West Coast Barbeque

Sitting around waiting for the 48^th Annual Wild Game Feed to roll around on the third Friday in September has started me thinking about barbeque.  The AWGF serves some good stuff, and although it isn’t Texas barbeque, it’s good enough to make me want to be first in line to get served.

I’ve mentioned many times before that barbeque is where you find it.  I’ve also mentioned regional preferences.  I’ve been surprised many times by what people call barbeque, but I’ve enjoyed sampling my way through the many style and approaches to cooking meat and veggies.  The one thing I just can’t wrap myself around is barbequed tofu, although it does seem to be popular in California.  Maybe popular isn’t the right word.  I probably should have said it is not considered unusual in California.  Then again, it’s California.

The west coast includes three states, Washington, Oregon, and California, but what I’m looking at here is the lower half of the state of California from Paso Robles at the north end to San Diego in the south.

I live in Los Angeles and have spent more than thirty years in the Southern California area.  Many things brought me here, and many things keep me here.  Although it is not Texas, it is a great place to live, but the barbeque is just not my preference.

Santa Maria, near the central coast and a bit south of Paso Robles, is the place where everyone points when they speak of California barbeque.  I find it to taste like juicy, smoky grit.  But many people swear it’s the best barbeque in the nation.  Okay.  I’ll leave it to them.  It’s not often I’ll walk away from barbeque, but this is one of those times.  Even a tuna fish sandwich sounds better to me than that stuff.

Every town in California has its barbeque place, and many have several of them.  I have tried out any number of these eateries, and I’m struck by the sameness of the flavors.  Some are labeled as ‘real Southern barbeque,’ ‘real Texas barbeque,’ ‘real Memphis barbeque,’ etc., but they are all about the same.  As long as they don’t call themselves ‘Santa Maria barbeque’ I find them enjoyable enough, but not exciting.

I’ve spoken with many of the restaurant owners and realized they are just making the best of the ingredients available.  Most started out with good intentions and with experience in the style they desire to emulate, but the local ingredients in one part of the country are not the same as the local ingredients in another part of the country. 

And then there are the local laws governing restaurants.  Barbeque has to be handled differently in each city and town, and counties have their own set of laws, not to mention the state regulations.  Smoke is not allowed to fill the air in some areas, and gas and electric sealed smokers are substituted with only moderate success.  In some areas, smoke must be in liquid form, and barbeque must be oven cooked.

Well, I do understand why pollution control is necessary, but something’s lost when something’s gained, and in this case that which is lost is flavor.  Some of the places really try hard to produce a good product, and I’m not faulting the effort, nor am I faulting the knowledge and abilities of the people.  Given the right ingredients, many of these restaurants could be producing very good stuff.

This makes me think that California needs to rethink barbeque.  First things first—Santa Maria barbeque.  The only thing wrong here is the wood ash that gets all over everything.  Most of it is grilled directly over a bed of coals with chunks of red oak burning on it.  The wood pops and sputters spraying the meat with junk.  Maybe it’s the characteristic of the red oak, but whatever flavor the smoke may add is negated by the ash and wood bits imbedded in the meat.  Just simply smoking in an offset box would make a huge difference.  If the meat is to be grilled directly over the fire, just increase the cooking grate by a few extra inches above the fire.  It will take a little longer to cook, but it will taste less like eating hot wet sand.  (I’m sure going to hear about this one.)  Then again, it wouldn’t be Santa Maria barbeque.

There are a few barbeque societies represented out here.  I have managed to go to a number of the contests they have put together, and I found some very good barbeque.  Some of the top crews own or work at barbeque restaurants, so why isn’t the restaurant’s food as good as the food at the cook-off?  Maybe if they put the same effort into the restaurant as they do the competition…, or am I just getting back to the laws governing the restaurants?

Well, I won’t be the one to fix the problem.  The best I can do is to make my own, but I must admit, it’s not the same as when I made barbeque in Texas.  Maybe it’s the weather.  I don’t know.  I just miss good barbeque.

With all of this negative, there is still some positive about the barbeque found in California.  Seafood is often found on grills instead of beef, chicken, or pork.  While it isn’t my approach to barbeque, it can be very good eating.  A large fresh fish stuffed with some seasonings and placed on an indirect heat grill along side of some oysters on the half shell and some fresh veggies is both delicious and healthy. 

I know this sounds like a broken record, but I really am open to different approaches to barbeque.  It just needs to taste good.

Where is the Annual Wild Game Feed when you need it most?

48th Annual Wild Game Feed

New Post on July 8, 2019.  51st Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 30, 2018.  50th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 23, 2017.  49th Annual Wild Game Feed.

For several days I’ve been in a panic about receiving my order form for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  Usually I receive it in late May, but I moved this year, and I have been worried my change of address was lost.  However, today my fears were banished. 

It’s that time!  My ticket order form has arrived for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake!  Today I placed my order for tickets in the mail, and the waiting has officially started for Friday, September 16, 2016.  If you plan on attending this year, mail your order form NOW!!  If you choose to hesitate, then plan on waiting another year.  After all, this is the biggest and best Wild Game Feed you will ever attend.  EVER!!  And it will be sold out in just a few short weeks.

I’ve been going to this event for nearly twenty years, and every year is better than the year before.  I don’t know how the organizers do it, but each year is an improvement on perfection.  As always it is a stag event (men only) and age 21 or over, and it’s all you can eat, and all the beer you can drink.  Prizes are unbelievable and numerous, and it’s all to raise money for charities. 

If you have been to the AWGF before, then you know what I am talking about.  If you’ve never been, then it’s about time you learned what I’m talking about.  You will not be disappointed except for one thing—the day is too short.  Yes, we are all tired at the end of the day, but I’ve never met anyone who wanted it to be over.

At the Feed everyone is a friend.  Last year I spoke with a guy who had lived a rather rough life, much of it behind bars.  He came to the Feed with his close friend—the judge who had twice placed him behind those bars.  Friends.  Simple as that.  But no matter who you meet, you are meeting an instant friend.  No one is greater or lesser than anyone else.  And that is a huge part of the fun.  Everyone is there just to enjoy the day.

Every year I bring along some things to just give away.  Usually it is pickled quail eggs, cigars, and a few bottles of cider (I’ve always preferred cider over beer, but that doesn’t mean I will turn down beer).  And I’m not alone in giving.  Some of the best Scotch I’ve ever tasted was at the Feed.  The same with cigars.  Wow!  One of the guys handed me a puro from the Canary Island of La Palma.  As good a cigar as I’ve ever had.  Sharing.  What a concept.

Of course, the food is not to be ignored.  The appetizers are in endless supply, and just when you’ve eaten way too much, dinner is served.  My favorite appetizer is always the gumbo, quail, fish, chili, tamales (the goat tamales last year were outstanding), wild boar tacos, buffalo ribs, game sausages, clams, frog legs, turkey nuts, calamari, crawfish, and…well…just about anything they serve.  As for dinner, I lost track long ago.  It’s all good.

I don’t want to forget to mention the exhibits, games, and competitions.  There is just an overload of excitement available.  Every corner of this park is filled with something to enjoy.  In nearly twenty years, I’ve never met anyone who mentioned being bored at the Feed.

Again, if you received a ticket order form, send it in immediately or you may miss out.  Every year I receive emails from people who waited a couple of weeks to mail off their form and didn’t get a ticket.  THEY WILL SELL OUT QUICKLY, and that’s no joke.  I purchase my ticket like everyone else, and each year I receive many requests for tickets, but I have only my own, and I don’t expect to give it up easily.  Once in a great while someone will write me with an extra ticket available, but don’t count on it.  Just order your ticket today, and you shouldn’t have a problem receiving it. 

I know the tickets are not cheap, but neither are the costs associated with organizing the AWGF.  Just be aware, the organization putting on this event is made entirely of volunteers.  It is for your enjoyment and for the support of charities they do this; however, such an event is worth every penny spent.  I know you will not be disappointed.

Be certain to check out my new AWGF FAQs page.

Where Is My Order Form?

