Cat-box or Cake??? - You be the judge

Would you eat something out of a cat-box?

Well, I did!

I teach with Marcell, and Marcell is an amazing baker. She loves to bake, is quite good at it, and is all too happy to bring her delicious taste treats to school for her fellow teachers to enjoy.

That being true, you can imagine my surprise when she recently unveiled this in the lounge.

Believe it or not…it tasted incredible!

If you want the receipe I'm sure I can get it.

Better Late Than Never...A Halloween Costume Update

I was reminded by a comment on my last posting that I never came back and told you about our costume. In my defense, I was looking for one of the dozens of people who took our picture in hope of adding it to the post. But alas, it seems all the parents at my school are photography purists and wouldn’t go near a digital camera.

So, I’m forced to report on my costume without the visual aid I had so desperately desired.

We were, drum-roll please…yahtzee!

That’s right, the five of us painted boxes while, attached black circles, cut holes for our heads and tumbled through the halls. We’d stop at various points along the way and scream, “YAHTZEE!” at the top of our lungs.

We were a gigantic hit! Many of my student’s extremely impartial parents told me later that ours was the best teacher costume by far.

But just you wait until next year, we’re really going to blow them away!

Monty Python and the Holy...Ale???

So there I am walking through the Market Street grocery store in McKinney Texas, when I happen onto the beer isle. Deciding that I need a beer, I begin perusing the various brands available. That’s when my keen beer senses told me that this was no ordinary beer isle.

Oh sure, they had Bud, Coors and Miller. However, this store was the haven for every bizarre type of ale known to man. They had literally hundreds of different kinds of ale. I mean everything from Hobgoblin Ale to Pumpkin Spice Ale. It was truly extraordinary.

I’m at one end trying to decided between Hobgoblin Ale and something written in what I think was German, but had a really cool label when Melissa come walking up with a bottle of Monty Python’s Holy Grail Ale.

And the choice was made.

It only comes in pint bottles. A fact that has always seemed a bit odd to me, England being on the metric system and all. I got home, popped it open and enjoyed the whole pint.

If you like dark ale, I recommend giving Monty Python’s Holy Grail Ale a try.


Note:
Don't worry big brother, I’ve got one for you in the fridge and I’m brining it to Georgetown!

Leap-Frog Thinking

It’s funny how the mind works. I’m more than a little curious about where thoughts and memories come from. I have a progressive kind of thought “leap-frog” thing that at times can be quite fun, but is usually a bit annoying. Here’s how it works.

It begins with me reading or hearing something that starts my mind wondering about some odd detail from whatever it is that I’ve just read or heard. Next, the natural progression of my wonderings causes something different, but closely connected to the original thing I was first wondering about, to come to mind and I’ll start thinking about that. I’ll stay focused on whatever this happens to be until my mind takes its next “leap-frog” thing.

So goes the mental processing of a self-diagnosed, borderline ADD person. I’m forever finding myself staring thoughtfully at whatever person happens to be speaking with my mind having moved progressively through dozens of different topics. Top that off with the fact that I’m usually more that a little confused about how I started thinking about whatever it is that I am now think of, and you have an extremely perplexing quandary.

I recently had one of these “leap-frog” episodes in church. It went something like this:

The pastor was preaching, and I was listening. I don’t know if he said “peppermints,” or if something he happened to mention caused me to think of peppermints. Whatever the reason, I found myself thinking of peppermints. Peppermints caused me to think of a time I had my class use paper plates to make peppermints to decorate for a holiday program. Then I remembered a boy who wanted to make Mentos instead of the red and white kind, because in his words, “I like Mentos better than the other kind.” I started wondering which kind I like better. That made me think of how when I was a volunteer at Memorial City Hospital in Houston and I would always get two packages of Mentos in the cafeteria and eat them the whole time I was at the hospital. Thinking about being a hospital volunteer caused me to remember Doug Persons, possibly my first best friend in Houston. Then I thought about the time Doug Persons and I made copies of our faces on the hospital’s copier.

I was engrossed in my twisted web of thought when something yanked me back to reality. I somehow managed to backtrack through my mind’s bizarre train of thought and find the logical progression that had brought me to my current wonderings.

Like I said, it’s funny how the mind works…at least mine.

Being Scared

I’ve never really been scared before. Sure, I’ve been on the edge of my seat during the scary part of movie. I’ve also had the poop scared out of me while driving on Central Expressway here in Dallas. However, it wasn’t until I got the news of my dad’s cancer that I understood what being scared really is.

At the beginning I kept thinking that I was going to wake up from this really bad dream and everything would be okay. When that didn’t happen, I started believing my dad’s doctors would figure out that they had made a mistake. When that didn’t happen, I started thinking that some smart doctor would show up and he would have the cure. When that didn’t happen, I thought the doctors were going to figure out a way he could easily live with medullary thyroid cancer. When that didn’t happen, I took my dark suit to the cleaners.

I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster for the better part of a month and right now I’m feeling pretty good. The good news is, doesn’t look like I’m going to need that dark suit anytime in the near future. Dad’s surgery went as well as the doctors could have hoped for, but I find that after the wild ride’s ups and downs of the last few weeks, I haven’t been able to let go of the bar and stop holding my breath…not just yet.

Thank you to everyone who prayed for my dad and my family. There is no doubt in my mind that the prayers (and there were a lot of them) made all the difference.

I’ll keep you posted.

Hugh

Moon Pies and Me

Have you ever seen a Moon Pie? Growing up I’d see them at Otto’s, the little independently owned convenient store near our house in Houston. Otto’s happened to be right behind Shadow Oaks Elementary and, luckily for me, right on my way home. Each day I’d scrape together enough change to stop on the way home and buy a Coke, or ice cream, or candy, or something.

You couldn’t miss the Moon Pies. They occupied a prime “point-of-purchase” location all along the checkout waiting line. They came in brown, white, yellow and even pink. There were always dozens of them stacked up in lines on the three shelves that stretched the length of the counter and as far as I knew, nobody ever bought one.

Occasionally, my friends and I would discuss these strange looking cookie creations as we waited in line. These conversations would go something like this:

“Have you ever had one of those?”
“No, but I think my dad has.”
“Are the brown ones chocolate?”
“Maybe, but what are the pink ones?”
“Beats me. Get one and let’s try it!”
“I’ve only got enough money for one thing, I’m not going to waste it on one of those.”

And so went my years at Shadow Oaks Elementary. To Moon Pie, or not to Moon Pie? – That was the question.

I never did try a Moon Pie. As a matter of fact, that was over 30 years ago and I have never so much as sniffed the wrapper of a Moon Pie…that is until last night.

I’m not sure what sparked my Moon Pie memory, but for some reason I was prompted to bring them up with Melissa. I don’t even remember what was said, but I’m sure it sounded something like this:

“Have you ever had one of those?”
“No, but I think my dad has.”
“Are the brown ones chocolate?”
“Maybe, but what are the pink ones?”
“Beats me. Get one and let’s try it!”

That was several weeks ago at best. Like I said, I don’t really even remember having the conversation. However, Melissa was at a conference in Nashville, Tennessee. As it turns out, Tennessee is where Moon Pies are made. So, being the dutiful and supportive wife that she is, Melissa decided to buy me not one, but two Moon Pies, which she proudly gave to me at baggage claim A16 at DFW Airport. This was to be the historic location of my first Moon Pie experience.

Being a Moon Pie virgin, I inspected the outside of the package. The first thing I noticed was the slogan, “The Only One on The Planet!” As I’m pondering the whys and wherefores of that statement I see where it says “The Original Marshmallow Sandwich.” Standing there gazing down at this chocolate covered creation I noticed where it says, in big letters, “Double Decker – Big Snack, Great Value.”

Baby, I was hooked!

Then I noticed the date. This was October 13, 2006, so I was cautiously optimistic when I noticed that my new Moon Pie buddies were set to expire on January 8, 2007. I really had no way of knowing how long these bad-boys had been on the shelf. Based on the ones I remembered from my Otto’s days, it could have been sitting there for a couple of years before Melissa bought it. However, I didn’t let that deter me from my date with my Moon Pie destiny.

These two pies had been stuck in Melissa’s purse for several hours, so they were pretty smashed. But you would have thought it was Christmas morning the way I tore into this thing! Remember, these were Double Decker Moon Pies and being stuck at the bottom of a purse for over half a day had not done them any good. However, I was determined to not only taste my first Moon Pie, but eat the whole thing!

Thanks to the purse, the chocolate flavored outer layer was now mostly stuck to the wrapper, so holding the bottom half of the sandwich through the wrapper, I tried to break part of it off, but the gooey marshmallow center was not breaking easily. That’s when I decided to just take the big plunge.

Throwing caution to the wind, I clamped my mouth down on my first Moon Pie.

