this point, we found that we not only wanted to continue the flooring into the kitchen, but realized that we HAD to proceed into the kitchen in order to finish laying the floor in the living room. The type of flooring we were laying required a certain technique in order to not have a seam in the middle of the floor. (Confused? Come over sometime and I’ll be glad to demonstrate. Bring a paint brush.)

So we got side-tracked and began ripping up the “beautiful” blue tile in the kitchen, only to find, just as we did in the entry way, a second layer of tile beneath. This time, however, we had acquired a new tool, namely, a heat gun, which helped loosen the tile and made removal much easier.

To make a long story a bit longer, we finally got the old tile and all of the old carpeting out of the house and all the new flooring down throughout the entire bottom floor of our home. Within a few days, we also cut, primed, painted, and installed the new woodwork in the living room, thanks to some great help from our good friend, Charles Bitzer, without whose help the task would have been impossible. He was amply rewarded with a pork-steak lunch, some fresh veggies from the garden, and a mention in this blog . . . so, we’re even.

So, we are now finished with the renovation – except for a few paint touch-ups in the living room . . .

. . . And completing the entry way. . .

. . . And installing the woodwork in the dining room and putting the furniture back . . .

. . . And finishing up the kitchen baseboard --- and cabinets --- and countertops --- and kitchen island . . .

. . . And the complete make-over of the utility room and bathroom.

Other than that, we are practically done.

I guess then to keep our marriage happy we should start doing the second floor . . . .

Lookie here . . .

Just a quick update this morning. After looking at the Dado's blog I couldn't resist doing a comparison photo montage.

On the left, we have Jackson Danger as of a few days ago, and on the right, Catherine Jo about 31 years ago.

At least the couches are a bit different.

Don't worry, we got a plan . . .

The ground has not been dry since Christmas 2009. The entire property is a sloshy, sloppy, muddy, full-of-water mess. The garden areas have standing water. While digging some post holes for the new grape arbor, I struck water about 6 inches down.

As eloquent as I pretend to be, I am at a loss for words to describe just how wet and sloppy the entire property has been for the last two and a half months. “Quagmire” doesn’t cut it.

Yesterday, a flock of ducks flew over and circled the property looking for a landing site. They decided to fly on by because they figured it would be a bit drier at the reservoir.

Even the well is begging for relief from the wet.

Bailey da Hound Dawg doesn’t yet know how to dog paddle, so we got him some water wings. He doesn’t like using them, though, so he has started climbing on his dog house, kinda like Snoopy, primarily to show off, but actually to try to keep dry. This hasn’t worked very well for him, so he sweet talked Nana and moved in with us until the ground dries out a bit.

Rotten dog. I got even with him, though – I had him “fixed”. Not that he was “broken”, but you get the idea.

But I digress – it’s wet and sloppy and muddy and wet. And our property is on the high ground, for pete’s sake. It’s far too wet to till the garden and prep the ground for planting. We did sow some onions, but they immediately started screaming that they were drowning and wanted us to throw them some life preservers.

Nature has dealt a severe blow this year. But, Nana and I are resilient, we are resolute in our resolve to be the best darned gardeners this side of Canadian River.

So, Nana and I have hit on a compromise with nature. Since the garden is much too wet for regular crops, we are going to open up a box of Uncle Ben’s and sow some rice.

It should work – I read it on the internet so it must be true.

And now . . .

HOSTAGE UPDATE, Monday, March 8, 2010.

Mommy, Mommy! That mean old man said he’s going to sell my T-shirt and use me for compost!

Long winter

Well, we have barely seen the sun in over two months, we have had no less than three winter storms since the Christmas Blizzard, and the entire property is a sopping quagmire of mud from the thawing and a recent rain storm.

There are those who would say I need to practice a bit of optimism.

But, even though I’m not an optimist, I do have a positive attitude. For example, I’m very positive that whatever can go wrong will go wrong; I’m quite sure that every cloud bringing an F5 tornado has a silver lining – all clouds do when back-lit by the sun; I’m quite positive that every drop of rain that falls increases your chances of getting a head cold if you’re not wearing a hat; and I am quite positive that this winter will eventually come to an end, merging into a summer that will be hot, dry, and wind-blown.

Many have called me a pessimist, but this is not an accurate assessment. A pessimist irrationally expects the worse in every situation. I don’t irrationally expect that the worse will happen - I logically expect the worse will happen. I mean, statistically, at least 80 percent of all the events happening to you have a neutral affect while the remaining 20 percent have either a positive affect or a negative affect. So, through the course of a normal day, there is only a 10 percent chance that things will go your way, while there is a 90 percent chance you are being carried to hell in a hand basket at the pace of a casual stroll with an occasionally bus ride to the next corner.

That’s real life, my friend. And that is the essence of my life’s philosophy. I am a realist. I see things as they are and live life accordingly.

As William Shatner once sang (yes, he sang – google it), “LIVE LIFE LIKE YOU’RE GONNA DIE, ‘CAUSE YOU’RE GONNA.”

The realist idea is to expect the expected and expect the expected to be pretty bad.