I’m beginning to panic.  I don’t like waiting for my order form to arrive for the Annual Wild Game Feed in Irvine each year.  And this year it’s a bit late arriving.  My lack of patience is growing fast.

Actually I moved a few months ago, and I’m worried my form won’t catch up with me.  I placed a forwarding address with the Post Office—twice.   I sent the new address to the AWGF home office.  I even sent the new address to the Idaho location that processes the mailing of the tickets.  Nothing.  I’ve even contacted my contacts with the AWGF.  Still nothing.  I can’t even find out if the forms have been sent out.

PLEASE SEND ME AN ORDER FORM!!

If anyone reading this has received his order form, would you please send me an electronic copy?  Just scan the front and back and send it as an attachment to fineleatherart@yahoo.com .  I’ll be sure to buy you a beer at the Feed. 

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m ready for the big event.  My shelter is standing beside my tables and chairs.  My quail eggs are all pickled and stacked in their boxes.  My cigars are packed in their travel humidors.  And my wife is ready to kick me out if I don’t stop talking about it.  If you’ve been there before, then you know what I am talking about, and you know why I’m worried about that order form.

For many years I’ve mailed out (both snail mail and email) copies of the form I’ve received, and I know of about 70 men who attend each year because of this, not to mention the ones they have influenced.  Now it’s my turn to beg.  So if the pickled quail eggs are to arrive this year, please, someone, send me an order form.

Sleep, or Lack Thereof

A few days ago someone came to my front door and knocked.  I jumped out of bed, slipped into some jeans and opened the door to find a neighbor waiting for me.

“Did I wake you?  I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay.  I can always go back to sleep.”

“But it’s after noon.”

That’s when I realized I’ve given up on any regular sleep schedule.

“I know, but I was up late last night.”  I don’t think he believed me.

For years I rarely slept more than a few hours a week as I traveled almost non-stop for a company.  And for years after that it was difficult for me to sleep more than three or four hours a night, just because I didn’t know how to do it.  Finally I reached a five to six hour per night average, and there it stayed for about thirty years.  Then things changed.

For some reason I started staying up late at night to work on projects, or read, or watch the television, etc.  Then I would sleep a couple of hours and get up again to do some more of whatever I had been doing before sleeping.  After a few months, I began to stay up longer and sleep later until I found myself getting up to start the day somewhere between 11am and 1pm.

Once upon a time I had no problem being at a fishing hole at sunrise.  If someone said we need to be somewhere by 4am to start our hike to someplace, I was there at 3:30am.  I never minded getting up very early to do something outdoors, even if it meant I could not go to bed the night before.  No big deal.

Times have changed, and so have I.  Recently I thought about walking across the street to catch some sunrise surf fishing.  I came closer to making it there at sunset.  I don’t completely understand this.  I really like to fish, I just don’t like keeping a time schedule.  But I decided to get my act together and do something about it.

On Wednesday last week, I gathered my surf fly fishing gear together and put it into the car so I could drive to my favorite surf fishing spot on the peninsula about a mile from where I live.  Wednesday evening I went to bed early and slept straight through until 5am.  At that time I got up, put on my clothes, fixed a little breakfast, sat down at my computer to check overnight emails, and dozed off until 10:30.

I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.  Nor is it the second, third, or twenty-fifth.  Well, I left everything in the trunk of the car, and tomorrow I’m trying again.  This time I’m really going to do it.  No more excuses.

Follow up:  It’s 11:15am.  Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.  I’ve rescheduled my outing to next Tuesday.

*******

I wrote this a few months ago with all intents to go fishing on Tuesday.  Oh, well.  Since then I moved several miles away, and I’ve been exploring new areas for fishing.  Many great possibilities are within a short drive from my home.  Now, if I could just get up in the morning.

Pedigree

Hillbillies are found everywhere, not just in the mountains of the eastern parts of America.  And not all talk like Jethro Bodine from the Beverly Hillbillies.  Some are even educated.  Not all are rednecks—that’s an entirely different story.  Basically hillbillies are often not the most forward thinking lot much of the time; however, their wisdom and wit can be priceless.

For instance, a family was traveling to visit relatives down in the flatland when one of the kids asked, “When will we get there?”  “Well,” the dad replied, “like the dog said after he got his tail run over by a lawnmower, ‘It won’t be long now’.”

I was watching a show about genealogy recently where one of the people discovered several of their ancestors to be of less than perfection.  In fact, there were turncoats, robbers, grifters, and a few other rather interesting persons just a few generations back.  This caused some wailing that sounded like an alley cat convention, not to mention enough tears to float a battleship.

Not everyone has a perfect pedigree.  Usually there is a shady character or two every few generations.  Maybe there is a big difference between reality and family lore.  These genealogy programs often bring up at least one surprise proving no one is immune from the past.

For years I heard stories about my family that didn’t make sense to me so I ignored what I heard and just lived my life, but over time I grew curious about where I came from.  What I have found out so far is such a mixed bag, I may never completely come to terms with all of it.  I am descended from presidents, soldiers, slaves, doctors, thieves, farmers, inventors, somebodys, nobodys, and a lot of other stuff—but the one of the biggest discoveries is that I am descended from hillbillies.  Now it’s my turn to wail and cry.

The farther back I travel on the family tree, the greater the number of ‘anomalies.’  And it seems many of those ‘anomalies’ lived in the Appalachians.  Actually, I found it began long before the Appalachians became known to Europeans.  One branch of my family traces back to the Vikings (from the mountains of Scandinavia) that settled in the highland mountains and some of the islands of western Scotland.  A portion of that branch ultimately migrated to the mountains of Wales.  (I guess they were attracted to the mountains.)  In the 1650’s they moved to America and within two generations were counted among the founding fathers of hillbilly Appalachia, so I guess hillbillies predated America.

Another branch of my family were among the Puritans who arrived on the Mayflower.  It took about fifty years for them to start moving around, and they finally settled down, more or less, in what is now North Carolina where they intermarried with the previous batch of family and so were indoctrinated into the hillbilly lifestyle.  (Let’s see—mountains and family marrying family—hmm.  Banjos anyone?)  These hillbillies joined with other hillbillies, and over the years my fate was sealed.

For some reason, my family sought out the mountains and the solitude it provided.  But with that solitude came strange thought processes.  By the time I came along, I simply inherited many generations of strangeness.  I knew in school I was different from everyone else, but it wasn’t until I began to visit in the homes of my friends that I could see what made me different.  Actually, for a long time I thought THEY were the strange ones.

When I entered college my first major was music, but I moved on to psychology where I began to learn what was strange about everyone else.  It wasn’t until I overheard someone comment to another that I should use psychology to study myself that my eyes were opened to reality.  Well, enough of that. 

As a child I would spend some nights with my grandparents on their farms.  My dad’s mother would get up in the dark hours of the morning and start preparing breakfast, but at the first moment of light she would open the front door and deeply breath in the outside air.  She would always have me join her inhaling big drafts of early morning atmosphere, and she would tell me there is nothing else as wonderful as the good country air.  A few years later I realized this fresh country air was basically barnyard air.  There was nothing at all good about it.

I learned a lot of things from my family.  Farming was definitely the first thing, and leatherworking was a close second.  Canning, pickling, dry storage, smoking (food and otherwise), and of course some wine making.  There was a time when my grandfather showed me his method for making moonshine—the same method that got him arrested back in the ‘thirties.  Anyone for making beer in the bathtub?  How about stove-top distilling using a modified pressure cooker?

My great-aunt Emma taught me that smoking a cigar in a pipe allowed the entire cigar to be used up without any waste.  My mother’s cousin Carl grew a small patch of tobacco to make his own style of chaw.  I tried it once.  I will not, will not, make that mistake again.  My mothers’ mothers’ sister’s great-grandchild’s husband’s uncle’s cousin (who was also my mother’s father’s sister’s grandson) was a mechanic who worked on farm tractors until it was discovered the replacement parts and motors he was using had been pilfered from the sheriffs’ cars in a neighboring county.

