Back in the middle of March my mother was in town for the weekend of my birthday. While we were driving around one day I spotted (and heard) a Red-winged Blackbird, the first one I’d seen this year. I related to her how hearing them always reminds me of my Grandmother (her mother).
Every summer when I was a kid she (my Grandmother) would rent a cottage for the two of us on Lake LBJ. The cattails at the water’s edge were always full of Red-winged Blackbirds, singing that most-distinctive song of theirs. Anyway, to this day whenever I hear one, it takes me right back there. To simpler, happier times; fishing with Lala.
Well a couple of weeks after that (once it warmed up enough to start keeping the windows open), I was surprized to hear a Red-winged Blackbird right outside my apartment. I’ve lived here roughly 6 years and this is the first time we’ve had any RWBB’s. Apparently they’ve decided to nest here for some reason. There are at least 3-4 males and a few females and every morning bright and early and then again at dusk the air is filled with their unmistakable calls.
You know how now they’ve got those musical greeting cards that actually sound “musical”? Well, my mother, always one to embrace our Irish heritage (she hoped I would be born on St. Pat’s day; my middle name would have been Patrick) sent me a St. Patrick’s card that plays music. Imagine my surprize when I realized that it was playing a Dropkick Murphys song.
More specifically, this one:
There’s also a really good live performance here, it’s a Live on Letterman Web Exclusive!
…is that you then become, by default, tech-support. My hair stands on end when she calls on the phone and says, “I’m having trouble with my computer”.
Recently she made that very call. Her computer was making a noise (which she couldn’t describe) and, more troublingly the motherboard’s protection software had popped up a warning “something about heat” just before it shut down. Let me just pause here to say, my mother is an amazing, extraordinarily intelligent woman. She doesn’t, however, know nor does she have any interest in knowing what makes her computer work.
Analyzing the facts at hand, I determined that the most likely culprit was the fan on the CPU heatsink. I pulled up the emailed invoice, checked the Intel website, and determine that it is still under warranty (two years old, 3 year warranty!)
I call Intel, hopeful that with the info from the invoice I can get a new heatsink on its way. No such luck, they need specific info from the fan and from the processor itself. Ok, this isn’t a huge problem, and I at least have jumped the first few hurdles with Intel and have a case number. When I handed the computer over to mom, I had nested all of the component’s boxes into the larger boxes and had her save them, so it shouldn’t take long to locate the CPU box and get the serial number and such… in theory. In reality, a few phone calls later, it’s obvious Mom isn’t going to find the box.
In a scene reminiscent of a 70’s disaster film, wherein the control tower talks the sweating passenger through the landing of a jumbo-jet, I (looking at photos and diagrams online) manage to talk my mother through removing the heatsink from her CPU. Jubilant with her success, she gets off the phone with me to call Intel.
Far too soon, my phone rings, they’re closed for the night.
The next evening, she calls Intel, everything goes swimmingly, and Diego (whom she was quite impressed with) assured her that the heatsink should be there in 2 - 5 days. She gives my email address to send the confirmation and tracking info to, as her computer is (obviously) down.
The tracking info comes shortly after midnight and it says that it was shipped next-day air. The next day I check the tracking status and discover that it was delivered at 9:30 AM! Just over 13 hours after she’d gotten off the phone with them!
So, I call Mom that evening and tell her to look on her porch for the package, then we repeat the control-tower, nervous non-pilot, reinstallation process.
I’d give anything for a picture of my mother’s face when she got it back together and it worked without a hitch. Just the joy in her voice was reward enough. She was (understandably) proud of herself, and I was proud of her. Graciously, she complimented me for doing such a good job talking her through it.
My lovely, amazing mother and Intel’s customer service both earn a resounding:
As of Monday, September 10th at 9AM; yours truly is on vacation.
Right now it’s “Vacation Stage I“:
Cooking yummy food, riding the bike(s), and eating yummy food.
Omelettes, rice pudding, and various pasta and Mexican dishes typically dominate the menu during this stage.
Friday afternoon kicks off “Vacation Stage II“: Old Fashioned Days.
