Jet Beagle

At my high school reunion

2009-08-28T07:57:00.001-07:00

In the middle of our 40th year high school reunion on Saturday, we stopped music and revelry for 20 minutes to honor the twenty-five classmates no longer with us. My wife's brother Eddie was one of those twenty-five.

Twenty-five living classmates stood behind Jennifer Kestel Harris as she called the roll of deceased classmates. As Jennifer read each name, we all answered "Here!", to show that the departed classmate remained alive and present in our memories. Before Jennifer moved on to the next name, one of the twenty-five living classmates behind her stepped forward and lit a candle for the departed friend she had just called.

Of the two hundred people in attendance Saturday evening, my wife Joanna was the only relative of any of the deceased classmates. We asked and she agreed to light Eddie’s candle. As she stepped forward, I struggled not to cry. Joanna’s hand was shaking as she lit the candle, and I steadied her. As she turned to step back, I had to hold her up, and we exited to a back hallway until she could recover.

After the candle-lighting ceremony, a dozen or more of Eddie’s close friends came to Joanna, one by one. It was difficult all evening for Joanna to talk with everyone about Eddie’s life. But it was an important step toward reaching closure.

I don’t know if I’ll survive any of my seven siblings. I’m not looking forward to doing so. But if it happens, I hope I’m able to summon half the dignity and strength my wife Joanna has displayed these past sixteen months.

Fixing slow play in golf: reduce bottlenecks

2008-11-20T07:23:00.000-08:00

Stephen Shmanske, in his recent book Golfonomics, sheds some light on slow play on the golf course. Bottlenecks – especially par 3’s – are as much to blame as any other factor. Shmanske shows how pace of play on par 4’s can be perfectly acceptable at 14 minutes a hole, but overall pace of play for a round gets blown away by queues at par 3’s. The delays start out very small early in the day, but can steadily grow to 30 minute waits.

The problem with par 3’s is that only one foursome can play the hole at a time. Unlike par 4’s, which have two playing “stations”, par 3’s have, by design, only one “station” on which to play. Where play per station on a par 4 is generally about 7 minutes (14 minutes for the hole), par 3’s almost always require 9 to 10 minutes for completion.. Golfers can easily make their way around the course in 7 minutes per station – until they reach the par 3. Then the queue builds up and golfers start to get annoyed.

Many pace of play “experts” suggest that the key to improving pace of play is to spread the tee times. Rather than 7 or 8 minute spacings, they suggest using 9 or 10 minutes. But that hurts the golf course financially, as fewer foursomes can be scheduled through the day. Those who advocate 9 or 10 minute spacings are essentially saying that the entire golf course should be spaced to the requirements of the par 3’s, with their 9 minute stations.

Shmanske offers a solution, but admits it is difficult to get buy in. In his book, he shows that queueing can be eliminated at par 3’s if the foursome on the green delays putting out for two minutes, and allows the foursome on the tee to hit to the green. Then, as the second foursome makes their way to the green and – of course – the greenside bunkers, the first foursome goes ahead and putts out. In effect, this tactic allows two foursomes to play on the par 3’s single “station” simultaneously.

I was skeptical upon first reading Shmanske’s solution, so I used an Excel spreadsheet to simulate the queueing. Shmanske is absolutely correct. Calling up the next foursome before putting on the par 3’s will definitely end delays at par 3’s. My local golf association experimented with this tactic on one tournament hole this summer, and discovered it worked well. For some reason, though, they reverted to the one foursome per par 3 norm for the next tournament, and experienced the 15 and 20 minute waits as play backed up.

It’s very difficult to implement the call up strategy during non-tournament open play. but I think we need to find a way at my golf course.

John

Halloween with my sexy coworkers

2008-10-31T09:20:00.000-07:00

I wanted to join my boss and my coworkers in these disco outfits, but the store was out of my size. So I settled for the hippie look. You can't see my cool hippie boots in this photo.

Age gracefully? I don't think so.