Then there is Pam, or “Nana” as she calls herself these days, who insists that she is an optimist. I’ve tried to get her to see the error of this philosophy, but she has been ornery about it and has defiantly resisted all efforts to reason with her. If she thought about it, she would realize that she is not really an optimist, she’s just a happy pleasant person.

So, here I am, stuck in this perpetual winter in the middle of Oklahoma, and I come home every day after a hard day’s work to a woman who greets me with a kiss and hug and a warm smile and a hot supper.

It’s enough to make me wonder what she’s up to.

Pam loves watching the birds. She spends a small fortune every winter feeding the little winged varmints so they’re strong enough to invade the garden every summer.

The word about Pam’s generosity with the bird seed has spread throughout the avian world, so from around the country we have all types of birds visiting our little property. One of Pam’s favorites is the bluebird.



Pam, being the happy pleasant person she is, loves to see the bluebird of happiness. To her, the bluebird of happiness is a sign of better things on the horizon.

OK, I’ll grant that we are visited by the bluebird of happiness. But, we really can’t ignore all the other birds visiting this winter, such as:

the red bird of anger,

















the black bird of despondency,














the mockingbird of derision.

















And if this winter doesn’t end soon,
I fully expect to see a tern for the worse.








Nope, I’m not a pessimist, but I’m real close to taking it up as a hobby.

"Who Dat?"

There was an article in the news today about the NFL claiming ownership of the phrase “Who dat” in reference to the New Orleans Saints football team and are considering ownership rights to the fleur-de-lis. The article says that the NFL sent a cease-and-desist order to some lady in New Orleans who was selling t-shirts with the logo “Who Dat” on them.

That got me thinking, and I must admit that the thinking made my brain hurt.

If the NFL can claim to own the rights to a phrase and to a symbolic flower used in cultures long before football was invented, then I may be violating some NFL rule because I’m feeding the cardinals and the ravens in my back yard. And the neighbor’s bronco could never be used to stud a horse and have colts without the permission of the NFL.

I suppose when counting my chickens before they hatch I have to skip the number between 48 and 50 unless I notify the NFL.

I guess when Pam and I talk about clothing we have to avoid saying anything about earth tones and browns.

If and when the sun ever comes out and I get a sunburn, I suppose I’ll have to pay royalties to the NFL when describing my sore redskin.

Energy has become a political issue, and we don’t need the NFL criticizing when we connect a charger to a deep cycle battery to get ready for an ice storm.

The next time we grow some sweet corn, even though we won’t sell it for a buccaneer (that would be a high price for corn), we should be able to get a few bills per bag without the NFL complaining about it.

And if we ever moved again we should be able to hire some excellent packers without worrying about what the NFL has to say.

One of my chief enjoyments is to scan the skies for aircraft and jets and I certainly don’t want some NFL lawyer ramming some cease-and-desist order down my throat when I write about it in this blog. I mean, after all, we seahawks and eagles and an occasional falcon out here all the time, but if the NFL gets its way we won’t be able to tell anybody.

Admittedly, out in these parts there are not many large predatory cats, such as jaguars and panthers and Bengal tigers, but why should my free speech be limited if I want to warn Pam about other midnight raiders getting into the chicken coop?

Being in Oklahoma, we live near all those Texans, and I can’t imagine those folks putting up with the NFL telling them they can’t say certain things. The consequences could be titanic.

Bear with me for a moment: We should not be lion around and letting the NFL make people jump through hoops like the dolphins at Sea World. We have to stand up and be patriots or we may all suffer the same fate northern Europe did back in the days when the Vikings were looting and pillaging with impunity. That’s exactly what the NFL is trying to do to the good folks in New Orleans. (OK, I admit it, the analogy may be a bit off, but I’m trying to describe just how badly the NFL is treating that t-shirt lady and trying to steeler profits.)

Let’s face facts, here, the NFL doesn’t own the language, and “Who dat” ain’t the only question:

“Where dat NFL get da nerve to tell people dey can’t say ‘Who dat’?”
“What dat NFL tink der doin?”
“When dat NFL gonna git a brain?”
“Why dat NFL so uppity about a t-shirt?”
“How dat NFL gonna get away wid dis?”

I’m not suggesting the people running the NFL should suddenly turn into saints. After all, the NFL has a right to protect its interests. But this could turn into a giant issue for the NFL and I think they should cowboy-up and just drop the whole thing.

Storm Warning

Well, another week, another winter storm watch. Whazzup up wit dat? And whazzup wit all da EARTHQUAKES in the Jones area? This is Oklahoma, for pete’s sake. We’re supposed to be having tornados and droughts and an occasional wildfire. That would be NORMAL. That I could HANDLE.

Pam and I were glad to get out of North Dakota because of the winter weather, and we always said we never wanted to move to California because of all the earthquakes (and of course those wacky tacky slackers supporting the anti-biz tax dodgers – you know, all those elderly hippies and wanna-bees? Pam and I work for a living, we just wouldn’t fit in).