Live music, dangerous-looking carnival rides, arts and crafts, pedalboat rides, and surprizingly good fair food — representing many different cultures. You can have your funnel cakes and corn dogs, personally I’m a sucker for the Cajun booth;
Red Beans and Rice
Beignets
Jambalaya
Shrimp & Andouille Gumbo
Crawfish etouffee
Who knows, I might even snack on some gator on a stick!
Ayeee! That’s some fine eating! And the whole thing takes place literally a stones throw from my luxurious domicile.
Saturday night brings the Balloon Glow which really is the highlight of the event (not to diminish the fun of watching the constant stream of illegally parked cars being towed away just below my kitchen windows.) Ahhh…. Schadenfreude!
Sunday things wind down early but the delicious smells linger into the evening.
Monday will be a big ride day. I never get to ride on Monday!
Then Tuesday kicks off Vacation Stage III - The drive to Indianapolis to shower Mom, Aunt Donna, and my step-father with their extravagant and opulent birthday gifts. Then Wednesday we’ll have the big Adkins-approved meat feast and while everyone is recovering/relaxing and enjoying their new treasures, I’ll sneak in a bike ride.
Then it’s back home for Vacation Stage IV,
bracing myself for the return to work and apologising to Caldonia for leaving her alone for 2 whole days.
First some back story. My maternal grandfather died in 1982, when I was 16. He hadn’t made any attempt to contact my mother or myself since roughly 1970. Anyway, after he died, the son (TS from here on, for the sake of brevity, clarity, and anonymity) of the woman (TW) he’d been living with (but never married) contacted my mother, seeking permission for TW to stay in the house they’d shared. My mother said yes and basically didn’t think of it again. That is, until recently.
Come to find out, TW died a few years ago, but no one bothered to tell my mother. Since then the house has been sitting vacant and now the state is looking for someone to pay the back taxes. Here’s where this portion of the story gets weird.
My mother has an older half-brother, Hank (same father), who was raised by their fraternal grandparents. Mom was always told growing up that they had taken him in when my grandparents married rather than burden my grandmother. What she’s only now discovering is that they actually adopted him. So my mother’s brother is also her uncle, and his father is actually his brother (on paper)!
What all of this means is that the state of Texas is coming after my mother for the back taxes, since she is, as we all just learned, the only next of kin. As my mother was finding all of this out, and trying to decide upon a course of action, she talked to Hank for the first time in ~15 years and he tells her that he’s sending a box of their father’s things that he got from TS.
The box comes and it’s apparent that it’s basically just the things that no one else wanted, which is fine, she really didn’t want the stuff anyway. So, she brings the stuff to see if I want it. “Sure”, I say, “I’ll take it.”
Ok, so that’s the back story. Which leads us to the real story.
The Cigarette Case.
One of the items is a silver (in color) “ejector cigarette case” which I discovered didn’t really work.
The foot that does the cigarette ejecting was only moving about 1/8″ when the button was pressed but the slot that it travels in is nearly 1 inch long.
Closer inspection revealed that it appeared as though the whole thing was held together without any fasteners and could be opened up and disassembled.
I got it apart and found that a piece that’s supposed to serve as a pivot point for the mechanism had slipped out of place.
I won’t bore you with the fiddly details of reassembly, but I was thrilled to get it back together and working as it was intended.
The funny thing is this: At the instant I realized I had fixed it, my memory flashed to the person who taught me, when I was about 9 years old, that sometimes you can fix things just by taking them apart and putting them back together. Admittedly there was more to this than just that, but anyway…
That person? my uncle Hank, as I was “helping” him fix my grandmother’s Mr. Coffee coffee maker.
I’ve been feeling under the weather since about January 9th. Came down with a nasty sinus infection with a side order of (chest aching, burns like a furnace) bronchitis. Went to the doc, took the medicine and felt better, but I’m still not “well”.
Consequently, I haven’t ridden the bike, which has left me feeling even worse.
This afternoon I got a letter in the mail. It was a note from my nephew (he’s 10) thanking me for the remote control helicopter I got him for Christmas. He wrote:
Dear Greg,
Thank you so much for the remote control helicopter. I have had a lot of fun with it. In fact, I got it stuck on the roof. Don’t worry, we got it down. I had a crash and had to make a few repairs, but it’s ok. You are a really cool guy.
Love,
Zac
That absolutely made my day! I am a really cool guy!