2008-10-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

So today I'm going to brag a bit. I played basketball again with the young guys at lunch. A few are in their 40's, but most are in the 23 to 37 range, or about 20 to 34 years younger than me. I can't move quite as fast as some of them, but I defend pretty well and make a shot every once in a while. After 6 months of playing full court basketball - 3 hours a week - I'm now, acording to the young guys, "in damn good shape for an old man".

Not sure when I decided this, but I have no intention of aging gracefully. I'll be kicking and screaming - but smiling - all the way to the grave. No old man golf carts for me. No way I'm going to be out of breath after two flights of stairs. Relaxed fit jeans? No way! I'm working on getting my waist down to - not college size - high school size.

One of my role models is the weathered old guy - probably 70 - who last year zoomed past me half way up Arizona's Peralta Trail on the way to Weaver's Needle. Another is Ken Mink, the 73 year old guy now playing college basketball. If they can Just Do It! after 7 decades, then why shouldn't I as well?

http://msn.foxsports.com/cbk/story/8710842?MSNHPHCP&GT1=39002

Ken Mink is living his college hoops dream at the age of 73. (Saul Young/Knoxville News Sentinel / Special to FOXSports.com)

Good reason for a tattoo?

2008-10-28T05:52:00.000-07:00

I’m not a big fan of bold tattoos, but I’m not bothered by small ones. It’s not something I would do, but perhaps that’s just a generational thing. Many of my flower child era did paint images on their faces and bodies, but rarely took the risk of a permanent decoration.

There’s a story behind most of the images on the tattoo-adorned younger folks I talk with. I don’t always appreciate the significance of the tales. But this weekend I did agree with one girl’s reasoning.

Kristi, one of the attractive beverage cart girls at my local golf course, showed me a couple of her tattoos as she was filling my drink order. I had not noticed before the blue star on each of her ears, similar to the blue star on Bjork’s neck in this image. Blue stars in north Texas are certainly common, as this is Cowboys country.

Kristi explained that her aunt had been one of the original Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders in 1972 or 1973. She had been close to her aunt all her life, and deeply felt her loss when the aunt died a few years ago. So Kristi honored her aunt by having a blue star tattooed on each earlobe. This seemed an acceptable reason for a tattoo, one of the best I’ve heard.

Do you have a tattoo? Will you share its significance?

Tee Time, my four legged friend

2008-10-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

Tee-Time is the name of a mostly Jack Russell terrier abandoned near the Grapevine Municipal Golf Course in the summer of 2007. Tee-Time adopted the golf course as her new home, and the staff and golfers have adopted Tee-Time as well.

We’ve never been able to catch Tee-Time, or even pet her. Someone must have abused the poor animal in a previous life, and she steadfastly refuses to trust any golfer or staffer. But she gladly accepts French fries and peanut butter crackers and sandwich crusts from anyone. The owner of the grill quickly realized that buying dog food was a smart move, as it sharply reduced the number of sandwiches the beverage cart girls determined to be too stale for humans.

When I play at the course, I always carry dog biscuits or liver treats or some other canine delicacy in my bag. After two years, Tee Time has come to recognize me as a major donor. So she follows me for the entire 18 hole round. Usually she just stares at me, longingly awaiting the next treat. On the few occasions when I’ve jogged to catch up with my riding companions, Tee Time runs alongside of me. If I neglect to reward her loyalty for a hole or two, Tee Time nips at my heel to remind me.

Tee Time rules the golf course, her private little kingdom. She can often be seen chasing squirrels back into trees and ducks back into ponds. Occasionally a large goose will challenge her, thinking that, at a mere 12 pounds, Tee Time will back down,. Not a chance.

Tee Time must have experienced love at one point in her prior life. I’ve been told that a very young boy visited the course recently, and was able to pet her and scratch her belly. When small children accompany a parent to the driving range, Tee Time stops all begging activity and stares intently and longingly at the little people from 50 feet away – sometimes for 30 minutes or more.

I love this little dog. I wish more than anything she’d let me show her how much.