I must admit that the experience was nothing at all like I expected it to be. I really thought that the cookie part of the Original Marshmallow Sandwich would be crisper, something like a Oreo, but I was sadly mistaken. It was more like a stale graham cracker that had been soaked in liquid and allowed to sit out for a few days.

The marshmallow part was very spongy, and never really seemed to break down as I chewed. It was a lot like chewing a piece of gum and eating a saltine cracker at the same time. (A stunt I’ll never do again…but that’s another story)

So there I am, standing at baggage claim A16 enjoying, or at least eating, my first Moon Pie. That’s when Melissa pointed to the ground. What I had either failed to notice, or had chosen to ignore, was the fact that my new taste treat was quite crumbly. At my feet was a rather large pile of chocolate covered, graham cracker looking pieces. The mess was so large that my now embarrassed wife and daughter walked away and pretended not to know me. A little game they sometimes feel they’re forced to play when we’re out in public.

Trying in vane to kick my ever growing pile of Moon Pie droppings under the edge of the baggage carousel, I looked up to a find somewhat snooty man looking at me with a kind of disgusted frown on his face. Without missing a beat I boldly thrust my half eaten snack up toward him and announced in a loud and somewhat gleeful voice, “MOON PIE!” He grabbed his stuff and moved to the opposite end of the carousel.

At this point Melissa rushed back over. Wiping crumbs off my face and shirt she whispered, “Hugh, I know people here, please don’t embarrass me!”

So there you have it. My first Moon Pie experience.

I somehow managed to choke down the whole thing. To tell the truth, after the first two or three bites, it got a bit easier to eat. I’m not sure why. After living on this planet for almost 42 years I’ve finally eaten my first Moon Pie, and not unlike swallowing a piece of chewing gum, I’m sure this first pie will be out of my system in about seven years.

Maybe by then I’ll be ready to eat the second one.

Family Crisis

We, my family and I, are in the middle of somewhat of a family crisis. It's not something that we won’t make it through, but it is something that we’d rather not be dealing with. We have many, many questions and to date, not as many answers as we would like.

Suffice it to say the crisis involves an illness and like my brother, RLP, I’ll probably write more about it later.

For now, if you pray, please put my family in your prayers.

Thank you,

Hugh

Life

Sometimes life is hard to handle...

Hugh

9/25/2006 - An Update...

It looks like we’ve decided on our costume ideas for the costume parade. Now it’s quite possible that couple of the teachers at my school actually read my blog from time to time. (Nobody actually admits they do, but it’s the only explanation for some of the giggling and sideways looks I get) Due to that fact, I’m not going to give our costume away just yet. Rest assure it is a wee-bit strange. You’ll just have to check back sometime after Halloween to see the pictures.

Remember back when you were in school and you had those things called Teacher-in-Service days, but all you knew was that it meant you didn’t have school? And remember how much fun they were, especially when you didn’t know anything about them until the day before? And remember how you always wondered what the teachers could possibly do up at school if you weren’t there?

As nice, and as much needed, as a break like that is for the students, it ain’t all that bad for the teachers either. Today was an In-Service day in my district.

We sit in some classes listening to some good speakers and some not so good speakers. If you’re ever asked to speak to a group of teachers, say, “No,” quickly and firmly and run for your life! Teachers make the worst students. We doodle, we talk, we pass notes, we make all kinds of faces, we interrupt the speaker with all kinds of off-the-topic comments and some of us even fall asleep. Not me...this time.

I’m not ashamed to admit that the highlight of everyone’s day is lunch. You see, on the average, we usually get somewhere between 20 to 25 minutes to inhale our cold sandwich or microwave burned Leal Cuisine.

But our district, in an attempt to compensate us for our speed eating induced acid reflux, allows us an hour and a half for lunch on In-Service days…that 90 minutes to you and me!

I must admit that we all enjoy the chance to have lunch with adults and not have to hear about how little Johnny stole Billy’s last tator-tot, or how Billy poured milk on Johnny’s hamburger to pay him back, but got some on Martha’s new dress by mistake and now she’s going to get in trouble.



As wacky and strange as all this sounds…I’m looking forward to school tomorrow.

Just Me...

I’m finding it harder than ever this year to be motivated to sit down and write, and I don’t know why. I like to write. When I’m writing hours pass by like minutes. It’s a grand experience.

But I don’t know what it is that causes my writing to slow down. Maybe it’s school and all the beginning of the year headaches. Maybe it’s just life and normal everyday pressures. Maybe it’s age. Who knows?

What I do know is that I miss writing, but just can’t seem to get myself started. I have several things I want to write about and I’ll do my best to get around to them at some point.

But today I have a question and I need your help.

At my school we have a Halloween parade every year that is a pretty big deal. I mean the hallways are filled with parents and grandparents holding cameras and cheering. All the students walk through the halls and classrooms showing off their costumes. Not only do all the students dress-up, but the teachers as well. The kids, for the most part, all wear the usual store bought costumes. However, the teachers are always the ones to watch. Each grade level tries to outdo not only the other grade levels, but also themselves from the previous year.

That being said, there are five teachers on my grade level and we could really use a great costume idea. There are four ladies plus myself, although gender really isn’t a factor for the costume. I would wear a dress for the team if I needed to. Remember, this is a public elementary school, so any costume idea would have to be appropriate for our younger viewers.

We had the idea of being a hand, but we haven’t come up with an easy way to pull it off.

Whatever we end up being, I’ll get some photos and post them here…should be good for a few laughs.


Got any good costume ideas?

We Don't See That Anymore...

We don’t see that anymore, is a phrase I’ve heard two times in the past couple of weeks.

The first time was when I stopped to help a woman in her 80’s put some heavy items into her car at Office Depot. She and her driver, a woman of similar age, were both flabbergasted when from out of the blue a man stopped and helped them load these heavy items into their car. Top that off with the fact that I then opened the car door for the lady and you have dinner conversation at the retirement center for the next month. As I was replying to the thanks I was receiving with, “You’re welcome, it’s my pleasure” and closing the door, the first lady turned to the driver and said, “You don’t see that anymore!”

About a week later, I was at the grocery store when a woman, maybe in her 30’s, dropped her shopping list on the floor. I happened to be walking by as it fell, so I bent down and picked it up for her. It wasn’t even all that big of a deal. All I did was take about 2.5 seconds out of my day to do something for someone else, but that’s when she said it. “You don’t see that anymore!”

It wasn’t until I heard the second woman utter the phrase that I was struck with the thought…why not?

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the polished gentleman. I tend to put my elbows on the table, eat a bit too fast, and on occasion I’ve been known to laugh at, and yes even make, slightly inappropriate comments. (I stress slightly, because my mom does read this from time to time)

However, when it comes to simply being courteous, I take pride in the fact that I always open doors, both building and car, for my wife or whatever woman I happen to be around. When we're eating, I also do my best to stand when a lady comes to, or gets up from, the table. I don’t always remember, but at least I’m trying.

I am always surprised at and a little disheartened by the number of women for whom this kind of behavior is so out of the ordinary. When and how did simply being a courteous gentleman become a lost art?

There was the time that I was leaving Dillard’s and I held the door for a very tough looking woman who was about to enter through the same door that I was exiting. (A gesture I would do for anyone, man or woman) Flicking her cigarette butt to the sidewalk she said, in a not so pleasant tone, “I can get that myself you know!”

To which I replied, in the very same overly happy tone I used the first time my daughter made poopy in the big potty, “Well, aren’t we a big boy today.”

An angry scowl and a protruding middle finger were my only reward for my quick tongue.

Putting this angry masculine woman aside, I believe that women enjoy being indulged with these small, everyday courtesies. And to tell the truth, it’s just not that hard to do.

So why is it such a lost art?

Gone are the days when door handles were akin to outdoor grills and lawn mowers. Both of which, I’m proud to say, my wife has never had any reason to learn how to use!

As men we should be taking back the door handles! They were our domain, but time and possibly apathy have turned them into common property.

If you’re a man, and I mean a real man, I challenge you to get out there and open some doors and let the ladies go first!

If you do, and it becomes a habit, maybe it will be the end of comments like, “We don’t see that anymore…”

My Governor is a Jewish Cowboy! If only...

If you’re not from Texas then this isn’t going to mean much to you. However, if you happen to live in Texas and are 18 or older, then you need to be thinking about who it is that you want for your next Governor.

I really can’t sit down and argue politics with the big boys. It’s not only that I can’t, it’s also that I just don’t have the desire. I guess that dumps me into the pot with all the other apathetic Americans, but I can say that I do vote in every election. The fact that my place of employment is the same place I go to vote, makes it a bit easier for me than it may be for the majority of the American public.

When I started blogging back in 2004, I never thought that I would write about anything even remotely political. I thought about, but quickly decided that I wanted this to be fun and that writing of that kind would take way too much effort. So, I’ve avoided writing about anything even remotely political. To tell the truth, it wasn’t all that hard. If you don’t know anything about something, then it’s pretty easy not to talk about it. You may have also noticed that I haven’t written much of anything about how hard it is to do surgery…and that’s for the same reason.