Genealogy has taught me more than I really wanted to know about my family, but once I started the process I found it difficult to stop researching.  Recently I was contacted by a very distant cousin who found my name while involved in his own family search.  He was a relative of my mother’s father, and had discovered we were descended from gypsies (or Roma) from Romania, filtered through Bohemia, before arriving in America.  They may not have been actual hillbillies, but it’s pretty darn close.

We are all influenced by family traditions handed down through generations, but that doesn’t mean we are the people who handed them down.  And that doesn’t mean we have to accept the traditions offered to us.  But then again, some are downright interesting, such as the game of Bum Checkers.  Don’t ask.  I’ve said too much already.

I was researching how we moved out of the mountains and ultimately to Texas, and it soon became apparent it was all about elbowroom.  By the 1790’s there were just too many people living in the Blue Ridge Mountains, so one of my ancestors along with his Cherokee wife chose to move to New Orleans.  Go figure.  From there they moved into East Texas in the 1840’s.  (I suspect New Orleans was even more crowded than the mountains.)

Another batch of these hillbillies joined with Stephen Austin’s first wave of settlers to Texas in the early 1820’s.   At least one of my ancestor’s fought at the Alamo, another at Goliad, and another fought at San Jacinto (things didn’t turn out very well for the first two). 

Several of my ancestors arrived from eastern Tennessee starting in 1828, and the last group seems to have arrived shortly after Texas was readmitted to the Union following the Great War for Southern Independence.

Some surprises in the research were the family members that came from Mexico possibly in the mid-1500’s, and married into some the Native American tribes of East Texas.  Karankawa, Tonkawa, and Caddo were all a part of the mix.  In the late 1880’s to early 1900’s (some details are hard to pin down here), a Mexican/Cherokee joined the family.

Another surprise from the late 1700’s and early 1800’s was that one of my Cherokee ancestors owned slaves—black, white, and Cherokee—and through at least two generations my lineage includes African ancestry. 

It also appears the wife of one of my great-great grandfathers was Japanese of Anyu decent.

Yeah, I’m descended from hillbillies.  But I’m also descended from many other groups of fascinating people whose lives I will probably never understand.  It took courage to make many of their choices, but I’m glad they did.  And I’m proud of my very mixed up heritage.

In the Meat of the Night

Beware of the long dark nights when the only sounds are the chirping of the crickets, an occasional frog croak, and the crackling of the wood fire in the smoker.  Sometimes these nights can cause a normally rational man to cook something besides a brisket.

I was expecting some company to arrive over the weekend and I decided to cook up a few things ahead of time so we could spend more time together talking and eating, and less time talking and just waiting to eat (i.e., cooking).  Nothing was too good for these friends from Wyoming, and I was going all out for them.  To me ‘all out’ means more brisket than can possibly be eaten, and, of course, all the sides and deserts that go with it.

This event was coming at a critical time in both of our lives.  Stan and Sherry were moving to his family home in Ireland, and I was in the process of moving to California.  We knew we would probably never see each other again, and the past forty years have proven this to be true.

Sherry I had known since the fifth grade.  We weren’t close friends, but we were friends.  It was a relatively small school in a rather small town near Fort Worth, so it was impossible not to know each other.  It wasn’t until after she met my friend Stan that I discovered what a treasure she was.

Stan was the new kid in the tenth grade.  He was from Ireland, he had red hair, green eyes, and he spoke with a funny accent, but I didn’t care.  Stan was fun to be around.  It wasn’t long before he and Sherry were a couple, and they never looked back.

They married right out of high school, and moved to Boulder, Colorado to attend the university there.  I didn’t hear from them for about four years until I was holding a meeting at a company store in Denver.  We took a lunch break, and as I was walking through the store to go to a nearby restaurant, I saw Stan making a purchase in one of the departments.

I did a double take.  At first I wasn’t sure this was my friend, but I heard him speak, and there was no doubt.  Moments later, Sherry came up behind him and took his hand.  I had to say something.

They had just moved to Denver after graduating from college, and both were starting new jobs in a few days.  For the next two years, each time I was in Denver, I stayed with Stan and Sherry, but then they moved to a remote spot in Wyoming.  I didn’t see them much after the move, although we stayed in touch.  Now our lives were changing permanently, and nothing less than brisket would be proper for the occasion.

I had just left my job of many years, and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I began gathering everything needed to get ahead on the cooking.  It was Tuesday, and Stan and Sherry would be arriving mid-day Saturday for a four-day visit.  I had much to do, but there was plenty of time. 

First on the list was to secure four briskets for the smoker.  I headed over to Bubba’s Butcher Shop where I was told they were completely out of brisket.  Some big outfit over in Arlington was throwing a barbeque and had bought every brisket in two counties.  Great.  Now what?

The owner of the shop said since I was such a good customer, he would reach into his private locker and let me have his personal briskets.  If I could come back tomorrow morning, he would have them ready to travel.  Wow.  That was very kind.  The next morning I was there when they opened the doors at 6am, and I grabbed the box with the big package in it.  I gave it a few pokes with my hand to determine if it was frozen (as expected, it was not), and I headed home.

I spent the day making ahead everything I possibly could with the exception of the brisket.  That evening I opened the package to begin preparing the first two briskets, and I discovered the package contained six smaller packages.  Five of the packages were brisket size, but the sixth one was quite a bit larger.  Well, it must have been a huge cow.  I’ll just save it for later.  By the time I went to bed somewhere around 3am, I had four briskets dry rubbed and wrapped up to season for the smoker.

I spent Thursday making pies, a couple of cakes, prepping appetizers and sticking them into the freezer, and that evening I started prepping some bread dough for Friday baking.  Does this sound like a lot of food?  Yeah, it was.  But I knew Stan and Sherry well enough to expect a lot of visitors over the next few days.  They were saying ‘goodbye’ to a lot of friends.

About noon on Friday I took some time to start the smoker.  I shuffled back and forth between the kitchen and the smoker for a while until the temperature was just right, and then I put on the first two briskets.  These should get us through Saturday and Sunday, with the second two briskets being smoked Sunday night for Monday and Tuesday.  Perfect.

By the time Stan and Sherry arrived, everything was ready, including about a dozen high school friends I didn’t expect before Sunday.  We had a great time just sitting out in the back yard eating, drinking, talking, eating.  By the evening, we were already about halfway through the second brisket, so I decided to toss the other two prepared briskets onto the smoker.

Sunday I saw more people than I could remember ever seeing at our old high school.  At least they brought along a few dishes to supplement the disappearing appetizers, sides, desserts, and brisket I had prepared.  But still, the food was going fast.  Someone called out concerning the lack of Big Reds, so I decided to take a trip to the store.  Most likely no one would realize I was gone until I returned with the sodas, but my real intent was to find more meat for the smoker and/or grill.

Buddies Grocery was just a few miles away, so I figured I would be gone about half an hour at the most.  What I didn’t figure on was the lack of meat in the store.  It seems the big barbeque over in Arlington caused a meat panic and every piece of beef had already been purchased.  However, they had some sausages.  I bought about 20 pounds.

Worth Mart was in the same condition, but they had a big prime rib left.  I took it.  Harrison’s Market had a shipper’s box of pork chops.  I didn’t know how to cook a pork chop, but it was meat.  It went into the car.  I made one more stop at F&M Market and all they had left was a few sausages and several baloney (Texan for bologna) rings.  Good enough.  I got home after nearly two hours without any sodas.  At least someone else realized the problem and picked some up.

I fired up the smoker and tossed on all of the baloney and the pork chops.  I fired up the grill and tossed on the sausages.  I think it was Janet that took over the grill for me, and I went into the house to open the last two packages of brisket.  I guessed I couldn’t have them ready to cook tonight, but they could be prepped for tomorrow.  I opened the small package to discover more sausages instead of a brisket.  Okay, at least it was meat.  I opened the big package and discovered two perfect prime ribs.  Oh, yeah.  Along with the one I already had, we were going to eat high on the hog, uh, cow.