UFO's chase beagle

2008-05-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

My little beagle, Austin, let me know at 2:00 AM a few nights ago that he couldn't wait three hours for his normal "relief" time. He needed to get outside and get there fast.

The wind was strong as we opened the door to the back porch, but Austin had urgent business in the back yard, so he ventured forth into the darkness. About ten seconds later a blur passed my view, followed by a loud "Blam!" Austin's momentum had carried him past the door, up onto his igloo, and into the window screen. He was down in a flash, into the house, and peering out from behind my legs.

The hail was only quarter-sized, but it was coming down fast. Austin had previously felt snowflakes and driving rain on his fur, but never anything that stung quite like this.

What must go through the mind of a small canine when the normal emptying of his bladder is so rudely interrupted? How long will it take the poor little guy to overcome this new fear of the darkness hours? I've noticed he hasn't awakened me for the past four nights. I guess I would also strain with discomfort until the morning light if someone had ever once pelted me with ice marbles from the dark sky.

The Toughest Horse Trader Wore a Sunbonnet

2007-02-11T16:34:00.000-08:00

Sally Scull learned early that frontier life demanded toughness of its women. American Indians in 19th century Texas used the tactics they knew, violence and fear, to drive out the white man stealing their land. Only young Sally and her mother Rachel were home when Indians attacked their cabin. Mother and daughter at first seemed safe behind the boarded door. Then one brave tried to lift the door from its hinges by sticking his foot in the gap beneath. With one swing of an axe, Rachel separated protruding toes from foot. As another brave tried entering through the chimney, Rachel thrust burning down pillows into the fireplace, sealing off entry with smoke and fire, the brave hastily escaping back out the top Frustrated, singed, and dismembered, the Indian braves quickly departed.

The frontier was no less harsh when Sally reached adulthood. The grit and perseverance acquired from her mother served Sally well. Surviving a succession of five husbands, Sally showed Texas that this 125 pound woman could remain independent even in a dangerous world.

Sally and third husband John Doyle began the livestock trade for which Sally is remembered. After Doyle’s death, Sally continued to trade horses and cattle across the most threatening and lawless regions of Texas. Accompanied by only three Mexican-American vaqueros and the two six-shooters on her hips, she remained fearless as she moved livestock from town to town.

Rumors persisted that Sally’s vaqueros stole the horses they sold. She did buy livestock from Indians, and it’s likely that some were indeed stolen. But no one could be certain because Sally would never allow her livestock to be inspected.

Six ranchers once blocked a trail where Sally was herding horses to market. They complained that some of theirs had gone missing, and wanted to look through her herd. Astride her horse with hands resting on both pistols, Sally quickly shot back:

“Get around those horses. You don’t cut my herds”

Sally’s steely gaze and her two revolvers convinced the ranchers their horses weren’t so important, after all. They parted to the sides of the trail, and Sally in sunbonnet and chaps drove her herd on by.

Though hardened by the harshness of the life she chose, Sally Scull found time for merriment. South Texas men enjoyed her company as she drank, played cards, and danced the fandango, delighting them till late in the night. Their women, no doubt jealous and suspicious, claimed an ulterior motive: while Sally partied with their men, they said, her vaqueros and her Indian suppliers were stealing the unprotected livestock.

Sally Scull was the product of her environment. The dangers of 19th century Texas required toughness and cunning, and this small but determined woman delivered both for over fifty years.

Sundance Walk on the Wild Side

2007-02-08T14:59:00.000-08:00

We weren’t aware our department’s awards dinner in Fort Worth coincided with the nearby Gay and Lesbian Film Festival at Sundance Square. Circumstances caused me to arrive an hour earlier than everyone else. So I killed time by strolling around the large square, reading the menus at restaurants, peering into store windows, picking up a coffee somewhere, and just looking unoccupied. The friendliness of fellow pedestrians surprised me, but I made an effort to smile back to even those looks that seemed to linger just a little too long.

Then I realized it was only the males who were smiling at me. That puzzled me, until I saw the signs about the film festival, Now it made sense. While I was checking out the retail scene, they were checking me out. That was unnerving, but actually a bit flattering.