If I could be even half the man; half the person that he was, that would be more than enough for me. I’m content simply doing my little part to keep his memory and his brilliant spirit alive, striving to to the best of my abilities to emulate some of the qualities that made him so great.
I miss you, Dad!
Posted by Greg Evans in Dad Comments: Comments Off
Shortly after returning back to Ohio after Dad’s funeral I had an email exchange with my best friend, Sheldon (The Mighty Polecat), back in Tennessee. I mentioned that he’d have to get me to tell him the story of the “1958 Impala Chevrolet”. Some time passed and he prodded me to tell him the story, so of course I did. After reading it, he was adamant that I should archive it with all my other writings, so… here is that email, minus salutations, complementary closings and such (months after the fact).
When my parents met, Dad drove a “1958 Impala Chevrolet”, I don’t know why, but that’s the way he’s always said it. This was a pretty cool ride for a young dude in 1965-66. He also inexplicably said “Big Red Sodee Pop” the only context in which I ever heard him use the word “sodee”… it was a secret carp catching recipe… dough balls formed from Wonder Bread and “Big Red Sodee Pop” are apparently irresistable to Carp.
Anyway, back to the car…
As this was the first year for the Impala, they are quite sought-after (and thus, expensive) now.
Dad and Roger (his then best friend; later my step-father) both had ‘58 Impalas. Dad had a 283, Roger had the 348. Dad says his would run right with Roger’s until they hit top end. Dad’s was light blue, Roger’s was (I think) white.
The Impala had 6 round, bullet shaped tail-lights, 2 red ones on each side flanking the clear back up light. Dad and Roger both had 6 red tail-lights, having purloined the spares from some unfortunate Bel Air drivers (after all, nobody cool drove a Bel Air). A funny aside… for years Dad denied the whole 6 red tail-lights thing, it wasn’t until his later years that he owned up to it (with a twinkle in his eye).
Anyway, for years Dad had dreamed of owning one again, but alas, none of us could afford one (we were all looking, too!)
When I went to visit in February, Mom sent along a 1958 Chevrolet Impala model kit. We got all the correct colors, and Dad and I (mostly me, he mainly gave input on color and options and the like; and supervised) spent DAYS working on that thing, getting everything just so, doing all the really fine detail work.
He loved that model, he would sit in his recliner holding it, looking it over with a far-away look in his eyes just about every day. The model even came with 6 red tail-lights! We were so afraid we’d have to liberate some off of some unsuspecting Bel Air model.
Anyway, the last time Dad ‘played’ with it, one of the wheels had fallen off, easy enough to fix.
At the funeral home they had (one of) Dad’s rod and reels, his tackle box, Walter (Walter’s a mounted bass), and the model. Much to my surprise it survived being carted about and riding home in the trunk of a limo none the worse for wear.
Then later, either that day or the next, Leslie was moving the aforementioned fishing rod which was leaning against the mantle. The car was also sitting on the mantle. The car came crashing down onto the brick hearth, and I thought Les was going to cry. I was a bit sick over it myself, but I managed to affect Dad’s cool and assured her it would be fine, that I’d fixed it before (several times) and I could do it again.
The amazing/ironic thing is that it wasn’t a wild kid, an errant ball, or any of the things I expected to do it. It was a fishing pole!
I brought the car home, it’s fixable; I just can’t handle it emotionally right now.
I also brought back a couple of fishing reels (one’s a FINE Abu Garcia I gave him about 18 years ago) and I have rods coming (wouldn’t fit/couldn’t be trusted in baggage). I’ll just have to keep the rods away from that 1958 Impala Chevrolet!
Damnit Polecat! You made me cry!
So, there it is. As a post-script, the car is now repaired, my brother-in-law sent the rods, and I’ve made darned sure to keep them away from Dad’s car!
Posted by Greg Evans in car, Dad Comments: Comments Off
On Sunday, February the 27th while the rest of the world went about its business, I, along with no small number of other people mourned the loss of a truly great man. That man was my father, Ralph Evans. For those who didn’t have the privilege of knowing him, I will attempt, as best I can, to illustrate what made him such an amazing person, beloved by so many.