However, I do know enough to say that Rick Perry is not doing anything to help Texas’ education system. I know that Governors have no real power and therefore can’t really change things, but they can work to hard to steer things in the direction that they want things to go. We’ve seen Governor Perry get things done, just not for education. I mean it took him two years with extended special sessions to finally pass an education reform bill kind of thing, but it really didn’t help.

So, if you call Texas you home and you believe that education is important, then I urge you to vote. I’m voting for Kinky Freidman and I hope that one day I will be able to say, “My Governor is a Jewish Cowboy!” (Click here to find out more about Kinky)

However, even if you’re not going to vote for Kinky…at least get out there and vote.


Just not for Rick Perry!




This advertisement was paid for by the “Hugh Atkinson is tired of Rick Perry” fund and is not associated with any of Kinky Friedman’s actual campaigns.

Dressing Backwards

I’ve been getting dressed on my own now for more than 35 years and I haven’t had any really huge problems. Oh sure, back in my closed head injury, rehabilitation hospital days I couldn’t put my pants on while I was standing up, but that only lasted about a month or two and give me a break…I had just spent a month in a coma!

However, as far as getting my clothes on my body correctly, I’ve never had all that much trouble. Okay, who hasn’t put a t-shirt on backwards by mistake once in a while, but you look in the mirror, see that the design that should be on the back is now facing the front and you turn it around.

Other than that, I just can’t comprehend how a person could accidentally put their clothes on backwards…it’s just too hard to do!

That being said, we were at a birthday party for one of my wife’s aging family members. Other than my wife and my father-in-law, I really didn’t know that many people. One of the people I know (who we’ll call Uncle Guido) was there, which always makes things fun. At times things with Uncle Guido can be a bit kooky and bizarre, but fun all the same. I really like Uncle Guido.

At one point my father-in-law looked around and noticed that Uncle Guido was nowhere to be found and we hadn’t seen him for quite some time. He rode with my father-in-law, so we knew he had to be there somewhere, but he was missing.

After checking the restroom, my father-in-law came back with a puzzled look on his face. “I found Uncle Guido.” He said trying not to laugh. “He was in the restroom and it seems that somehow he’s had his pants on backwards all day.” At which point we all lost it.

The roars of laughter brought several of Uncle Guido’s cousins over, all of whom were quickly informed of his clothing faux pas. By the time Uncle Guido emerged from the restroom, half of the people there knew what had happened and were giving him odd looks. Luckily for Uncle Guido, he’s a bit used to this type of attention and can easily join in the laughter. That’s one of the things I really like about Uncle Guido.

As the laughter slowly died down, I found myself wondering how this could have happened. I mean it’s not like a t-shirt where the only real front/back indicator is the tag. On no, pants have a very definite front and back. You don’t have to look down to know if you’re wearing your pants correctly.

Next, what about the zipper? How do you put your pants on and not know that your zipper isn’t in the front?

As it turns out, after getting to the party, Uncle Guido had gone to the restroom, for what I am forced to assume was the first time that day! He got into the stall, but couldn’t find his zipper! After searching, he somehow found it in the back. He then had to undress and redress right there in the restroom.

My only assumption is that Uncle Guido is somehow able to just step in and pull up his pants with them already zipped and fastened. A possibility that we won’t explore, but would probably be quite funny in it’s own right.

And let’s not forget about the pockets. Uncle Guido was wearing everyday, run-of-the-mill kaki pants. Wouldn’t the inability to put your wallet in one of your now missing back pockets throw up a red flag? Add to that the fact that your front pockets are now almost impossible to get your hands into and you’ve got a garment quandary beyond compare.

For whatever reason, nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Uncle Guido got dressed that morning and he somehow managed to live for more than half the day with his pants turned in the wrong direction.

I suppose there are items of clothing that would be more difficult to accidentally put on backwards, but for the life of me, I can’t think of what they might be.

Thursday Night Club

My freshman year in college was a magical time for me. I hadn’t yet received the Frictional Impact Explosives pamphlet, but things were exciting all the same.

Somehow this introverted, fairly mild mannered young man managed to be the only person from the Houston area that I knew of to attend this small Baptist university in Abilene Texas.

I spent the first few days of freshman orientation hoping to meet someone, anyone from the Houston area, but it was not to be. As it started to become apparent that I wasn’t going to find anyone from the southeastern part of the state, I began to realize that being cut off from my world could prove to be interesting dilemma.

I was far from home in a land where nobody had any preconceived ideas about who Hugh is, was, or should be. That’s when I realized that no matter what I said, what I did, or how I acted the people wouldn’t have the slightest idea if I was being myself.

I realized that, if I were so inclined, I could change my whole personality.

Changing my personality sounded fun and easy. All I had to do was choose the personality traits I enjoyed in others and mimic them until they stuck. It was an easy plan.

So there I am, fumbling through my first few weeks of my freshman year and trying to reinvent myself at the same time.

That’s when I met Gregg. Although I was quite sure he had one, I couldn’t have told you Gregg’s last name to save my life. I don’t think I ever even heard his last name until my senior year when we were roommates. To me he was just always “Uncle Gregg.”

I don’t remember exactly where the name came from, but I think it had something to do with my calling his then girlfriend, now wife, “Cousin Lisa.”

Anyway, Uncle Gregg tells Dan (from my explosive adventures) and me about The Thursday Night Club, of which he was a member in good standing. And we decided that we should go check it out, just to find out what it’s all about.

As the name might suggest, this club met every Thursday night. The location of choice for the TNC was a frozen yogurt shop on the east side of town right near Abilene Christian University. The fact that the club had chosen this particular place as its meeting place was a big enough honor to the owner of the establishment that he bought and paid for a plaque for the wall that had each member’s name engraved on it. Along with our motto and sacred words.

As we arrived, the first thing I noticed was the lack of pomp and circumstance. This was no formal ceremony. They didn’t even own a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order.

The first thing I had to do was stand up and in 10,000 words or less (and the words “or less” were strongly stressed) tell why I was there and what, if any, good would my being a member of the TNC bring to myself, the TNC, or the world in general.

I said something like, “I’m not quite sure what good will come out of this...but”

And I was cut off mid-sentence by thunderous applause and an earnest plea for me to have a seat.

And that’s when I realized that, without knowing or even asking, I was being initiated into the TNC. At first I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to be a member, but then I just shrugged and thought “ what the hell”.

The next phase of my initiation was the memory test. I had to memorize the motto, the sacred words and the official TNC song.

The motto: Apathy and Undiscipline


The sacred words: Riloto Wue Mugabe - pronounced, ri-loe-toe, way, moo-ga-bay - (Nobody’s really clear about what they mean)

The song: “It’s been lonely on the saddle since my horse died…and we don’t give a rip!”

After taking two minutes to memorize these very important pieces of the TNC’s heritage, I found myself starting the third and final stage of the initiation.

The reflection stage.

For the reflection stage I simply had to take my yogurt, stand in the corner facing a kind of a palm tree plant and silently reflect on my new life as a TNC member.

As I stood there reflecting/listening to the conversation of my brothers I was suddenly struck by the thought that I had no idea how long the reflection part of the initiation needed, or was supposed to last. Then I thought about the motto – Apathy and Undiscipline. That’s when I turned around and had a seat with my new Thursday Night Club brothers.

My time of reflection took only about 30 seconds, but I did some good thinking.

I sat down and asked, “If apathy and undiscipline are truly cornerstones of the TNC, then it seems that if I don’t care enough to have the discipline necessary to remember to come to the meetings, then I’m being the best possible member I can be…is that right?”

Through mock tears they welcomed me into the brotherhood and told me of the current TNC president. They pointed to one of the first names on the plaque and said he came the first couple of meetings, but hasn’t been back since. To tell the truth, nobody was even sure if he was in school anymore. For all they knew he might be dead.

And so began my life in the Thursday Night Club. The guys would turn out to instrumental in the whole “reinvent myself” phase of life that I was in.

On occasion, we would have theme night. Where you’d bring something, or dress a certain way…or maybe not. It really didn’t matter.

Then there was the time the producers of the school’s musical theme show called “Sing,” asked the TNC to pretend to be terrorists and storm in between acts and take over. The dress rehearsal just happened to be on a Thursday night, so after the rehearsal we went straight to the yogurt shop, still in costume.

We parked a little way down the street and snuck up on the shop with guns drawn sneaking between cars, diving, rolling and doing covert kinds of stuff.

After about 30 minutes of eating yogurt we noticed a police officer with gun drawn poking his head around the corner and cautiously looking in our direction.

As it turns out, somebody saw us and just assumed we were robbing the bank that was in the same strip shopping center and called the police. I don’t remember much more than an extremely agitated officer radioing back to his comrades telling them it was just a bunch of college students and that they can unblock the streets.

I had lots of fun adventures with my TNC buddies. All of which were impromptu attempts on somebody’s part to break up the monotony of the day.