Casual observations of the NOAA Weather website during the past few days have been increasingly disconcerting. At first there were reports of a coming storm from the west and the U.S. map showed a circle of blue (indicating a winter storm watch) over central Oklahoma. The next day, the circle of blue increased to cover the entire state. The day after, the circle of blue morphed into an oblong blue rectangle completely covering the state of Oklahoma and parts of Texas and New Mexico to the west and parts of Arkansas and Missouri to the east. And this morning, before I had a chance to steel myself with the first cup of coffee, I logged in and saw a great big orange blob (indicating a winter storm WARNING) smack dab directly over my house in Newalla. Needless to say, the reports are ominous.

Well, looks like we have some prep work to do. The generator is gassed up and ready; Pam went to the store yesterday and stocked up on food; the vehicles have full tanks of gas (not that we’re going anywhere). All that remains is to provide the latest . . .

HOSTAGE UPDATE, Wednesday, January 27, 2010



Upon seeing this doll for the first time, Bailey da Hound Dawg tucked his tail, scurried to his kennel, and remained cowering in his dog house for an entire day.

It is understandable why this particular doll remains in Oklahoma – I don’t think decent people in Kansas would allow such an abomination within their borders.

. . . The Right to Assemble . . .

Take an empty corner;



parts meticulously built in Danger Lane Workshop;



ability to assemble a 3D puzzle;





some electronic components and the savvy to interconnect them;

and behold, another Buddha Belly Farm project completed.




Of course, this project didn’t take place out in the field, and it didn’t involve garden implements, but it is a giant step toward helping us feel like we’re finally moved in.

And now . . .

HOSTAGE UPDATE, JANUARY 20, 2010:

“That old man said if we hang around here much longer, we won’t be hanging around here much longer. WHAT DOES HE MEAN, MOMMY?!!?”

All in a off-day's work

After this last freeze, we had a water line break near Danger Lane Workshop. A large puddle of water formed that only got worse since the Christmas Eve Blizzard.

Today was the first day we’ve seen the sun since New Years Day and the temperature got to almost 60 degrees F and melted the last remaining mounds of snow. It was a nice day to go out into the sun and enjoy the holiday at a park or to just walk around downtown OKC. But, considering the path to the workshop now resembled the Okeefenokee Swamp we figured we had to do something about the “minor” water problem. So, Nana put on her lady-bug boots and I my Real Ranch (or Ranger Rick) work boots and together we sallied forth with shovels and a pick to do battle against the elements and to stem the rising flood waters.

I’m not going to bore you with the finer details about the dig. Let it suffice that we found the water line about two feet down. But, much to our surprise, the line was technically not broken, it had merely separated from the hydrant. And of course, the hydrant was embedded within a concrete pad – apparently to stabilize and guard it against the type of breaks we were now engaged in repairing.

Obviously, the situation called for some finesse and nuanced technique. After careful deliberation and consultation with each other, it was decided to use a sledge hammer to attempt to gently remove the concrete so as to reuse it. (Hey, you heard of all this environmental stuff, haven’t you? You should recycle EVERYTHING to save the whales.)

Well, after a few attempts to dislodge the concrete pad intact, Nana said, “Whales be damned,” and took the sledge hammer and virtually disintegrated the concrete pad in seconds. I just hope some environmentalist nut job doesn’t come in the middle of the night for retribution – Nana is increasingly getting in the mood to not take any crap from anyone and has gained confidence using her AR-15, so I do worry about the safety of late-night intruders.

But, I digress.

We exhumed the water line and hydrant, shut off the water, and bailed out the hole. We used sandpaper to clean and smooth the existing fittings on the hydrant and the existing line. Having bought some PVC and the appropriate connector, we cut the correct replacement length and used PVC cement to weld the pieces together and slipped the hydrant into place. All told, the entire job cost us about 15 dollars for the PVC (and a tool I didn’t have), and took about two hours, including filling in the hole.

Not too bad at all. We’ve done far worse jobs than this one – after all, we have been the parents of teenagers.

Later that day we replaced an electrical outlet in the living room. This past Christmas, we noticed some Christmas tree lights didn’t work and found the outlet had an intermittent connection. This concerned us, and we decided not to use that outlet until it was repaired. To make a long story short, we replaced the outlet without serious mishap. See pictures.





The first picture is the “before” and the second of course is the “after”. Yes, I know they look alike, but whadd’ya expect? An outlet’s an outlet, for pete’s sake.

In case you like the “before” and “after” motif, here’s Nana “before” the job,



and here is Nana “after” the job.



Note the handy phone – her task was to ensure Fire Engine Number 36 responded in case there was an inadvertent electrical short through my body.

Since you’re in the mood to see other things we’ve done lately, here are some pictures of our new “adult” furniture in the bedroom.




I also finished the TV cabinet and we will install that Tuesday, January 19. The TV will be powered by the newly repaired electrical outlet.

And now, for something completely different:

HOSTAGE UPDATE, Monday, January 18, 2010:

“Please help – we’re being held captive against our will and are forced to sit on this shelf and listen to disgusting noises emanating from the nearby bathroom.”