I’m straight as an arrow, and I had no intention of pursuing any attention I received. But it does help one’s ego to know that someone finds you attractive. Not sure why gay men would, though. I buy my clothes from the clearance rack at Kohl’s. I’ve never had a manicure. My haircuts are basic Fantastic Sam’s. Do you think I was being viewed as a project?

In any case, I walked into our dinner that night with a little extra bounce. After a couple of drinks, I decided the whole department should know why I was feeling good. Naturally. I’ve been teased a bit since then about my Sundance Square ego stroll.

My advice is this: if you need positive reinforcement about your looks, don’t worry about where it comes from. But be a little cautious about sharing the details with coworkers.

Note to Betti ...

No need to bring up the drag incident from our college days. Please remember that:

- I was drunk;
- It was just a joke;
- The Willson sisters could always talk me into anything;
- That my act was able to fool Joe Bonesio and your brother, Bill, doesn’t indicate anything about suppressed desires, OK?

Streakers' Tails

2007-02-03T19:02:00.000-08:00

Sonny Hennegan’s nude two minute romp across the student union shocked the city of Lake Charles and the campus of McNeese State in the spring of 1974. Streaking was a new college fad in far off California and Minnesota. But how could such deviant behavior have reached conservative Louisiana so quickly? When Sonny’s front page backside cracked a wicked smile to readers of the next student newspaper, university officials could hardly contain themselves. Streaking was an intolerable offense, they announced.

Within two days, a dozen defiant exhibitionists had followed Sonny’s lead, to the delight of the student body. The stage was set for large scale confrontation with authority.

On a warm Thursday night, as hundreds of college women returned to their dormitory, the assault on propriety was unleashed by the uncovered. At two to three minute intervals, the mostly male streakers dashed across the dormitory parking lot, turned left at the bayou footbridge, and disappeared into the darkness. A huge crowd gathered, mostly the female dorm residents in pajamas and gowns.

Campus police were on the scene in minutes. The streaking has ended, their bullhorn bellowed, and everyone must return to dorm rooms.

Just when it appeared the show was over, student body presidential candidate Joe Bonesio arrived. Joe never missed an opportunity to further political ambitions, and he quickly seized control. Pulling aside the police, Bullshit Joe somehow convinced them the offenses could be overlooked. Turning to the crowd, he announced the compromise he had gained. If the women would climb down from ledges and awnings, the police would find another crisis that demanded attention far across campus. Following wild cheers from the lusty crowd, Joe then offered free beer that had mysteriously been iced down in the back of his car.

As police cars faded from view, the streakers returned. For a solid hour, the women of McNeese enjoyed beers and rears, with rock music booming from the custom stereo of Joe’s Toyota.

In the election the next month, Joe Bonesio received overwhelming support from McNeese’s on campus women. Sonny Hennegan is rightly remembered as the most famous streaker in south Louisiana history. But for one night in April, the hero was Joe Bonesio, the man who talked off the police and brought back the butts.

Bullets of a Liberated Woman

2007-02-02T11:17:00.000-08:00

Sofie Herzog arrived at the frontier town of Brazosport, Texas, in 1893, and gave the locals much to talk about. In the first place, she was a physician – a FEMALE doctor. And she rode astride her horse, wearing a scandalous split skirt. If that were not enough, this outrageously liberated woman had the audacity to cut her hair short and wear a man's hat.

Doctor Sofie, as the citizens came to call her, appeared at first the opposite of the 19th century woman, but she was in other ways typical of her era. Like most American women, she was a devoted mother, raising seven children to adulthood. She was a loving wife until her husband died in 1893.

Seeking a change in widowhood, Sofie boldly abandoned comforts of New York City, and moved to a new life in the frontier West. She faced an uphill battle to gain confidence of the Texans she wished to treat. Brazosport was a rough town, and a female doctor just seemed out of place. But Doctor Sofie quickly won them over with her ability to heal.Many patients were victims of brawls and shootouts. Sofie's skillful removal of bullets gained her fame. Sofie had a necklace crafted that was sure to generate publicity. Twenty four bullets she had removed from men were linked with gold wire. Sofie wore it proudly, and the amusing tale of her necklace spread throughout Texas.