I never joined a fraternity. It just didn’t seem like something I needed to do. I had camaraderie I needed without all the stupid stuff.

I came back to school after a summer break and found that the yogurt shop had been sold, or gone out of business, or burned down or something…I really don’t remember. Whatever the case was, it was gone and Thursday Night Club never had another official meeting.

Oh, we’d get together. We’d sing the song, or quote the sacred words or even do the secret handshake, (I forgot to tell you about the handshake!) but we never had anymore Thursday night meetings. We talked about it. I think it’s just that everybody seemed a bit too apathetic to go out of the way to set it up. A fact that I think makes us all the president.

As it turned out, It wasn’t really in a reinvent myself time of life, as much as it was a “find myself” time of life. I don’t know, maybe that’s what college is supposed to be. However, the TNC turned out to be a very easy going, unassuming group of friends who, possibly without even knowing it, allowed me to celebrate and enjoy being whoever it was I decided I wanted to be.

Thanks Uncle Gregg!

Thanks for introducing me to the Thursday Night Club.

Ben Franklin and People Watching

I love watching people as they carry out their normal daily life activities. I’ll go somewhere and find myself engrossed in the daily happenings of people I neither know, nor will ever see again. I find people’s odd habits, quirky idiosyncrasies and daily happenings extremely interesting.

Watching people is a huge source of entertainment for me.

That being said, yesterday, Melissa and I were at eating at a Quizno’s near our house. We’re sitting there eating, talking and having a good time when I noticed a man having a hard time opening the hood of his car. Fancying myself as somewhat of a shade-tree mechanic, I found myself watching this guy with a kind of ‘should I offer to help?’ fascination.

It wasn’t long before a girl in an SUV pulls in next to the car. She gets out and it becomes quite obvious that she has come to help him jump-start his car. It didn’t take me long to see that jump-starting the car was something quite unfamiliar to both of them. The simple fact that they couldn’t find the hood release inside the SUV prompted me to shift from spectator to participant in this comedy of errors.

Hugh: “Should I offer to help?”

Melissa: “I’m quite sure you know more than he does.”

After our brief exchange of words, I headed outside to assist the fumbling duo.

Walking toward the couple, who was now working to untangle the jumper cables that looked old, but unused, I blurted out, “Can I give you a hand?”

“I think we can handle it” was his polite, yet persistent reply.

I shrugged, walked back inside and settled into my ringside seat. Then I gleefully waited for the upcoming attraction.

Right or wrong, the way I was taught to jump-start a car was to always start with the good battery and connect positive first, then negative. Then move on to the bad battery and connect positive first and then the negative, but not actually hook the negative to the battery, just ground it to something metal connected to the frame of the vehicle. I've always done it this way and I've never had any problems.

The first thing I noticed was that he connected his cables to the bad battery first, however I couldn’t see whether he connected positive or negative first. Then he connected the positive lead to the good car’s battery and slowly moved the negative end toward the battery…and that’s when the fun began.

In his defense, his slow negative cable movement may have been caution based, however, his puzzled expression communicated uncertainty.

When the negative cable got about two inches from the negative post on the battery, a spark shot up and he jerked his hand back. Throwing caution to the wind, he tried to quickly connect the cable with the same shocking results.

At this point he’s standing there with stinging hand and stinging pride, as the would-be good Samaritan sits laughing loudly not more than 30 feet away. (Which I’m quite certain he could hear) I tried not to laugh, I really did, but it was quite funny.

Somehow during my laughter he managed to get it hooked up and start the car.

Backing out he shifted his gaze in the direction of my amused grin and we made eye contact for the first time. Chuckling to myself I gave him a nod and a wave to thank him for the great show.

Watching people is a huge source of entertainment for me…see what I mean?

Baby Bug Pictures...

We got her!

Check out Melissa’s new ride. (If I'm good I get to drive it too...on occasion)

She’s a blast to drive, gets great gas mileage and looks cool to boot! Although we’ve been flirting with triple-digit temperatures here in Dallas, we haven’t driven with the top up very much.

Thank you to my father-in-law, for making the deal of the century!

Happy Driving...cause it will be for us!

Please Bug Me!

I wrote here all about getting my new Chevrolet Trailblazer and I mentioned my father-in-law, who I referred to as “possibly the world’s best car shopper.” However, after this week, I feel that I must take the word ‘possibly’ out of that statement.

He and I have spent about a week shopping for a convertible Volkswagen Bug. (Click here to see what we’re looking at) In all honestly, all I’ve had to do is stand there and try not to look like an idiot…a task which shouldn’t be all that hard, but at times taxes my acting ability.

There are only four VW dealers in Dallas and we’ve gone to or talked with each of them multiple times each day. “We’re going to go slow here. They know we’re talking with all the other guys and if they’re hungry enough they’ll keep making us lower bids.” And he was right.

He and I talked about car shopping back before my daughter went to camp and while I’ve been camp shopping and packing, he’s been doing research on VW. We walked in the first dealer and he knew everything there is to know about the VW Beetle. I’m talking about everything from the differences between a package one and a package two, all the way down to the nitpicky trim and tire size things that most dealers have to look up. He had also researched all the financing options that VW offers. He knew all the possible interest rates, rebates and buyer’s incentives that VW offers. I’m telling you he walked in there knowing as much as, if not more than, the average dealer.

That’s one way he gages the integrity of the dealer. He knows in about five minutes if the guy is shooting straight with us. One of the first guys we talked with came back with some interest points that were a point and a half higher than what he had found doing his research and we haven't been back.

We got out of the car at another dealer and he said, “Slow down, make them come to us.” Then he said, “Now I’m going to say some stuff in here that might shock you, but try to just look like it makes sense.” I don’t remember being shocked by anything he said, but percentage points and numbers were flying around like a whirlwind, so I was just sitting there trying not to look like an idiot.

All I know is I’m having the time of my life. I’ll post a picture of the new car when we get it.

It should be any day now!

Waldemar - Here we go again!

She’s gone.

We hugged, we kissed and we waved good-bye as the big white bus pulled out of the parking lot with my little girl onboard.

While we’ll be able to go online and see a pictorial account of the camp’s daily happenings. Complete with the occasional glimpse of our daughter. We won’t get to hug her again until August 6th.

While the hugs lasted longer than usual and the need to be near us was stronger than it normally is, this is her second year…and that makes her a veteran. There really weren’t any tears, at least not while the bus was still in the parking lot. Then mom and grandma had a few, but I think that was expected.

But now I’m back at home and wondering what I should be doing. Melissa has the day off, but her mom took her to a spa for the morning. I’ve already purchased tickets to the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie…but what next?

Could I be bored already?

A Time to Share...

I’m all for sharing. In my line of business you have to be. I’m forever saying, “I’m sure someone at your table will be more than happy to share with you.” And whether it’s a certain color of crayon, an eraser, scissors, or a glue stick, having students who are willing to share makes life in the classroom much, much easier.

However, I have to draw the line somewhere. Don’t I? I mean, you’re more than welcome to borrow my pencils, scissors, or glue sticks. And hey, I’m happy to loan you any and all the tools you need. (And I’ve got a pretty nice collection!) But if you come asking to borrow my clothes…well pal, that’s a whole different bucket of dead frogs.

Not borrowing clothes…I think it’s a guy thing. At least it’s a thing for this guy. Never in my life would I have dared to ask a friend if I could borrow his clothes. Okay sure, I borrowed clothes from Real Live Preacher from time to time. However, he’s my brother and besides, I don’t think he ever knew I had them.

Girls however, the ones I was around growing up, at least the vocal ones, and now my daughter, seem to have no problem loaning clothes.

Maybe it’s a result of needing a different pair of shoes to go with each outfit. Maybe it's a kind of female bonding ritual that I just don't understand. Maybe it's just the way God created the universe. Whatever the reason, girls just seem to enjoy lending and borrowing clothes.

Recently, a friend of my daughter’s called and asked to borrow a pair of shoes. Not only that, but she needed them for church that morning! So we took them to church so she would have shoes to wear with her new outfit.

Maybe my not understanding about sharing clothes stems from the fact that I don’t understand the whole female idea behind buying clothes.

What do I mean, “maybe?” I’m quite sure I don’t.

If you need a new pair of shoes to go with a new outfit, wouldn’t it make sense to buy the shoes you need when you buy the outfit?

Or is it that, when shopping, you only have to know that one of your friends has shoes that match the new outfit?

Whichever mindset is correct, this a whole new world for me. With each new day I learn more and more (sometimes way more than I want to) about being the parent of a teenage girl...and I'm not even there yet!



By the way, does anyone have brown ropers, size 10?

Because I got these new pants and well...

Waldemar...Round 2

I wrote here about sending my daughter to camp for a month last year. It was our first year to send her to camp for more than a week and we spent almost the entire month of June getting her ready for the big adventure. We had lists to make and remake. We had clothes and tons of other camp stuff to buy. That plus all the last minute preparations almost killed me.