First a little background; my parents divorced when I was quite young, Dad remarried when I was four years old and remained (very happily) married until he passed away, nearly 35 years. Dad and my step-mother had two daughters and I always felt that I was blessed to have two mothers and two sisters; plus, getting to celebrate Christmas twice definitely had its advantages. Despite geographic distance and not getting to spend as much time together as either of us would have liked, my Dad had a tremendous influence on me. My father truly was, and will always be my biggest hero and role model.
He was a man whose actions and deeds spoke of a purity of character few can hope to achieve. Dad’s life was filled with medical emergencies and brushes with death, but throughout these and his final battle his faith and sense of humor were indomitable. In 1985 my father was in the hospital, near death. For days he had been delirious with fever, not recognizing anyone and hallucinating. I rushed to be with him and when he regained consciousness and awareness the first thing he said to me was “Hi Greg! How’s your leg?” Asking me about my (relatively) trivial injury while facing down death; that typified my father’s care and concern for others above himself.
One of my father’s great passions in life was fishing, for as long as I can remember his bass boat was very dear and precious to him. One night he and a couple of his fishing buddies were launching his boat when a Coleman lantern fell over and spilled, setting fire to the boat. The boat was a complete loss, but that didn’t deter my father, it just meant they had to fish from the bank. The next morning a ranger came looking for him, at first he thought it concerned the boat fire, but no, there was an urgent phone call for him. His father (my Grandfather) had passed away. When my dad retold the story of that fateful night, he could amazingly see the silver lining to the situation. If the boat hadn’t burned, he would have been out on the lake and the rangers couldn’t have found him. That typified my father’s incredibly positive outlook on life.
My father was quick with a joke, a smile, or a kind word; whatever the situation warranted.
Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t articulate my love and admiration for you better at the funeral, but I know it doesn’t matter; everyone there was fortunate enough to have known you or to have somehow had their lives touched by you and that is truly a blessing. I’m sorry for the millions of people who didn’t know you and didn’t have the opportunity to see the incredible light and beauty of your spirit.
I’m sure the fish will be biting when I join you on that big bass boat in the sky, so save me a pole and a seat in the back of the boat. I love you Dad, I couldn’t have asked for a better father.
Posted by Greg Evans in Dad Comments: Comments Off
So, my Brother-in-law Danny has this Camaro. It’s a 3rd Gen (1982-92) model of indeterminate year(s), painted 2004-5 Corvette ‘Le Mans Blue’. For the first week+ of my visit it had been in the shop. One day, Danny comes by Dad’s, positively aglow; he got his car back! He asks if I’d like to go for a ride. My Sister (bless her heart) says that she thinks I’ve been wanting to drive it. Amazingly, he hands me the keys, asks Zac, my 8 year old nephew if he wants to go (of course he does!), and off we go.
First of all, I love the exhaust note. Not many things sound better to these ears than a built small block chevy with a good set of pipes. Even with catalytic converters, this car just sings (in a lusty, rumbling sort of way). We’re tooling down Midland Drive, and Danny suggests that at the next light I should put it to the floor when the light turns green. I don’t think he realized at this point that there was a new Corvette the exact same color as his car right behind us. Anyway… the light turns green, I stomp the gas, and the Camaro surges forward, the cam timing is still a little off, so it bogs down a bit at first, then clears its throat and pushes me hard back into my seat. We quickly come up on slower traffic, and as I’m about to pass, the Corvette, apparently upset by this display of power, is swinging out from behind us and coming around. He’s not leaving us behind though, and now that the Camaro has caught up with the fuel supply we’re hanging with him. Then we both spot the cop, ease off the gas and put on our best choir-boy faces. At the next light we’re beside the Vette, Danny and I both smile and wave, then I turn right, back toward the casa. Danny’s pleased with how well his car measured up to Vette, especially considering the Corvette’s ~$50K price tag.
Upon our arrival, our little backseat passenger runs into the house, shouting excitedly to everone about how we raced a Corvette, leaving us, the two uncles, attempting to explain that it really wasn’t like that at all. The good news is, no one was upset with us, no one got a ticket, and now my nephew has a great story to tell all his friends about going out ‘drag racing’ with his two cool uncles.