We sausaged, baloneyed, and pork chopped our way through the night with a lot of leftovers.  These became breakfast and lunch on Monday.  By Monday afternoon I had the smoker going again, and the prime rib was in place.  Stan and Sherry had decided to take the evening and visit someone over in Dallas, so the guests left early, and I had a long quiet evening ahead.  Just as the sun was setting, a truck pulled into my long dirt driveway.  It was Bubba the Butcher.

“I got some more brisket here for you.  I know you was goin’ to come up short, so when these showed up, I thought of you.  And here is a box of chickens.  And here is a turkey.  Need any help?”

We got everything ready on into the smoker (that was one crowded smoker), and we sat back and ate the few remaining sausages and pork chops.  About 10pm Bubba left, and I was on my own.  I wandered into the kitchen searching for a slice of pie, and there on the kitchen table was a box with a note.  “Just a little extra,” was all it said.

I opened the box and found a dressed out pig.  Not a big one, maybe about 30 pounds.  What do I do with it?  I had just cooked pork chops for the first time in my life, so what now?  I decided to just wrap the pig up and put it in the refrigerator.  At least the refrigerator was nearly empty.

I sat in front of the smoker until about 1am when the chickens were done.  I pulled them off, wrapped them up, and placed them in a hot box with the three prime ribs that had come off the smoker earlier.  I sat down to watch the smoke against the moonlight and listen to the crickets and frogs. 

My mind started wandering down to the endless pathways of semi-consciousness where reality becomes very distorted.  There was something about a motorcycle with tank treads, a fish in a fashion show, and a bus with the ability to fly.  I came awake with a jerk when I heard someone talking about the uncertainty of the existence of chocolate.  I looked around, but no one was there, and I was now sitting on my back porch instead of the chair by the smoker.

My watch was showing 4:15am, so I guessed I had been out for a couple of hours.  I checked the temperature on the smoker and tossed a couple of logs into the firebox.  Then I raised the lid to check on the turkey and briskets, but there was that pig in there with them.  When did I do that?  Well, the turkey was done, and I was getting hungry.  The way things had been for the last few days, I didn’t think anyone would miss a few slices.

About 7am the crowd started gathering again.  Stan and Sherry weren’t due back until about noon, but since this was to be their last day in town before flying out early Wednesday morning, no one wanted to miss seeing them one last time.  It was with great relief that I witnessed several of the guests take over the kitchen and prepare a banquet breakfast for everyone.  And I was really glad to see the mounds of dishes being addressed. 

Stan and Sherry arrived just in time to have lunch.  Turkey, chickens, and briskets were gone by mid-afternoon.  All I had left were the prime ribs and the pig, and they were gone by the time the last guest left late that evening.

Wednesday morning I took Stan and Sherry over to Dallas’ Love Field to catch their pre-dawn flight to New York where they would change planes for Dublin.  When I returned home, I began the final cleanup before packing my things to move to California.  The farm, which had been in my family for several generations, had already been sold, and a second-hand company had purchased almost everything else.  I kept my car and my trailer with all that would fit in it.  As I was driving out of the long driveway for the last time, I realized I had told no one other than Stan and Sherry that I was moving to California.  They’ve probably figured it out by now.

I’m Never Moving Again!!

Twenty years and thirty-three days is more than adequate to collect more stuff than I could possibly need or use, and that is exactly what I did.  Then I had to move it all to a new home about fifteen miles from where I had hoped I would never leave.  We more than doubled our living space, but there just isn’t enough room for everything.  I have to ask myself, “How did I make it fit in the old smaller place?”

Well, the move is over and the sorting begins.  The little things we count on everyday can’ be found, but the things we didn’t need are everywhere.  We found books we had never read.  We found duplicates of those books we had never read.  We even found one triplicate—so far.

It took three weeks to get the internet working.  I am still trying to get the power companies to change the utilities into my name.  I just found my computer in a large humidor of cigars (I like the fragrance it give off as it warms up).  But the worst thing is not something I lost or even had before the move—I had to buy a lawnmower.  What was I thinking?  I mowed the lawn yesterday, and this morning there were weeds over 6 inches high.  I’m mowing it again tomorrow to find out if I just missed some parts of the lawn, or if these things really grow that fast.

I applied for a postal address change for mail forwarding on February 1, and I have yet to see anything forwarded to me.  This worries me a lot.  I don’t care if the bills take their time about getting here, and I never read all the junk mail I receive, but the Annual Wild Game Feed will be sending out their order forms in about two months, and I DON’T want to miss that.

I’ve sent out address changes to everyone I can think of who may need to know where I live, but the one that worries me the most is the AWGF.  I’m hoping when the forms start arriving, someone will immediately forward me a copy of the forms.  I know the AWGF does their best to stay up to date on addresses, but my luck says that I will be the one they overlook.

Anyway, as far as the move goes, I’m lightening the load.  I think the various donation centers around this area are reaching capacity as I bring car full after car full.  When I look at something, if I don’t know immediately what it is, or when I last used it, away it goes. 

On the plus side, I like where I now live.  Not that I didn’t like where I was, but this is much better.  No more street parking.  No more parking two miles away and taking the bus home.  And no more worrying about the tenants in the complex we managed.  I sleep at night without fear of someone waking me up at two a.m. with a plugged toilet, or missing keys.

This place is a fixer-upper big-time, and I’m looking forward to the task.  But if anyone gets that AWGF order form, PLEASE email me a copy immediately.

Biggie--Year Five

Biggie is now nine years old, and sometime this summer he will turn ten.  His actual birthday is unknown, but we renew his shots each year on or about June 6, so that is his unofficial birthday. 

Biggie's age is starting to show, and I hate to admit it, but I have many of the same symptoms.  We're both slowing down.  We both sleep late in the morning and take naps in the afternoon.  But we both find it difficult to sleep at night.  Both of us are having dental problems in spite of dental care.  We've both gained weight.  We are having vision problems.  We both have white hair.

Anytime my wife opens the refrigerator, Biggie and I have a race to the kitchen.  Both of us hate to go outside for a walk, but once we are outside, we don't want to come back in.  We both like rides in the car with stops at almost any park we pass by.  Wait!  Are these symptoms?  Sometimes its difficult to separate symptoms from actions, but I've noticed on the days I have allergies, he has watering eyes and a runny nose.

I cherish my time with Biggie, and I know it is limited and will ultimately come to an end.  He is not my dog, and there is always the possibility his mom will move away, or my wife and I will move away.  Also, we are all getting older and time may gather its reward.

Meanwhile, he is a happy dog, and that makes me happy.

*******

I wrote this a few weeks ago not knowing just how short my time with Biggie really was.  Today his mom let me know she is moving away in a few weeks, just as my wife and I had also decided it was time to move.  Biggie will have to adjust to a new home with his mom, and Rachael and I will have to adjust to a life without Biggie.  Not an easy thing to do, but once again I must rely upon past resolve to never again own another dog.  The pain of losing them is too much for me to carry.

Bolsa Chica

About two years ago my wife Rachael volunteered to be a docent at the Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve located between Sunset Beach and Huntington Beach.  Separating it from Bolsa Chica State Beach is the Pacific Coast Highway.  The two Bolsa Chica's have a symbiotic relationship with plants and animals, so what is good (or bad) for one is good (or bad) for the other.

The Amigos de Bolsa Chica, to which Rachael belongs, were instrumental in saving the Reserve from becoming a marina back in the 1970's, and over the years they have worked to remove the many oil wells from the area.  The preservation of the Reserve also helped save the State Beach (formerly known as Tin Can Beach due to the trash and oil wells), and today the beach is a clean and beautiful sandy surf beach with many native and endangered plants.  Rachael took over the maintenance of the native plants around the headquarters of the State Beach, and therefore I became a volunteer to do the heavy work.  I love it.

I just received status as an official State Beach volunteer and also a free pass to all the State Beaches in Orange County.  It just cost me 100 hours of free labor, a background check, and about two or three hours of filling out forms.  But now I can go to the State Beaches anytime I wish and not have to pay the $15.00 entry fee just to go fishing.