So I think you can understand why I wasn’t particularly looking forward to June this year.

However, now that she’s a seasoned veteran, things couldn’t have gone smoother. I guess it’s knowing what to expect that makes all the difference. Combine that with the fact that many of the “last minute” things that seemed to pop up last year were things that we were able to simply pack away and pull out again this year and that makes for a much easier, much less frantic packing experience.

We put her on the bus this Friday and the waters are calm…so far.

I’ll let you know how things turn out.

To Breed Or Not To Breed?

What is it that makes people feel like they need to inquire about the number of children you and your spouse are planning on having? Is it a combination of really bad manners and poor social skills, or is it simply a person’s stupid attempt at making conversation? Either way, for some reason there are people who seem to assume that it’s not only their right to know, but also their right to ask and make it seem like you’re doing something wrong by only having one child or less.

Anyway, in this day and age it seems that having children is something that can no longer be taken for granted. Gone are the days where mobs of children roam wildly through each and every household. However, a mindset that suggests something is dreadfully wrong in your family if you don’t have multiple kids is still alive and well in the United States. At least in my neck of the woods.

There is a couple in our social circle that has four children. It seems that whenever the men from this circle get together inevitably I’ll hear how nice it must be to only have one child. He moans and groans about how hard his life is with so many mouths to feed. While I’m quite sure that his playful ribbing is meant in jest, I can’t help but hear a bit of something in his voice that suggests more. I can’t exactly put my finger on it is that I’m hearing, but it’s there. It’s like a combination of bragging and self-pity.

I’m married with one child. My wife and I enjoy having one child and at this point we don’t plan on having any more. However, I’ve spent time feeling guilty for only having one child and I don’t believe that’s valid guilt…whatever that means. I mean I’m sorry that my wife and I have somehow been able to master the subtle complexities of birth control and you haven’t, but to walk up and assume you know more about our lives than we do and suggest, in your infinite wisdom, that it’s time for us to have another child is, in my mind, completely unacceptable.

Understand I’m not talking about parents or other close family members. These are people who have a vested interest in your life and who may very well have been waiting a long time for grandchildren, nieces, nephews or cousins. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s possible for family to go too far as well. However, at least in my situation, family is never a problem.

Now, I have enough close friends who are trying to have children, but who are having a hard time getting pregnant, to be very cautious about asking anything having to do with children, just to be safe. (Yes, I realize that only the female half of the couple actually gets pregnant, but work with me here…you know what I mean!) For me, if they don’t offer the information, I don’t ask to know the details…it’s none of my business!

These days, depending on who has made the comment, I’ll start looking around in the sky and slowly moving my hands and arms around and say something like, “You know, there is stuff our there in the world, and some of it is called ‘Your business.’ However, this is none of that kind of stuff.”

Most people get the point, laugh and go about their business. Others make a futile effort to defend their stupidity by applying some kind of idiotic justification for their baby question faux pas. I even had one person tell me that being obedient to God means having multiple children. Come to think of it, I guess he could have been stupid and a polygamist.

So there you have it…Hugh’s gripe session.

What am I hoping you’ll take away from this? I’m not sure.

For all I know I’m the only person in the entire world who dislikes people inquiring about his plans for breeding.

But somehow I think I’m not.

I'm Busy...

Today my daughter had a new experience. She was calling a friend when she called me into the room. “Dad,” she said, “Whenever I call I keep getting this weird beeping sound.”

I figured she dialed the wrong number and had gotten a fax machine by mistake, so I asked her to try it again. “Nope, same strange sound,” was her confused reply.

Putting the phone to my ear I heard an all too familiar “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.”

“Well, sweetie, it’s just a busy signal.” And my comment was met with the same confused gaze I received when I tried to explain the Pythagorean Theorem to a group of fourth graders. “You know, it just means that they are using their phone and you’ll have to wait and call back later.”

She looked at me like I was making the whole thing up, shrugged, put the phone down and got back to work on the computer. All the while thinking her old man had lost his marbles.

What does it say about a society's thirst for instant gratification if a child can live to be eleven years old without ever hearing a busy signal?


Hmmm?

Busy Summer

Am I sitting by the pool? Am I enjoying my time away from school with an ice-cold brew in my hand? Am I whiling away the hours doing absolutely nothing productive?

The answer to these questions is, “NO!”

But isn’t this supposed to be summer?

If so, what’s happening?

Between Disney World, driving to Colorado for a friend’s wedding, getting ready for a child’s birthday party, and packing that same child up for a month at camp…it hasn’t felt like much of a break.

While Disney World was extremely fun and the wedding was simply incredible, (check out the picture) I haven’t had the sit back and do nothing kind of summer that I always hope for.

But be strong and stay focused, for I may have the much-needed time away from any an all responsibility that my heart desires.

I’ll keep you posted.

Disney World

We went to Disney World for eight days and we had a blast!

We stayed at the Caribbean Beach Resort (see it here), the same place Melissa and I stayed on our honeymoon. If you’re going to Disney World, I highly recommend staying in one of the Disney resorts. Being able so simply hop on a bus and go anywhere is very nice.

My favorite ride was a toss up between three different rides.

First, there’s the Rocking Roller Coaster (experience it here). This ride takes you from 0 to 60 mph in something like 2.4 seconds. It’s got all kinds of twists, turns and loops, but you’re in the dark for much of the ride. As a bonus, the whole time your jamming out to AeroSmith.

Second, we have Expedition Everest (experience it here). This coaster has you zipping along high in the Himalayas when the Yeti rips the tracks to shreds and sends you backwards through the ride.

Both coasters are really good rides.

Third, is an amazing free-flying attraction called Soarin' (experience it here). In Soarin’ your hanging 40 feet in the air in a seat that lifts, dips and turns as you watch a kind of IMAX film that gives you an aerial view of California. You zoom over and through the redwood forest, Yosemite, the Golden Gate Bridge and the lights of Hollywood.

This wasn’t a coaster, but it was very good all the same.

Being at Disney was nice, but now it’s back to the real world…and I’ve only got 9 more weeks of vacation left!

Love is Like a Roll of Tinfoil

Last Tuesday, I had an eye doctor appointment right after school. School is out a 3:00 PM, but I’m really not supposed to leave the building until 3:45. However, my principal is very easy-going and always understands if you have to make appointments for right after school.

I guess she would rather have you leaving right when the kids do, than taking a full or half day off to go see the doctor.

So like I said, I had this appointment that I made a few weeks ago. Being the responsible team member that I am, I was quick to inform the rest of my grade level that I would be leaving early. Just so nobody would schedule a grade level meeting that day or something like that.

Tuesday comes and I leave at 3:05 for my appointment.

Jump ahead to Wednesday, at 7:20 AM:

My usual routine when I get to school is to enter the classroom through my teaching partner’s door, turn on her lights, go around through the middle section of our classroom while it’s still dark, flip on the lights as I go around the corner and open the door on my side of the class from the inside.

It all works like a charm until I get to my door handle. I reach down and discover that the entire handle is covered in tinfoil. At first a bit perplexed, my mind starts shuffling through my students’ names and I quickly come up with a few extremely likely culprits. Finally getting the foil off, I casually turn around and freeze in my tracks.

I couldn’t believe my eyes…

As it turns out, the teachers on my grade level had been planning this for over a week. I don’t know who came up with the idea for using tinfoil and I don’t know exactly how many people were involved. I mean there are six of us, but as it turns out they invited everyone they could find to come in and help.

I must admit I’m pretty lucky. I’m lucky to have coworkers who are friends, and friends who would go to this kind of effort (not to mention expense…tinfoil ain’t cheep!) to bring joy to my day.

So, Love is Like a Roll of Tinfoil, a little bit can do a big job, but a lot…well, a lot can come in handy too.

The Whole Story

I decided to take this multipart saga and put all in one easy to access and read account of my days in the explosive business. I’ve been meaning to do this for several months now. However, it wasn’t until I was telling someone about my frictional impact explosives story and how to find it, that I decided to bite the bullet and get it done.

I found myself saying things like, “I pretty sure it starts back in November of 2004, but then you have to start at the bottom and work your way back up and at some point you’ll need to switch to December to finish all five parts.”

I enjoyed rereading them as I edited and put them all together. I also decided that the last chapter or part needed to be cut in half, so now there are six parts instead of five. As it turns out, putting them all together wasn’t as big a pain as I thought it would be.

If you’re never read this before, I hope you enjoy the story. If you’ve seen this before, but decide to reread it, I hope you enjoy it again.


Frictional Impact Explosives –
The Whole Story


Part 1:
Frictional Impact Explosives

When I was a junior in college my brother was working his way through seminary. During his seminary career my brother had many different jobs. I didn’t say “odd” jobs, but I assure you they were.

