High Plains Panhandler

Who's Out There?

When I came to work the other day, I noticed an owl on the edge of the parking lot. He was cooing softly, and when I approached him he took a few tentative steps, frankenstein-like, toward me. He looked in bad shape, and I believe his eyes were missing, either having been pecked out by another animal or, more than likely, shot out by someone with a pellet gun.

So what do you do with a lurching owl who's stuck braving the some pretty fierce wind? We called Animal Control, and they sent an officer who scooped up the owl and took him away. They called us later and said that the owl was very sick, so much so that they had to put him to sleep.

I found this very sad, not just because an owl died, but because of all the places I'd like to be right before I shuffle off this mortal coil, my work parking lot would not be one of them.

Easter 2006

This year, due to our confusion and weariness, we decided not to make the day-long drive to Houston for Easter but stuck around here and had a nice, quiet egg hunt with some friends in our backyard. Our friends brought over the main lunch course: grilled chicken and ribs that Victor, our friend, had cooked using his amazing magical powers. The ribs were good - very, very good. Turkish Delight good. The kind of good that makes you say, "I obey Victor" after you eat them.

Victor does the slow cook. I believe he grills the ribs and chicken over a period of decades to get everything perfect. I wasn't sure if he was going to cook at our house on Easter day, so I dashed out the day before (putting off lawn duty) to refill our grill's tank at the propane and propane accessories place.

I'm a dork at the propane fill up station. Every time I go, I hand the tank to the propane guy (identifiable by his thick gloves) and then stand back a few feet, usually hiding behind the small cardboard sign that tells you to hand your propane tank to the guy in the gloves. I suppose I figure that if there's a terrible explosion, I'll be safe behind the flimsy sign. I am brave that way.

On my way back home, with the propane tank making threatening ticking noises on the passenger seat next to me, I saw a guy cross the street with a five foot cross on his back. Well, since it's not every day I see a guy toting a cross around town, I had to turn around and ask him some questions.

Cross Man: "Hello, brother."
Me: "Hey, what are you doing there with that cross on your back?"
Cross Man: "I'm carrying this cross around just like our lord Jesus did before he died for us."
Me: "I see. Isn't is a little skimpy?"
Cross Man: "Skimpy?"
Me: "Yep. I don't know if you could really nail someone to it. It's too small. You'd probably have to lean up against it."
Cross Man (evaluating his cross): "Well, the point's the same. This is what Jesus had to do."
Me: "I don't think Jesus had a wheel on his cross." (There was a wheel on the base of the cross.)
Cross Man: "That makes it easier for me to carry it."
Me (pointing at a black box near the cross's wheel): "I don't think Jesus had a engine on his either."
Cross Man: "That's not an engine. That's my megaphone amplifier."
Me: "I'm sure Jesus didn't have one of those!"
Cross Man: "He didn't need it. He has the voice of God!"
Me: "Huh. Well, good luck. Do you have far to go?"
Cross Man: "Nah, I'm just heading over there to get a drink." He nodded his head toward a convenience store across the street, so I took it that the drink he was going to get was water and not something of the spirited variety.)

Then he started walking again, nodding, smiling, and waving, very cheerful for a man representing crucifixion on a stubby cross. Then again, here we were, celebrating Easter by hunting hidden plastic eggs filled with candy and being fidgety in church, so who am I to critique a guy for celebrating by lugging a hunk of wood through intersections and looking for hydration?

Wisdom Around the Soccer Ball

We had our third Dinomites soccer practice last night under a sunny 84 degree sky (last week's practice was 42 degrees in 50 mile an hour gusts of wind), and two of our new players decided to impart some words of wisdom to me as I raced around the field with them trying to convince them that running during a soccer game was actually a good idea.

We were kicking the ball back and forth when I heard this: "Coach Mark, my dad can toot and burp all day long."

I propped my foot on the soccer ball and tried to appear in deep thought. Then the best I could come up with was, "I'm sure he's very proud of that." I looked over at the dad who was stretched out, comfy-style, in a chair under a tree, and I was jealous that his gaseous powers allowed him that small bit of relaxation.

So at a water break I told him that his kid had ratted him out. He lowered his sunglasses and peered over them at me, paused dramatically, and then said in a serious newscaster voice, "Burping is fun."

Who am I to take away these small joys, these small bonds between father and son, these light and lingering flavors of two-for-one burrito day at Tacos Garcia?

But now I know why a lot of people consider soccer to be such a gas.

Cello Chipmunks

I finally (finally!) finished my Big Project and thought I could take a GameCube break from writing for a little while, but it's hard to ignore my voluminous pretend e-mail that people send me about my laziness in posting here. It's double-hard to ignore the site when Pat, my brother-in-law, posts a comment because I know I'll get a smaller rectangle of lasagna if he's not happy. And you don't know lasagna until you've had his! Holy stratified pasta layers! I think he had to have special lasagna pans made from old Toyotas his ten-feet thick concoctions. It's really quite amazing and crazy delicious. I am jealous because my culinary skills with flipping a grilled cheese sandwich on a grill, slathering peanut butter and jelly on some bread, or pouring a bowl Count Chocula can't compare.

So now I return from my hiatus with a story about Alex, our five-year-old. Alex has now started playing the viola, joining the Suzuki program here in town (Megan plays the violin, and Colleen plays the cello). The other day Alex sat down next to me and very earnestly told me that he'd rather switch instruments:

Alex: "Daddy, I'd like to play the cello instead of the viola."

Me: "Really? Why is that?"

Alex: "Because you can sit down and play it."

Me: "Oh, I thought it was because all the chicks like the cello."

Alex (running off): "Megan! Megan! There are chipmunks in Colleen's cello! Chipmunks!"

This, unfortunately, caused great consternation, mainly because no one really wanted to play an instrument infested with ground squirrels. Although, now that I think of it, maybe the three of them simply didn't want to practice that day and went for any excuse they could find - chipmunks being handy.

I think I'll use this excuse when I'm supposed to be mowing the lawn this weekend. It's good to learn from clever kids.