Actually, the pass and fishing is just a bonus.  In the past few months I have built retaining walls around the headquarters, and a secure tool shed to store gardening equipment.  It was hard work, but very satisfying.  About 50 years ago I walked away from a budding career as a brick mason, and I never looked back, but building the retaining walls brought back many memories (and sore muscles), and I'm glad I had the knowledge to do the work.

Volunteering my time, knowledge, and abilities is a joy I never expected.  I was cleaning up some sand from a sidewalk and overheard some surfer dudes commenting on the retaining walls I had built.  Basically they thought is was about time someone got off their ass and did something around there.  I laughed out loud as I thought about that.  They could have gotten off their asses (or surfboards) anytime and helped out, but they didn't.  I guess I don't really care whether or not they choose to help.  What I care about is whether or not someone appreciates the end results of my labor.

Each time I go to the beach now I overhear someone comment about the improvements.  My part is just a small piece of the action.  Now school groups are asking if they can help out.  Corporations are asking if they can donate to the process.  Wow.

As I write this El Nino is bringing its heavy rains to the area, and I just returned from examining the new retaining walls.  They are working as I had hoped they would, and I actually got to see them in action.  My work isn't complete, but I'm on the right track.  The only problem is the cost of the materials and the laborers.  There is only one of me, and the school participants don't have enough of life's experiences to be of much help without a lot, a lot, of direction.  Not that I mind giving them direction and instructions that will help them grow as individuals, but the progress on the walls is slow as a result.  Still, this is a project that will take years beyond my own lifetime to complete.  I just hope someone will come along with similar vision to improve the state beach and pick up the torch.  

Tick... ... ... ...Tock

Time always slows down when waiting for the Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  The next Feed is scheduled for Friday, September 16, 2016, and that's just too long to wait.  Am I right on this?  Tick. 

It's been only 3 1/2 months since the last Feed, and I must say they went by almost unnoticed by me as I always have a full Fall schedule.  But experience has told me the next 7 1/2 months will crawl along at a pace slower than watching paint dry.  And the closer we get to the big day, the slower it will go.  Again, am I right?  Tock.

Every year I try to put into words the fun and excitement of the Feed, but I am woefully inadequate to fully describe the event.  If you've been there, you understand.  If you haven't been there, you've missed one of the greatest man gatherings on this planet (and, believe me, you don't understand).  A man once asked me to narrow down my description to just a single sentence, so I spoke a single, twelve-minute, run-on sentence, and I came nowhere near giving the Feed a quality description.  Tick.

I spend quite a number of hours each year preparing for the event.  Cigars need to be properly humidified, quail eggs need to be flavored and sealed in their jars, and my tent, tables, and boxes of "stuff" need to be obsessed over many times.  Even so, my little contribution is basically nothing compared to the dedication the AWGF members give toward making it a success.  All year they prepare to make the party the very best it can be.  I, for one, am more than willing to let them do their job even if it takes all year to do it right.  But a year is a year.

When I was 6 years old, a year was the equivalent of 'forever,' and I couldn't understand why it took so long.  Now that I'm 66 years old, waiting a year for the AWGF is still the equivalent of 'forever.'  At least I understand why I have to wait.  But a year is still a year.  Am I right on this?  Tock.

I Love My Job!

It's no secret that I embrace the roll of Santa Claus.  Basically, I look like the guy, so it's an easy transformation to become the character so beloved by children, malls, and department stores.

Each year there are many memorable moments as I visit in homes, corporate parties, fund raisers, special needs homes, and children everywhere.  And each year I try to remember my most treasured occurrences and narrow it down to just one or two absolute favorites.  This year isn't over for me as I write this, but already I'm overloaded with favorite moments. 

If I had to pick one favorite moment so far from this year, it would be with a five-year-old girl in front of an audience of many hundreds of family members.  (Not just her family, but families of a large group of children brought together for a Christmas pageant.)  She came up on stage to tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas, but she had a couple of questions she wanted me to answer first.  It went something like this:

            Santa:  What would you like this year?

            Child:  Santa?  I want to ask you some questions first.

            Santa:  Okay.  What are your questions?

            Child:  Which reindeer is your favorite?

            Santa:  All of them.  Santa has no favorite.

            Child:  Oh.  Well, what is your favorite cookie?

            Santa:  The round ones.  Santa likes the round ones best.

            Child:  Okaaaaay.  I see where this is going.

            Santa:  HoHoHo.

I guess you had to be there, but the audience was in stitches, and Santa almost fell out of his chair laughing.

Last year I received a photo taken of me holding my grand-niece, and I do believe it is my all-time favorite moment.  To her I've always been 'Uncle Santa', and I hope it always remains that way.

How Long is a Dog’s Memory?

I was reading an article about “scientific research” on dogs, and I wondered if such “research” was carried out by actual scientists.  The article was about a dog’s memory retention, not the things learned such as ‘fetch,’ ‘roll over,’ and ‘the sound of a can opener.’  It explored whether or not a dog could remember what happened yesterday, or last week, or last year.  The conclusion was “No,” a dog has no memory of events of the past.

I’ve shared this before, but it bears repeating.  I was walking Biggie across the street near the taco stand when a lady dropped her taco.  Biggie broke free from me and devoured that taco in just moments.  Since that day Biggie has deliberately taken me to the taco stand almost every time we go for a walk.  He hasn’t forgotten that chance taco nearly three years ago.

Biggie’s groomer was telling me today about her little dog and a forgotten hamburger in the back seat of her car.  She and her mother-in-law had stopped for burgers at a local joint and had purchased an extra to take home for her husband.  They set it in the back seat of the car, drove home, and promptly forgot all about the burger.  The next morning she got back into her car with her dog, which immediately jumped into the back seat.  The dog had never been in the back seat before, nor had it ever shown any inclination to do so.  She turned around to see what was going on just as the dog was swallowing the last bite of the forgotten burger.  Since then, the dog immediately jumps into the back seat upon entering the car.  He didn’t forget.

Not all dog memories are about food.  Over forty years ago a friend gave me his hunting dog Hubie.  My friend had purchased a lime-green and white 1956 Chevrolet Belair two or three days before moving out of town and leaving Hubie with me.  Hubie saw the car only once or twice, but he would always look closely at any 1956 Belair he saw.  If the color wasn’t right, he would quickly turn away, but if the color was correct, Hubie would go in for a closer look.  Hubie remembered. 

Geoffrey was an eight-week-old puppy when he came my way.  I had him less than a year before having to let him go to another owner, but just before his departure, I took him back to visit the people who had given him to me.  He immediately ran over to a corner of their store and tried to push aside a barrel to get behind it.  We moved the barrel and there was a dog toy, which made Geoffrey very happy.  The thing is, Geoffrey was in this store only once for an hour or so on the day I received him.  He had been given this toy on the morning of the day I received him.  His association with this toy and this store were very minimal and had occurred some ten months earlier when he was a puppy.  But he hadn’t forgotten the toy or where he had lost it.

I was discussing hunting dogs with a friend at the fishing club.  (Some fishermen are also hunters.)  He told me one of his dogs couldn’t find a downed bird on a dove hunt, but the next year they returned to the same place, and the dog immediately began to search the field for the missing bird.  It bothered the dog that he had failed to find the missing bird a year earlier.

Anyone with a dog will have at least one similar story.  I believe it is not possible to own a dog and not be aware of the mind of the dog.  Dogs (and in fact all animals) are amazing creatures.  Often I hear the phrase ‘dumb animal,’ but I am convinced all animals possess enough intelligence to survive.  And memory plays an important roll.

Can a dog remember the events of August 22, 2014, or that next Tuesday at 10am he is scheduled to visit the vet?  Probably not.  But I do question if the “scientists” who did the “research” ever owned a dog.

Old Grayback

The highest peak in Southern California is San Gorgonio Mountain.  It stands at 11,503 feet (more or less), and its peak set the baseline for the original land surveys in the area.  It usually is snowcapped throughout most, if not all, of the summer, and is a great place to hike and camp most of the year.  Most of the year—not all of the year.