I don’t know exactly how he found the job at some kind of book shipping warehouse and I don’t even care. All I know is they had hundreds of different books, all waiting to be boxed up and shipped, but the only one I know anything about is a small eight to ten page pamphlet called, Frictional Impact Explosives.

My roommate Dan and I had spent more time and money on different kind of fireworks throughout our college years than we should have. We had even gone so far as to make some of our own, but when the Frictional Impact Explosives pamphlet arrived at our door we were as giddy as schoolgirls on prom night and couldn’t wait to get started.

Our giddiness, however, soon turned to depression as we realized that two of the four ingredients needed to make these little goodies were not easily available to the general public. The two easily attainable ingredients were water and rice. (The rice was simply used as an absorbing agent for the water) We already had an abundance of both of these items at our house. The other two were chemicals, whose names I can’t remember, but wouldn’t publish here if I could, and were going to be a bit harder to get our hands on.

Neither of us were science majors, but we had both had been in and around the science building enough to know the general layout of the building. There were four science lab classrooms on the second floor. This part of the building has a long hall going east and west on the north side of the building and a matching hall on the south side of the building. Between these two halls were the four science lab classrooms, two on the north side and two on the south side. Smashed between the two north classes and the two south classes, like the cream filling in an Oreo, was a chemical storage room that ran the length of the rooms. Although we had never seen inside the chemical storage room, we knew it the answer to our frictional impact quandary.

At this point we had two big problems to solve.

One: How do we get into the science building after dark?
Two: After we are in the science building, how do we get through the locked classroom doors and the locked chemical storage room doors?

As for getting in the building, that didn’t take us long. Using a game of night disk golf for cover, we circled the building in search of its weak link. What we found was a lone window that was semi-secluded in a sunken atrium area that was designed as a kind of professor’s lunch/smoking area.

The atrium was on the back of the building, shaded by trees and unlit at night. This window wasn’t like the rest of the windows on the first floor. This window had shaded glass like you would see on a shower door. If this were in fact a bathroom window, then it would be easy to get in and unlock the window during the day. We marked this window as a possible bathroom window on our map of the building, scouted the rest of the building and finished our disk golf game.

The next day we went into building, found the bathroom and unlocked the window. It was beginning to seem like child’s play as our frictional impact dreams took one giant step towards fruition.

That night we set our alarm clocks for 3:00 am. We dressed in camouflage and black, and snuck in science building through the bathroom window. We slowly made our way up to the science lab classrooms and were pleasantly surprised to find the classroom doors unlocked. However, just as we suspected, all four doors to the chemical storage room were locked tight.

Working around cars as much as I had in my life, I had used clothes hangers and even a special tool I’d made to jimmy locked car doors and free stranded keys for friends. But these bad-boys were locked tight. We tried everything we could think, but it quickly became apparent that our frictional impact dreams were behind locked doors.

Or so it seemed…


Part 2:
Up and Over

A few days later, I was sitting in class when I noticed something about the ceiling. It was one of those ceilings with the big white square ceiling tiles. You know the ones, every school, of every district, of every city, of every state has the exact same ones. What grabbed my attention on this particular day was a missing tile. Now a missing tile in the ceiling of a classroom was nothing new, except that this particular tile just happened to be right next to the wall.

Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole, over the wall and dropping down onto the other side.

Our chemical storage room problem was solved!

After class, I found Dan and filled him in on my ceiling tile discovery. On our way home we made a brief, but thorough, detour through the science building to make a casual inspection of the ceiling tiles. After confirming that the building had the same tiles, and checking to be sure the bathroom window was still unlocked, which it was, we hurried home to organize the evening’s plans.

Using our first mission as a guide, we again set our clocks for 3:00 am. We packed a flashlight, measuring spoons, two jars with lids, scissors and some duct tape in a backpack. Then spent the next few hours finalizing our plans.

The lab classrooms were each about 60-feet x 30-feet. The entrance to the rooms was about in the middle of the long wall. The door to the chemical storage room was on the opposite wall straight across from the entrance. The front of each classroom was at one of the short ends of the room and had the lectern, the professor’s workstation and a pull down screen for slides and movies.

There were rows of workstations with black countertops evenly spaced the length of the room. There were also blacktop workstations built the length of the two long walls, as well as, on the short back wall of the classroom. The only breaks in the countertops that lined the walls were at the door into the classroom and the door into the chemical supply room. We planned to get in the building and the classroom just as we had before, use the workstations against the walls for platforms, remove a ceiling tile and then up and over.

We tucked our floor plans and diagrams into the backpack and tried to get some sleep.

The clocks went off, but we really weren’t asleep. We got up, grabbed the backpack and our disk golf gear and headed out the door. Getting in the building and up to the second floor went without a hitch. That’s when we encountered our next problem.
Up until this point, neither of us had noticed a shelf that circled the room above the workstations about a foot below the ceiling. This shelf housed different kinds of science paraphernalia along with several old science experiments.

We were at first a little disheartened by the discovery of this shelf. It was going to be pretty hard to get over this shelf and through the ceiling tile without breaking something.

To us it was imperative that we be invisible. If we could pull this off without anyone ever even suspecting that unwanted guests had been in the chemical supply room, it would make multiple trips possible, thereby granting us an inexhaustible supply of chemicals. This shelf also presented the possibility that there were similar shelves on the other side of the wall as well, a problem we had failed to plan for.

Attempting to improvise, we sat there discussing what to do next. Then a second unsettling thought occurred to us. It was quite possible that there were boxes, file cabinets or who knows what else stacked against the walls on the inside the storage room. We would be able to look down, but it might not be possible to avoid making a gigantic mess. Suddenly we had a high probability of an unsuccessful mission, and I was beginning to feel more like Inspector Clouseau than James Bond.

We were on the verge of giving it up for the night when one of us noticed that not only did the workstations stop at the doors, but the high shelf stopped as well. In a flash, James Bond was back and the quest was on again.

Balancing on the edges of the workstations with feet propped against the doorframe, we carefully removed the ceiling tile next to the wall that was right above the door. With the tile off, we climbed up and perched ourselves on the wall between the two ceilings. Then we carefully removed the tile above the door on the inside, went over the wall and into the chemical storage room. Up and Over!

The chemical supply room didn’t have any windows, so as long as the doors were closed we could turn the lights on and take our time.

The supply room had row after row of floor to ceiling shelves, each packed with every kind of chemical you could imagine. We quickly discovered that the chemicals were in alphabetical order and finding the ones we needed couldn’t have been easier.

As we were getting our jars out of the backpack we noticed a workroom down at one end. We found bottles, beakers, scales, lids, labels and surgical gloves. Now, it only seemed right that these chemicals should be placed, stored and labeled in their proper containers…so we helped ourselves. Working quickly, but carefully we put on surgical gloves, and gathered the needed chemicals.

The first thing we noticed was that the school had several containers of each chemical. Our first impulse was to take a whole bottle of each, but if we did our “Invisible Thief” theory would be wasted. With the huge amount of chemicals in this lab we were fairly sure that nobody was using any one chemical on a regular basis. If this were true, then a little bit of one chemical missing out of a few bottles would not attract any attention. With each chemical, we took a small amount out of each of the bottles. Small enough so as not to look oddly low, but large enough to give us a good supply to work with at home. We corked the bottles, labeled them and stored them safely in the backpack. We then placed the bottles back on the shelves exactly as we had found them.

As we were getting ready to scale the wall and go back through our hole in the ceiling, we discovered that the door was only locked on the outside, some kind of fire law I guess. This made our exit much easier. We replace the ceiling tiles, took few pairs of surgical gloves and turned off the lights as we walked out the door. We then slowly made our way down the back stairs and out the building.

We got home and went to work on our first batch.


Part 3:
The Big Bang

I’m not sure what time is was, but it had to be late. I don’t think we ever even thought about time. Our minds were focused on one thing and one thing only.

We carefully set up our chemical lab on a coffee table in the living room and worked about an hour making three dime sized little goodies. We wrapped them in wax paper with twisted ends, which made them look like little pieces of cheep Halloween candy. After we finished, we padded a WWII munitions box with toilet paper and carefully placed our creations inside. Then we cleaned up the lab, and fell asleep watching TV.

I don’t remember who woke up first, or even how long we had been asleep, but we sat staring down at three little wax paper blobs nestled safely their toilet paper home, discussing our next move.

We were like parents gazing down at their new baby in awe and wonder. We couldn’t believe that we had made such wonderful little things and that they were ours to take care of, at least until we tried to blow them up.

Our big concern was that they hadn’t had enough time to dry, and that trying to use one prematurely might ruin it. So we decided to wait a couple of hours. However, it didn’t take long for our will power to crumble and we decided if we tried one and it didn’t work, we would just go get it and keep waiting. Besides, if we ruined this one, we had two more as well as the makings for quite a few.

It was cold outside and I put on my jacket and shoes, so I could quickly run out and retrieve anything that failed to combust. At this point we still didn’t have much faith in our frictional impact explosives pamphlet. I mean, you mix two chemicals together with some water and rice and it’s supposed to explode? We were still unbelievers.