The St. Louis and Mexico railroad was being built through Texas, and Sofie's work increased. Construction accidents were common. A railway handcar driver often raced to the scene carrying Sofie, her dress billowing in the wind, her medical bag clutched at her side.Sofie applied to be chief surgeon of the railroad. Already doing the work, she wanted the full pay that was rightfully hers. Local railroaders hired her quickly. Railroad executives back in New York then discovered, to their chauvinistic horror, that Dr. Herzog was a woman. When they asked her to resign, Sofie's answer was simple:

"No, thank you. I'll keep this job until I fail to provide service."

Dr. Sofie Herzog remained the railroad's chief surgeon for thirty years. The brave and brash doctor died in 1925. Photos and belongings of Dr. Sofie can be viewed at a small museum in Brazosport. But visitors will not see her necklace of bullets. As specified in her will, the necklace was placed in her coffin, where it has remained ever since.

Troop welcome at DFW Airport

2007-02-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

Over 150 U.S. soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan arrive each day at DFW airport. These soldiers are just beginning their two week R&R, a well-deserved rest after six months in war zones. As they emerge from international customs, on their way to family or to connecting flights home, the soldiers are greeted by hundreds of cheering and thankful Americans. VFW members shake every soldier's hand, cub scout packs hold hand-painted signs, church groups wave flags, and nearly everyone in the building sheds tears. This is the soldiers' first glimpse of home, and it's a moment they will surely never forget.

I've welcomed troops at least twenty times over the past two years. I get choked up at the scenes I witness with each arrival. A private from Kansas leans on me as she breaks down and sobs, totally overwhelmed by the emotional release of wartime stress. Young mothers hold out to fathers the tiny babies born while they served their nation halfway around the world. Older mothers scream and cry as their uniformed sons emerge tall and erect at the door of the walkway.

It is difficult to put into words the pure joy this simple welcoming act has brought to soldiers and civilians alike. For a brief thirty minutes every day, all come together in rejoicing the return of our heroes.

Illegal immigration in Texas, 1819

2007-01-31T18:59:00.000-08:00

After 1803, two groups of Americans migrated into Spanish Texas. Legal immigrants received land through grants from Mexican officials. Illegal squatters simply crossed the border and found good farmland

Looting and small insurrections in 1818 and 1819, led by Americans James Long and the pirate Jean Lafitte, alarmed the Mexican government. The Mexican army drove American settlers back across the border into Louisiana, successfully removing 20% of Texas's total non-Indian population.

Mexican authorities overlooked that its towns were dependent on the immigrant farmers it removed. After the deportation, San Antonio and east Texas faced several years of food shortages.

I find it ironic that the situation is exactly reversed today. 12 million illegal immigrants are integrated into our economy, 8 million of them as workers. Pro-immigration advocates argue that many agriculture and food processing enterprises depend heavily on these workers. Some fruit growers in California are already feeling the impact of crackdowns on illegal immigrants, unable to harvest some of their crop.

Immigration foes point to the crimes of a segment of today's immigrants, just as the Mexican government pointed to the insurrection of Long and Lafitte 190 years ago.

I don't know what to do with illegal immigrants, or whether a guest worker program makes sense. I just found the parallels from 190 years ago to be interesting.

Diabetes gonna kill me? No damn way!

2007-01-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

Two years ago my doctor told me I was diabetic. That's a scary thing. My first thought was about how much my dad suffered, as first his eyesight failed, then his kidneys, and finally his heart. I'll admit I'm afraid of dying at 65, as he did.

My second thought, though, was about all the money J. and I have been saving for 25 years. We've built up a nice nest egg with IRA's and 401K's. I'll be damned if I'm going to die young and let her be a rich widow for 25 years! Spending my retirement money on some young stud!