After I moved from Texas to Southern California, I entered the geology program at a local college.  For several years I had been climbing around on the sides of mountains wondering about the rocks I was hanging on to.  Some were crumbly, some were solid, some had lines of other rocks running through them, some contained seashells even though they were several thousand feet above sea level.  I was curious about them.

At the end of my second quarter, several of the students decided to hike to the peak of San Gorgonio Mountain, and they invited me to join them.  They didn’t have to ask twice.  It had been a mild January, and the first two weeks of February were just more of the same.  The mountain had seen some fresh snow, but not enough to stop determined hikers.  We packed our backpacks, checked the weather forecast, and drove to a parking area high in the mountains where we could join up with the trailhead.

We had allowed for five days of hiking, and we took along enough provision for seven days.  We expected to use up three days in total, but we were all experienced enough to know that any winter hike up a mountain could involve a sudden change of plans.

The first day was quite easy.  We hit the trailhead at about 7:00am and by 1:00pm we were well above the tree line and surrounded by snow.  We had put on our snowshoes much earlier and were having no trouble with the hike, especially after we had left much of our camping gear at the Dollar Lake campground.  We each had daypacks stuffed with food, warmer clothing, emergency stuff, etc., just in case, but we weren’t anticipating any trouble.  Then again one never anticipates trouble.  Soon we had completed the hike to the summit, or what we believe was the summit since we assumed any marker was buried deep under the snow, and after an hour or so of taking in the vista, we headed back to our campsite. 

The trip to the campsite was beautiful.  Climbing the mountain was a lot of work, and we really didn’t look at much more than the trail, or what we thought was a trail, in front of us, but coming back down, we were able to follow our ascending tracks, and take time to enjoy the views.  On this particular day we could clearly see Catalina Island more than a hundred miles away.  Wow!

Back in camp, we had our dinner, and we prepared for a good night’s rest.  We were hoping to just hike around in the area on day two and have some rest and fun before returning to the trailhead and our cars on day three.  Just as we were about to crawl into the tents, Tom noticed the stars had disappeared.  In fact the clouds were gathering all around us.  Uh, this wasn’t in the weather forecast.

We guessed we were in for a cold, wet night with a little snow.  How about a lot of snow?  About two in the morning I heard a loud yell for help.  Immediately I rushed out of my tent (the process of getting out of my sleeping bag, out from under the blankets and throwing on some warm clothes somewhat negated the ‘rush,’ but I did my best).  I discovered my tent to be the only one I could see.  All of the others were buried under a mound of ever-deepening snow. 

I worked my way over to where Ray was still calling for help and pulled him out of his collapsed tent.  We gathered all we could of his belongings and moved them over to where my tent was sitting in a protected area.  I had about six inches of snow around my tent with very little on top of the awning.  I had placed my tent next to a rock outcropping where the north and east sides were completely protected from the snow and wind.  Overhead were the branches of several trees (admittedly, it’s never a good idea to place a tent where tree branches can fall, but there were no real clearings in this area), and the snow was just not coming down where I had set my tent.

Also, I had a three-man tent rather than the single-person tents everyone else had (I like some wiggle room), so I was able to move Ray in with me.  We were just getting settled down when we realized Mick, Tom, Steve, and Kevin may be in trouble and not able to call for help.  We went back out to check on them.

My seven-foot by seven-foot tent was quite crowded with six people in it, but we were warm.  The next morning we crawled out to a wonderland.  It took an hour or so to gather everything up and sort through it all, and we weren’t real happy with messing up the snow to do it, but just outside our camp was a scene of incredible pristine beauty.  We made our breakfast, and every one of us decided to do what we had set out to do on day two.  We rested and had fun.  And we prepared for another night in a single tent.

Somewhere around noon or a little before, several forest service rangers entered our camp.  They were a search party looking for us.  We had registered our itinerary before our outing, and even though we weren’t yet due back, they guessed we hadn’t done very well in the surprise storm.  The decision had been made to rescue us.

We were about to make lunch, so we invited the rangers to join us.  They stayed for a couple of hours sharing stories of unprepared hikers they had extracted from the mountain over the years.  But they also decided to leave us alone.  We were obviously in great shape for this adventure.

One of the things they left with us was a rescue board.  I don’t know what the thing is actually called, but it’s designed to strap someone on it and slide him or her over the snow to safety.  The rangers thought we could use it to carry our packs when we decided to hike out, but we had other uses for it.  Wahoo!!  (Or is it Woo Hoo!!)  We spent hours sliding around on that thing.  Oh, such fun!  But night came, we had our dinner, and soon we were stacked back inside my tent.  Sometime in the late afternoon of the third day we stopped in at the ranger station to register our departure from the mountain and turn in the rescue raft, or whatever it was called. 

Old Grayback, as the mountain is often called, has talked to me for many years since that trip.  My five companions and I have not seen each other since a few months afterward, but I’m certain each one of them still treasures the memories of those three days.

What Time Is It?

For some reason I am usually aware of the passage of time in small increments.  If I look at a clock at 10:30, then for the next half-hour or so I tend to know what time it is within one or two minutes.  It’s just always been this way.  Rarely do I not know approximately what time it is.  Although I sometimes wear a watch, mostly I don’t bother since looking at a clock once or twice an hour is usually sufficient.

A few years ago I was on a “cattle boat” fishing near Catalina Island.  The sun was extremely bright and I lifted my hand at arm’s length to shade my eyes for a moment just as a friend asked me what time it is.  A few minutes earlier I had noticed the time on the watch of another fisherman, so I added about six minutes and said, “It’s 1:18.”  The fisherman whose watch I looked at glanced at his watch and confirmed the time as 1:18.

My friend was a bit confused by this since he realized I wasn’t wearing a watch and I didn’t look around for one.  He made the assumption I could tell time by holding my hand in the air and looking at the sun.  When I realized how he had come to this conclusion I knew I could carry this ruse on for a long time.

“How did you do that?  You just held your hand up and looked at the sun to tell the time?”

“Yep.  That’s what I did.  It’s really simple.  Just hold your fingers horizontal and spread out a little.  Count the number of hands the sun is above the horizon with each hand representing forty-five minutes.  If the sun is two hands in the air and the sun came up at six a.m., then the time is 7:30.  If the sun is between the index and middle finger, then the time is 7:45.  A little practice and you’ll learn to divide the spaces into individual minutes.  Works every time, unless it’s cloudy, then you need to use both hands to create the illusion of a shadow on the front of your shirt and read the results upside-down.  Give it a try.”

And he tried.  And tried.  Finally he came back to me and asked me to show it to him again.  Fortunately I had recently checked the time again and knew it was about 2:20, so I held my hand up and showed him how to count the distance from the horizon to the sun, add up the 45-minute intervals, calculated the individual minutes and came up with the time.  He walked over to a man with a watch and asked the time.  The look on his face was priceless when he discovered I was right to the very minute.  For the rest of the day until the sun went down he continued to ask me the time at random intervals.  And I was always right within one minute.

After returning to the dock we went our own ways as we each headed home, but his mind was apparently dwelling on this for weeks.  I was at his house one afternoon helping him with a project when he suddenly asked me what time is was.  Fortunately he was wearing a watch and I had looked at it about fifteen minutes earlier, so I held up my hand to the sun and made my best guess.  “2:32.”

He looked at his watch, looked at me, looked at the sun, looked at his watch again.  He didn’t say a word.  I wasn’t certain if he was confused or angry.  I realized right there this game had become a quest for him to debunk, and I wasn’t about to tell him the truth.

For nearly three years he kept trying to figure out how I could tell the time by looking at the sun, and for nearly three years I gave him the same answer.  Then one day he didn’t ask.  I was prepared for the random timing of the inevitable question, but it didn’t happen.  And it didn’t happen the next few times I saw him.  Now I was worried.  Was he just observing me to see if I was cheating?  Well, just to stir the pot a little, I confided in one of his other friends what I was doing and how I did it.  Then he decided to get in on the act by doing the same thing.