Dan carefully lifted the smallest of the three little treasures out of the box. Gingerly cupping it in his hand, we carefully moved to the front porch and he lobbed it out onto the driveway.

Sadly, I don’t remember much about the next few moments. I’m not sure exactly what has clouded or possibly clogged my memory. Maybe it was the deafening sound. Maybe it was the miniature mushroom cloud. Maybe it was the two excited and terrified boys awkwardly stumbling over each other as fell back into the house. Whatever it was, the next thing I remember is sitting in a now dark room, peeking through closed curtains and waiting for the police to show up.

And so we sat. Waiting silently. Listening intently for sirens, neighbors, or any commotion at all from outside.

But there was nothing.

Somehow we had managed to create a fairly significant explosion in a residential neighborhood and nobody noticed or cared. What had we done to deserve this?

Minds racing, we began a verbal reenactment of our first Big Bang, each of us reliving every detail as if the other had not been present. Somewhat automatically, we also began setting our lab up again. Then we got to work making more of our little toys.

It was somewhere in the process that we had the idea for our next test. We decided that to throw another of our babies out into the street from the front door was just asking for trouble. However, if we threw it over the house, from the backyard to the front, then we wouldn’t be seen.

I don’t remember who threw this one, but I do remember being disappointed at the lack of an explosion. Cautiously, we went out to search for our bomb.

We had two theories: One, It landed in the grass and it was too soft of a landing to create the explosion. In which case, we would simply retrieve it and throw it a second time. Two, it wasn’t dry yet and would have to be thrown again later.

We went out and searched, but couldn’t find it anywhere. After searching the entire yard, the driveway and the street without any luck, we headed back into the house. We were a little concerned, for a moment or two, but then returned to our lab. We worked for a while and created half a dozen or so new explosives. Each ranging is size from a pencil eraser to dime-sized ball.

As we cleaned up, we discussed what we were going to do with our new toys. Sure, mushroom clouds and loud noises were fun, but that would only satisfy our mischievous hunger for a short time. It wouldn’t be long before, not unlike a drug addict, we would be hunting for new ways to get a bigger and better demolitions fix.

Then it happened.

Matt, a friend of ours, decided to make an unannounced visit. Now, unannounced visits were more than okay, they were commonplace for us. We didn’t live far from campus and people were always dropping by just to hang out. As he was pulling up, there was this loud explosion. We both jumped up and rushed to the window. Matt was sitting in his car nervously looking around.

It didn’t take us long to figure out that our over the house little gem had landed in the street wet and become a kind of landmine. It sat in the street and dried. Then Matt had run over it with his car.

He ran to the door doing little serpentine, zigzag moves and shouting about someone taking pot shots at him from who knows where. We ushered him in and calmed him down by claiming not to have heard anything and changing the subject.

Later, after Matt had gone, we laughed until we cried about poor Matt’s confusion over being shot at. I’m not sure if I ever told Matt about what really happened. Maybe someday I should, because we owe him a lot.

You see, unknowingly, Matt helped us feed our addiction. Now, we not only had explosives…we had a plan.


Part 4:
Booby Traps and Big Mama

It didn’t take us long to dream up several different fun booby trap scenarios.

Our first, and possibly our best, idea was to put together a huge assortment of tiny landmines. Then, under the cover of night and while they were still wet, we’d toss our little bursts of excitement around campus in some of the high foot traffic areas. (Due to the potential for echo, stairwells were a personal favorite.) They’d have all night to dry and the next morning some poor, unsuspecting pedestrian would get a rather startling wake-up call.

Our next idea was to tie a 20 to 30-foot piece of string to one of the above-mentioned landmines. Once again, while they were still wet, we’d toss them up on roofs or awnings with the string hanging down. The next morning, when some curious passerby came wandering along and pulled the string, BAM! Our only concern was the chance that the now airborne package might land on someone’s head. I wish I could say that our concern was due to some kind of higher moral dedication to keeping the general public safe. However, as I recall, it was more a desire not to get caught. Although, after testing this idea, it became apparent that it didn’t take more than a wee bit movement to create sufficient friction to ignite the package and they would usually detonate long before getting near the edge. So this too became a workable plan.

Over the next few months we came up with quite a few different plans all of which, at the time, seemed like great ideas. I’m not sure how many different little bundles of fun we made, but there were quite a few. My only regret is that I never stuck around to long enough, or got back to the scene early enough, to experience the fun of the actual explosions.

After a while, our fascination with these little bombs began to dwindle. After you’ve heard countless explosions and seen equally as many tiny mushroom clouds, the fun starts to stagnate.

That’s when we had the idea for Big Mama.

Big Mama was the mother of all the frictional impact explosives we had made so far, and Mama, was she BIG!

Using a razor blade, we made an incision in the side of a tennis ball and spooned in the wet mixture. In the interest of chemical conservation, as well as to make sure the water had somewhere to go, we layered Big Mama with healthy supply of rice. Once complete, we parked her in safely in the munitions box with an extra layer or two of toilet paper. Just to be safe.

We really didn’t give much thought to how, or by whom this would be thrown, launched, dropped, or otherwise given flight to. We were living in the moment and seeing as the D-day for Big Mama was several days away at best it didn’t matter yet.

We also didn’t give much thought to how dangerous Big Mama might be. Based on the success of each of our previous home chem-lab experiments, (at least the ones we actually watched) we probably should have been a bit more wary. But we were young and we were immortal and we were stupid.

By this time we fancied ourselves as quite the frictional impact explosives experts. Being experts, it was our professional opinion that if we didn’t wait long enough for her to be dry all the way through, while she would probably blow up, the glorious explosion we were looking forward to would be far less spectacular than what we desired.

The days passed like years as we waited for Big Mama to mature. Unlike all of her predecessors who were packaged in wax paper, a somewhat porous container, the tennis ball she was in was, except for the slit cut by us, quite airtight.

We waited. And then just for good measure, we waited some more.

Waiting for over a week to play with a new toy gives you nothing, if not time to ponder. As the days passed, it seemed that something similar to good sense started to worm its way into our thoughts. The more we thought about it, we began to have visions of ways Big Mama could turn out to be a big disaster. Not the least of which was the two of us getting injured or caught.

Our original plan was to come up with some semi-safe way to detonate Big Mama on campus. After our thought-provoked revelations, we decided that our plan needed to change. And we decided to take her out to a back road somewhere, toss her down the road and just see what we see.

Not quite as spectacular a plan as we had originally had our hearts set on, but our only other option was soaking Big Mama in water and dismantling her.

Roads like we wanted were all too common around our university and it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get ourselves pretty far out of town. We pulled over and carefully lifted the munitions box out of the car.

Paco opened the munitions box and with my arm outstretched, I carefully reached in. We really had no idea how fragile Big Mama was going to be, and I was afraid of grabbing it too tightly and setting it off in my hand. I was also afraid of holding it too loosely and dropping it on my foot. As luck would have it, I was able to gently roll it off of the toilet paper padding and into my hand. Then, cradling it gently in my hand with my arm extended and my elbow locked I made a grenade type toss about 20 yards down the road.

The explosion was incredible.

The sound was more than just a loud explosion it was awesome. It was a delayed sound like I had only experienced while watching movies in science class. The kind where you first see a completely silent burst of light and then, just as you begin to wonder about why there’s no sound, the sound hits and echoes through your entire body.

The mushroom cloud was at least ten feet tall, its canopied top had a diameter of four to five feet. It was easily a hundred times the size of anything we had made so far. And it didn’t quickly dissipate into the air like the small ones. Oh no, it slowly drifted off into the darkening sky.

Stupefied by what we had accomplished, we stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Remembering to breath again, I suddenly gasped for breath as we both ran to the point of impact.

Staring down at the spot where Big Mama had met the road, I couldn’t help but think it looked beautiful. The force of the explosion had embedded bits of tennis ball into the asphalt and created a sunburst pattern with shades of blues and reds mixed in.

Standing there mesmerized by all that had just transpired, suddenly we started being pelted with tiny bits of falling tennis ball. Standing in a tennis ball downpour, I began to have a whole new kind of respect for the power that this stuff had. We weren’t just playing with a bunch of Black Cat firecrackers that we picked up at some roadside stand these were explosives…and they were for real.

The drive home was silent. The ride seemed longer this time, both of us trying to wrap our minds around this new truth about what we were doing. When we finally spoke, we agreed that Big Mama had been fun to make and an intriguing learning experience, but we vowed to never make anything anywhere near that big again.


Part 5:
The Big Mistake(s)

What I didn’t tell you earlier, because it seemed a bit off topic, is that when we made our first visit to the chemical supply room to procure the needed chemicals, we also happened to leave with some additional chemicals that weren’t needed for the Frictional Impact Explosives.