Posted by Greg Evans in humor, travel, family Comments: Comments Off
So, the second weekend of my visit I had the fine pleasure of attending my 8 year old nephew’s basketball game, which really was great fun. Afterwards we (my two sisters, their husbands, the two nephews, and myself) go out to eat. I’m excited when they tell me we’re going to a Mexican restaurant, but wary and suspicious when they begin to sing the praises of the fajitas. We find a table and sit, it’s a nice enough place, but I’m still dubious of its, shall we say, authenticity. My suspicions are confirmed when the chips and salsa arrive. The salsa is the blandest I’ve ever tasted, they have spicier salsa in Ohio, for Heaven’s sake! Anyway, I get my huevos con chorizo (eggs with Mexican sausage) and it’s tasty, although also a little bland for my taste. I ask the waiter for some hot sauce, and he looks at me like I’ve just stepped from the mothership, then brings me another bowl of their flavorless “salsa”. I patiently explain that this is not what I was wanting, and he says, “You mean like Tabasco?”
“Yes, exactly like Tabasco, that would be great.”
He brings it, I apply it liberally and all is well. The food is quite good, it just needed a little pick-me-up.
The true comedy didn’t arrive until after our meal. My brother-in-law (whom I won’t name, to spare him further embarrassment) gets up to go visit the restroom. Quite some time passes and he hasn’t come back. My sister suggests that perhaps my nephew should go check on him. Brother-in-law #2 nixes this idea, saying; “He’s a big boy, he’s been using the bathroom by himself for 30 years, I’m sure he’s got it under control”.
As it turns out, this was not the case. He had gone into a stall, taken care of his business, then as he was washing his hands someone else walked in and disappeared into a stall. He got to thinking “Hmm… that looked like a woman…” Upon exiting the bathroom and looking at the sign on the door, he realized he had, in fact, been in the wrong bathroom (for, let us not forget, quite some time).
That was his first mistake. Telling us all of his folly was his second. So, Mr. Brother-in-law, if you’re reading this… Ha ha! Oh, and thanks for lunch!
If this were a TV (or radio) show, at this point they would cue “Ladies Room” by KISS and fade to commercial.
So, I arrived safe and sound in Midland. One of the first things I asked the family about was Bernard’s, a tortilla and tamale factory which sells (in my estimation) the world’s best tamales. No one knew if it was in the same place or even if they were still in business.
Sitting around with my Dad a few days later, he asks if I want to go for a ride. “Sure,” says I, and off we go. I’m just driving aimlessly, we swing by the house where I grew up, which was really quite sad; the neighborhood has taken a definate turn for the worse during the roughly 16 years since I last saw it. My boyhood home looks very weary and run-down and the Elm trees that once lined the streets are all gone, victims of Dutch Elm Disease, apparently.
As we wander through the downtown area, which is still surprisingly familiar, despite an abundance of ‘new’ buildings, I remark that it seems as though Bernard’s wasn’t too far from where we are. Dad agrees and asks if I want to try to find it. “Yes I do!” Now we have a mission! Dad seems unsure that he can actually find it, but then directs me right to it. Amazingly, it looks exactly the way I remember it! Stepping inside nothing has changed, it’s as though I’ve walked through a portal back in time. I can practically see myself, 10 years old, waiting nervously beside my Grandmother while they ring up our tamales.
Then came an even bigger shock, Mrs. Bernard, who was an old lady back way back when, in my youthful eyes, is still there! Of course, she’s older now, but unmistakably the same lady. The whole experience is so overwhelming, I literally am briefly reduced to a nervous 10 year old. “Un docena tamales, por favor”, the words tumble out, automatically, and even as I’m handing her my money I realize that this is not nearly enough tamales.
With my deliciously fragrant bundle in hand, I rejoin Dad in the car. I’m beaming, glowing… I’ve been dreaming of Bernard’s tamales for so long. Our mission now accomplished, we head back to the house. It’s all I can do to keep out of the tamales until we arrive, but unwrapping and eating greasy tamales while driving a stick shift would be a messy proposition.
The tamales are everything I’d hoped for. Spicy enough to make you sweat a little, just the right masa to meat ratio, and just fantastically; sinfully good. Of course now I have to have more, and finding coolers to load full of tamales and bring back becomes a top priority.
So anyway, If you like real Mexican food and you ever find yourself in Midland, Texas, stop at:
Bernard’s Tortilla Factory
511 N Tyler St.
Midland, Texas