We had our mutual friend completely baffled by the process.  Of course we showed him over and over how we did it, but he just couldn’t get it.  Then it happened to me. 

I had taken a day boat out onto the ocean and I heard someone ask another person the time.  I looked over there and saw a man holding his hand up towards the sun for a moment before saying, “10:19.”

For the rest of the day I watched this guy to see if I could figure out how he did it, but every time he was asked, he knew the answer.  To be honest, it has me stumped to this day.  Was he pulling the same trick I was using, or did he really tell the time by looking at the sun?

I’ll never know, but there is no way I’m giving up my secret again concerning how I did it.

Oh, wait.  I think I just did.

2015 Wild Game Feed

If grown men are allowed to cry, now is the time.  The 2015 Wild Game Feed is over, and it is not coming back for a whole long, long year.  The food is gone, the beer is gone, the cigars are ashes and stubs, the prizes have found homes, and the exhibits are packed away.  The park is clean and ready for the next group to use.  I’ve experienced this nearly twenty times and it never gets easier.  But like it or not, the waiting now begins for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed.

As usual there were too many friends and not enough time.  Too much food and not enough capacity.  Too much beer and, well, uh, not enough, uh, time.  You get it—one day just isn’t long enough.  Maybe that’s the thing that keeps us wanting more.

So now we start the countdown to next year.  Now the organizers try to exceed what they just did.  And we will let them do what is necessary to make the next Feed even better than ever.  From my personal past experience, the organizers will succeed.

Thank you to the members of the Annual Wild Game Feed.  You give us a great time, and you provide help to many charities.  Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated.  Thank you for letting us participate in the festivities and giving us an opportunity to contribute to your worthwhile causes.

8,760 long slow hours to go and counting down.

Wild Game Feed Irvine Lake 2015

I’m counting down the days.  Seventeen to go.  I’ve already packed, unpacked, repacked, changed my packing list, and started over again.  My biggest fear is over sleeping on the morning of the 2015 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  September 18, 2015 cannot arrive soon enough for me.

I’ve always arrived early, but for the last few years the line has started forming earlier than my arrival.  No big deal, but I want to spend every possible minute inside the designated area.  I do not want to waste a single minute waiting in line after the gates open.

On the other hand, the entry starts at 12 noon sharp and about 1,500 men are busy eating before 1:00pm.  Not too bad.  I know some guys who every year arrive about 12:45pm, and by 1:00pm they are busy eating.  They are willing to sacrifice 45 minutes for the privilege of sleeping a little later and not having to wait for hours in the queue.  I choose to be there early.  It may be a long wait, but waiting in line is almost like having a tailgate party before the tailgate party.  By the time the entry booth opens, quail eggs will already been consumed, cigars turned to ashes, and beverages recycled through the body.  The party before the party. 

This year I plan to take some photographs.  Every year I bring a camera, and every year I forget to use it.  It’s impossible to explain this event to anyone who hasn’t been there, and they say a picture is worth a thousand words.  I think it would still take a thousand pictures to give someone a basic idea of what the Feed is.  But I’m going to try to take some anyway for later postings.  If you see me there, remind me to use my camera.  Thanks.  I appreciate it.

Remember, if you can make it to the Feed, please stop by my shelter near the entry booth.  Old friends and new friends are all welcome.  Just come in and make yourself at home.

Birthday

HELP!!!  I’m 27 years old and trapped in a 66 year old body!  A fat, balding, out of shape 66 year old body!  What Happened???  Today is my 66^th birthday, but I don’t remember having about 30 of them, so can I subtract that 30 from the total number?  If so, that would help a lot.

I’ve never really observed my birthdays unless someone else just wanted to make a big deal out of it.  And as a result, I’ve often not known my actual age unless I did some math, but in recent years, people have started reminding me of my age.  Why do they do that?  If I don’t really care about it, why should they?  I guess I’ve managed to survive longer that they wanted me to.  Maybe that’s the answer to my question.  Sorry.  I plan to be here for many more years, so get used to it.

Birthdays are a bit odd to me.  I could never understand why someone would want to celebrate the march to the end by ticking off the years.  I had rather enjoy life and count the memories instead of the years.  And I have a lot of memories.  If you the reader have examined my previous writings, you will probably agree with me that I’ve had many great (and not so great) experiences, and I’m planning to add many more.

I was talking to a gentleman recently at the Long Beach Casting Club about the idea of counting memories instead of years, and he said to me, “If a person can’t count memories, all that is left is to count the years.”

My reply was, “Everyone has memories, just think about them.  Focus on where this journey has taken you and where you still want to go.  The years don’t matter.  It’s the journey that counts.”  And I really do mean that.  Every day is borrowed time, so I can choose to enjoy each one, or I can waste my time worrying about how few days may be left.

Today is just another day for me, but several restaurants have decided I need to experience a free (or discounted) meal to celebrate my birthday, so I will indulge a few of them.  My wife and I, along with the neighbor’s dog Biggie, will find the restaurants with a dog friendly patio, and we will share a good time.  We will make new memories, and within a few days we will have forgotten completely that the memories were made on my birthday.

Service with a Smile

Service is a relative term.  Car service, room service, military service, tea service, religious service, food service—many kinds of service, but it’s all relative.  What exactly does service mean anyway? 

I once took my car to have a new battery installed.  When they told me it was ready, I looked over the paperwork and discovered I had received an oil change, new wiper blades, and new brake light bulbs—but no new battery.  When I complained, they told me I needed to make another appointment for the battery since I used up all my service time on these other things.  Well my car needed the things they did to it, but I still needed a battery.  I went somewhere else because I wasn’t happy with the service.

I like waffles, so while in Atlanta decided to have my breakfast at a locally famous café with a reputation for good waffles.  When I received my order, I received pancakes.  Although I like pancakes, I was on a waffle hunt, so I sent them back to be replaced.  The waiter thought I was being picky and managed to tell everyone in the place his feelings about me.  When he finally brought my waffles to me, they were the original pancakes but they had spent some time in the waffle maker.  Actually a lot of time.  A lot of time.  As I was leaving, he shouted, “If you don’t like the service, don’t come back!”  I didn’t.

When dining in a rather upscale restaurant in another city I traveled to, my waiter wasn’t the most highly trained, and he was also in a bad mood.  Grumpy would be an understatement.  Maybe surly would be a better description.  When I was being seated another gentleman was also being seated at a table a few feet away.  The waiter first went to him and then to me to take our orders.  Later he brought out a tray and served the man at the nearby table.  A few bites into his meal he realized he had received the wrong order and informed the waiter.  The waiter stood looking at the man’s plate for a few moments, before picking it up and placing it before me.  Hmm…  I left with the other gentleman, and we enjoyed a great evening dining at a nearby tavern where the service was supurb.

I was having a business dinner with a few of the company’s managers at a very posh restaurant in a major city when suddenly the dim lights dimmed even more, and a spotlight focused on the maitre d’.  One of the highlights of this restaurant was the presentation of flaming shish kabobs on silver swords.  The maitre d’ whirled and twirled these flaming swords as he was escorted to the diner’s table by a bevy of aproned waiters.  Very impressive except for the fact that every whirl and every twirl was lobbing a chunk of lamb or onion or other vegetable into a flaming arc across the dining room.  The problem went unnoticed by the maitre d’ until it was time to remove the morsels from the swords to the diner’s plate.  The replacement dinner was made with much less fanfare.  One of the pieces of lamb landed on our table, but the manager to my left was faster with his fork than I was.  He said it was good. 

Recently I had an afternoon lunch with some of my friends at a Chinese all-you-can-stand-to-eat buffet.  Believe me, it was nothing special, and it was also not busy, which was the main reason we went there.  In fact we were the only ones there.  We wanted to just spend some time talking and catching up on things.  We had a good time just being with each other, and we also each made an occasional trip to the buffet tables to search in vain for something good to eat, but we usually just settled for a few bites of what ever we were standing closest to.  One of the guys, Charlie, somehow got hooked on the cheap canned chocolate pudding and went back time and again for more.  And then our time was up.  We didn’t set any particular time to leave, but the manager did.  Apparently we were allotted two hours to complete our meal and get out.  Suddenly the manager was standing at the end of our table shouting “TIME UP!  TWO HOUR!  TIME UP!”  I think Charlie summed it up perfectly when he said, “Thank God!  I don’t think I could stand any more of this chocolate pudding.”