You see, the pamphlet that had the recipe for the explosives also had a couple of other recipes that we thought looked interesting. Besides the explosives, what caught our attention was a recipe for smoke bombs. The smoke bomb recipe seemed more like it might actually work than the other. We decided that it would be nice consolation prize if in fact the main focus of our adventure turned out to be a dud.

I don’t recall much about these, because we really never paid much attention to them after the explosives worked so well. But we had the chemicals at our house, although we quickly forgot about them once the explosives became a reality.

When we came across these chemicals, that we had all but forgot about for several months, we decided that would give the smoke bombs a try. Without using any of our newfound “Big Mama” wisdom regarding the size of our toys, we quickly got to work preparing a gigantic smoke bomb.

Unlike the explosives that had to dry overnight, these babies were ready in an instant. We took it out in the backyard and lit the fuse.

In a matter of seconds our entire backyard was full of greenish-blue smoke. It was so dense that we couldn’t see more that a foot in any direction. Once again, the results were quite impressive. This pamphlet was turning out to be a goldmine.

Seeing as we had used all the chemicals we had on hand to build this one smoke bomb, (I told you it was big) we decided to make a second trip that very night to the chemical supply room to get some more.

This is the point at which our careers as outlaw chemists make a 180-degree turn in the wrong direction. You see, up until this point all of our somewhat shady maneuvers were well thought out and planned with meticulous detail. This mission, however, had several poorly planned elements, as well as, more than its fair share of stupid heat-of-the-moment decisions. For the sake of this story we’ll call them all mistakes.

(Mistake #1)
Call it pride, call it arrogance, call it stupidity, call it whatever you like, but we decided that we didn’t need to wait until the wee hours of the morning to make our chemical run. Oh no, we decided that we could easily sneak into the building at about 10:30 that evening.

Having checked the bathroom every time we were in the science building, we were quite certain that the window in the bathroom would still be unlocked. We packed a bag with the empty chemical containers needed to make the smoke bombs and not the frictional impact explosives. This decision would turn out to be the only good decision we made the entire evening. Then we waited for 10:30.

We entered the building without a hitch and quickly made our way to the second floor. Heading down toward the science classrooms we were passing a second stairwell when down below we heard the sound of jingling keys. It was one of the school’s graduate student security guards. For the most part what they did was make rounds through each of the buildings making sure doors were locked.

The guard looked up and saw two students standing at the top of the stairs glaring down.

(Mistake #2)
We took off running down the hall and around a corner that led into an area of the building that was unfamiliar to either of us. It turned out to be a row of locked offices, a pair of bathrooms and a dead end.

(Mistake #3)
Panicking, we slid into the men’s room.

(Mistake #4)
Realizing that even if the window would unlock, we were on the second floor and staying put meant getting caught for sure, we decided to stash the backpack behind a trashcan, run out past the guard, down the stairs and out the building. Based on the rather large waistline of the security guard, we were both quite sure we could easily outrun him.

We stashed the backpack, peeked cautiously out the bathroom door and took off toward the nearest stairs. It worked like a charm and the guard didn’t even have time to turn around, much less follow us.

We had gotten away again…or so we thought.

Safe at home, we set our clock for 3:00 am, intending to head back and retrieve the backpack and put an end to the night’s fiasco.

However, it wasn’t our clock that woke us up at about midnight, it was the phone.


Part 6:
The End of an Era

Seems the university police had found a backpack in the science building with a name on it, and the chief of police wanted to know if we had time to come have a conversation with him down at the campus police station.

Now there’s a good reason why our university’s police chief was nicknamed Barney Fife. Among other things, this guy was running across the court at a basketball game to break up a fight between spectators when his gun fell out of his holster. If that’s not bad enough, he didn’t even notice that it had happened and a second fight broke out between students who were trying to grab the guy’s gun. It was no big shock that Barney wasn’t taken all that seriously as a law enforcement officer by the students.

All the same, we were terrified.

We told him we’d be there in 15 minutes, but Barney insisted on picking us up. I had never been to, let alone seen the university police station, but as we pulled up in front I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

As it turned out, the police chief and his one deputy were pretty low in the pecking order when it came to office assignments. The university had an old house that used to be the president’s home back in the 1920’s. Being stuck in that old house would be just about the worst location on the entire campus. However, Barney would have given his single bullet to be in the old president’s home. You see, even old textbook storage ranked higher than the sheriff and his posse, because they were stationed, not in the actual house, but out back in the dilapidated old garage.

We walked in and an officer showed us to some chairs and pulled the garage door down with a crash. I felt like I was stuck in a really bad movie, as we just sat there waiting for someone to say something…anything.

The chief took a seat behind his desk, and shuffling though a huge stack of papers he produced a five by seven inch note card. Looking up he said, “I just want to make sure I get this right.”

Clearing his throat he read the card, “You have the right to remain silent, anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” and we both snapped to attention.

I’m sure he read the rest but I don’t remember anything more.

When I finally regained my mental composure, he was firing off questions about the contents of the backpack and what we were doing in the science building.

Turns out that the university had been searching, rather unsuccessfully, for the person or persons responsible for leaving tiny bombs, as he called them, all around campus. It evidently had not taken the science department long to determine the ingredients being used to make the explosives, but they had no idea where the culprits were getting the chemicals from, since as far as they could tell, no unauthorized personnel had been in the chemical supply room. (Invisible Thieves Theory)

I don’t remember much about the actual interrogation, seeing as my mind was still spinning from having just been read my rights. I know it was a lengthy discussion, in which we both quite scared and said maybe all of five words.

After what felt like an eternity, we were told not to leave town and that we would be contacted after the science department had determined if the chemicals we had in our backpack were the ones being used to make the bombs. (Which of course they weren’t since we hadn’t brought those containers with us)

The deputy took us home and we immediately washed all the remaining frictional impact explosives chemicals down the drain, got rid of the containers, and burned the pamphlet. We were sad to see it go, because it was the end of an era…a frictional impact era.


Note:
We were contacted about a week later and told that, due to a lack of evidence, nothing more was going to be done regarding the chemicals we had, but we were sternly warned not to be in any building after hours without permission. A warning that took seriously and heeded for the rest of our time at the university…well, kind of.

Chauffeuring, not such a bad gig...

I took the day off from school and took a volunteer position as a chauffer. “An odd choice of professions,” you may be thinking to yourself. However, my temporary job as a chauffer was both an honor and a pleasure.

Melissa, my wife, works in the foundation of a hospital here in Dallas. The foundation had some seats at a luncheon where former President and First Lady, George and Barbara Bush were the keynote speakers. Melissa invited Ebby Halliday, a friend of the Bush family and the queen of Dallas real estate to attend the luncheon as her guest.

Now, in case you aren’t from Dallas, or are not in real estate, Ms. Ebby Halliday is truly one of the nations most amazing women. She started in business here in Dallas back in the 1930’s. This was a time when women were neither wanted, nor easily accepted into the business world. Ms. Halliday not only started selling homes here in Dallas, but she opened her own office and quickly became the city’s and state’s most successful realtor. That was 60 years ago and Ebby Halliday is north Texas’ first name in real estate. You can find out more about this remarkable woman here.

We thought that, even though the hotel had valet parking, having a person drive them to and from the event would be much better. I mean, why wait in the huge valet parking line if you don’t have to. So I, being the loving and dutiful husband that I am, quickly volunteered my services. However, after we got there we found that self-parking, while available, was even more of a wait than the valet, so we ended up using the valet after all. As it turned out, one of the hospital’s other guests was unable to attend the luncheon, so I was able to not only be a driver, but a guest as well.

And let me just say that both the President and First Lady are wonderful speakers. Their speeches were both funny and sincerely heart felt. This was a luncheon funding the Genesis Women’s Shelter and it was easy to tell that both George and Barbara Bush care deeply for battered women everywhere.

My father-in-law has been a manager with Ebby Halliday Realtors for more than 30 years, and I’ve always heard how wonderful Ms. Halliday is from him. Over the past 17 years, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Halliday on several different occasions, but I’d never really spent much time with her. However, while I knew I was going to have fun, I was not prepared for the truly wonderful day I was going to have.

Ms. Halliday was simply a joy to be with! She is the epitome of elegance and grace. The car ride to the hotel was filled with talking and laughter. Ms. Halliday didn’t even get upset when I got lost. (Really more of a wrong turn…I don’t drive downtown very much these days)

Melissa even bravely confronted the Secret Service agents and somehow got permission for Ms. Halliday to go up on stage and speak with the George and Barbara Bush. (Which was no small task…there’s nothing my wife can’t do, but that’s a story for another day)

The ride home was as fun and memorable as the ride to the event. Except this time I didn’t get lost!

So, a day in the life of this chauffer was filled with nothing but fun people, interesting conversation, invigorating company and good food. Top it all off with a much needed, and may I say well deserved, day off and it adds up to a great day!

Chauffeuring, not such a bad gig…if you have the right passengers!