Now, when I go to the kitchen for a snack, I first close my eyes. I can see this Fabio dude sitting in my big leather chair at Christmas time. He's opening the gift box my smiling wife just gave him, and taking out a Rolex watch.

Hell no! No Fabio is getting a gold watch in my house! Forget the snack!

When I pass a Mexican restaurant, luring me with burritos and quesadillas laden with fat grams. I close my eyes briefly. And there's Fabio again, walking across my driveway to his shiny red sports car.

Not gonna happen! No funds for Fabio's Ferrari! Begone burritos!.

Those mental images have saved me. Over two years I've lost 35 pounds. My doctor tells me I'm going to live a long life. My wife can dream all she wants about Fabio, but when she opens her eyes, it's still going to be my old body beside her. Screw diabetes!

Grownup golf

2007-01-21T17:58:00.000-08:00

Sunshine and 50 degrees today in north Texas, so I headed for the golf course. Only a few brave souls on the course, so I joined up with strangers. Dan, 51, is a pilot for an international airline. Bob, 60, was just laid off after 20 years from his corporate sales job, and worried about job prospects for a senior.

As we talked, I found Bob to be a decent guy. I wondered if I knew someone who could help him. Maybe I could arrange a golf match with the one of the sales executives in my neighborhood. Or perhaps with that company president in my Saturday golf league.

Bob spoiled it for me on the 12th hole. Unable to escape a steep sand trap, he threw his sand wedge far into the greenside pond. I couldn’t believe it! It was a new wedge, one I’d seen priced at $140 in a golf shop. Who throws away $140? Certainly no one I’m going to recommend to my friends.

Dan joked later about how Bob has done that a few times over the years. So Bob’s outburst didn’t seem related to his recent layoff.

Am I expecting too much? that fellow golfers not have temper tantrums? I make allowances for the high school kids I meet on the course from time to time. But shouldn’t a grandpa have learned a little self control?

Austin, my beagle, loves me

2007-01-20T15:56:00.000-08:00

I learned this morning how strong are my little dog's feelings for me. For twenty minutes after my wife left for work, Austin could not keep his adoring eyes off me.

As I shaved, he lay on a nearby rug, patiently watching every flick of my razor Austin followed me to the closet, soulful gaze affixed as I selected and ironed my shirt. Needing neither praise nor a pat on the head, he remained comforted by my mere presence.

How did I deserve such devotion? How can another species come to love a human so much? that his only desire is to sit and worship my existence?

Austin patiently watched as I brushed my teeth, even closer to my feet than before. As I turned on the shower, and slipped off my boxers, his gaze never left me.

As the shower door closed behind me, a glass barrier now separating master from beast, I turned to catch one more glimpse of my adoring pet. At just that instant, Austin leaped from the rug and sped to the kitchen. His fifteen minute excavation of the garbage can was uninterrupted, his patience finally rewarded.

A great man

2007-01-20T15:53:00.000-08:00

My sister's husband died last year after a serious car wreck He was comatose the last ten days of his life. I was never able to thank Mark for being so devoted to my sister, and for being a strong and caring father to their kids.

Life seemed ominous at the start of their marriage. Both were teenagers. Neither had steady jobs. Mark earned minimum wage repairing shoes part time. Denise raised their new boy in a tiny mobile home. Relatives helped from time to time, buying groceries and dropping off other necessities. Mark and Denise struggled, but their love for each other carried them through.

After years of low-paying work, Mark landed a job with an oil company. He slowly proved his worth. Armed with only a high school GED and his own abilities, Mark rose from oil rig roustabout to mid-level executive by age 48. Undaunted by lack of formal education, he studied business and economics textbooks at home at night. Mark was truly a self-made man.

Last June, Mark and Denise were poised to move to Russia. Mark was to take over all human resources for the company's Russian operations.

And then he ran over an embankment on a rural road, and the unfulfilled dreams of Mark and my sister Denise were over. But they did have thirty wonderful years together, and raised two fine sons to carry on Mark's name.

I'm not sure if blogs can reach all the way to heaven, but just in case: Thank you, Mark