Sometimes the best service comes when least expected.  Rachael and I had been married about a year and were living in a small town about 60 miles east of Los Angeles.  One evening we decided to have dinner at one of the local Italian restaurants.  We drove around the old building a couple of times checking it out.  The two dogs on the back porch next to the screen door to the kitchen didn’t win any points, but we could see the inside and it looked spotless.  So we went in (the front door).

It was good Italian food, but it was not great Italian food.  We enjoyed our meal and were about to leave when the owner came up to us with coffee and dessert.  Suddenly we were his special guests, and we were treated like royalty.  When it was finally necessary for us to leave, Rocco the owner refused payment.

About a week later we were driving by the restaurant with our still fresh memories, and to our dismay the building was gone.  Bulldozers had destroyed it to make room for a fast food chain restaurant specializing in heat-lamp burgers.

I’ve never forgotten the service that evening, and to this day I use it to compare all other restaurant service.  Rocco was already well past retirement age when we were there over 35 years ago, so I’m certain he is no longer with us.  But wherever he is, someone is getting great service.

Irvine Lake 2015 Wild Game Feed

Seventy Days and Counting Down to the 47^th Annual Wild Game Feed.  Friday, September 18, 2015 is still too far away for me, but it will arrive when it arrives, and there is nothing I can do to speed up the process.  (Still—10 whole weeks?  That’s like watching the clock on the last day of the school year when I was a kid.)

Today I was counting the jars of pickled quail eggs on my shelf, and it looks as though it’s going to be a thin year.  Thirty-one jars and no time to make more.  Last year I brought forty-seven and ran out, so for those persons wanting to give’em a try, stop by my shelter early.  Since this is not a part of the AWGF, but just something I do on my own, each year’s supply can vary according to the availability of the eggs and just how much energy I have left to pickle them.

It’s easy to locate me.  My shelter is always just a few feet away from the main ticket entry, and I’m usually there, at the ticket entry, or finding something to eat.  Just look for the old fat man with long white hair and beard.  Most likely that will be me, although there may be another one or two who match that description.  If I’m not at my shelter or the ticket entry, just help yourself to some eggs.  Should the flavor you want to try not be opened, just open it.  You’ll save someone else the trouble of doing it.

Also, I usually have some cigars to swap around.  Most years I have several different brands and styles, and this year will be no exception.  Some are better than others, but none are bad or cheap.  Last year I even swapped a Gurka Centurian for a Swisher Sweet.  I don’t care.  I just want everyone I meet to enjoy the AWGF as much as I do.

If you’re an old-timer at this shindig, then you know the drill.  Eat, drink, eat, drink—not necessarily in that order.  If this is your first time, well, it will take you about two minutes to figure it out.  Just start with eat, then go to drink.  Try this a few times, and then switch up the order.  You’ll get the hang of it in a hurry.

Every year I’m asked the same questions by first timers—“What should I bring?”  The simple answer is “Yourself” and of course your ticket.  After that it’s just a matter of how much you want to haul in and keep track of. 

There are certain “basics” I always bring.  A chair, a mug (big), a shelter, a table, and a metal knife, fork, and spoon (I hate plastic utensils).  Sometimes I bring an ice chest with a few of my favorites in it, and I always bring cigars, although you can buy them there at a reasonable price.  The quail eggs usually happen, but aren’t guaranteed.  Oh, and I tend to bring along a few plastic bags in case I want to take home some of the good eats the AWGF provides.

The main thing is just to be there, and you are always welcome at my shelter whether or not I’m there.  And before I forget it, the Feed opens at Noon, but the line forms a few hours early.  I used to show up about 10am and be first in line.  That was years ago.  Last year I arrived at 7:30am and about fifty or sixty men were already in line.  Just sayin’.  If you do come very early, make certain you have a chair or it will be a long morning.

If you have any questions, just email me at fineleatherart@yahoo.com .  I may not have the answers for you, but I can usually find out.

Remember, this event is really for charities.  It’s easy to forget that with all the fun going on, but any monies spent on raffles go to great causes, so be generous and enjoy the day knowing you are helping this organization help others.

La Paloma

The dove is never an easy bird to hunt.  I say that after losing a bet with a friend over 40 years ago.  Hank and I were not much for bird hunting, but we did do a little.  He and I had both hunted ducks and quail, and he had hunted dove, but I had not.  I was decent with a shotgun, although I wasn’t great, and I had discovered there are differences in shooting skeet, trap, and live birds, but birds are birds—right? 

Over the years I had run many boxes of shells through the old bolt-action twenty-gauge I had inherited from my grandfather, and I thought there were no birds that could fly through the pattern that gun made.  Hank bet me some small change that the dove could do it.  No Way!  But Hank insisted it could be done, so I took that bet, and we went dove hunting.

My cousin’s family had some property in west Texas where the doves were plentiful in the fall.  One particular stock tank must have had the right flavor of water, because the dove population would always be rather dense for two or three hundred yards around it.  I didn’t remember ever hearing of anyone hunting these birds here before, so I thought it would be a perfect place to test Hank’s theory and take his money from him.  I didn’t think about the fact that the cost of the gasoline just to get there was several times the amount of the bet.  Sometimes cost doesn’t matter when money is involved.

As we were driving from Fort Worth to the ranch, I decided to make a second bet.  I told Hank I could take the limit of birds (I think it was fifteen) with one box of shells and have several left over for the next hunt.  I drove from Mineral Wells to Abilene before he stopped laughing, and we were past Odessa before the snickering subsided.  Come to think of it, his big grin never did go away.

When we arrived at the ranch, my cousin was waiting on us.  I had talked to him for permission to hunt the property, but I didn’t expect to see him at the ranch.  However, there he was, and he was planning on joining in on the hunt.  When he found out about the bet, he sided with Hank.

“I’ll double Hank’s bet.  Shooting dove is like shooting a hole in a cloud.  It can be done, but it ain’t easy.”

Two against one.  Great.  I’ve seen dove fly, so why are they supposed to be so hard to hit?  Both of these guys know my hunting ability, yet they think I’m going to have a difficult time filling my limit.  They should know better.

We were up very early the next morning, and by first gray light we were near the stock tank awaiting the sun’s rays.  Just before the first long shadows appeared we began to see flights of white wing dove, and we were ready.

All three of us let go at about the same instant.  The double boom of Hank’s Ithaca twelve and the rhythmic pounding of Vern’s Browning pump along with the unsteady popping of my little Mossberg 185d made the morning sound like a war zone.  And the dove fell.  We gathered our first round of birds and settled in for three more rounds before the flights became more sporadic.  Hank and Vern had their limits and I had one more to go to fill my bag, but that one proved to be my undoing.

By now the birds were flying alone, and every shot could be judged on its own merit.  No more of the ‘two birds with one shot’ scenario.  I had to make this work.  I had just seven shells left in my pocket, and I had to go back with 1) my limit, and 2) several shells left over.  I wish I had sneaked in a few extras, but I was just too confident.

I wasted two or three shots on cross flights about thirty yards out.  Another shot followed a bird as he flew from behind me, over my head, and in front of me, but he was just too fast for the pellets.  And then it happened.  I loaded my last three shells, two in the magazine and one in the chamber.  In the distance was a dove flying straight toward me.  When the bird was about forty-five yards away, I pulled the trigger and immediately chambered the second round.  Again I pulled the trigger, and the last round went into the chamber.  And I fired again.  I had seen that dove fly right through the oncoming shot three times, and then it flew over my head and away to the nearby hills.

I paid my bets, and I took a lot of ribbing, but later on I discovered the real quality of my friends.  I never heard about my humiliation after that day—not from Hank or Vern or anyone else for that matter.  They never said a word about it to another person.  And I learned a valuable lesson.