The Texas Flying Buffalo

Buffalo wings are a spicy, popular snack widely rumored to have originated in Buffalo, New York or some other Yankee city. The truth of the matter is a bit different. Nowadays they are made with chicken wings, but in the past, they were made from the wings of an odd creature – one that only lived in Texas.

There used to be lots of strange critters in Texas, but most of them have moved on or died out in these days of interstate highways and giant cities. One of the rarest of these beasts, though they were a lot more common in the past, is the Texas Flying Buffalo. Not many people know about the Flying Buffalo, mostly because their wings were so small in comparison to their size. The Flying Buffalo looked just like the regular Buffalo that once covered the Great Plains. The only differences were its tiny wings, glowing red eyes and bad attitude. I had many experiences with the Flying Buffalo back when I was a youngster. Sit back and I’ll tell you a tale of Old Time Texas.

One cold wintry day, back when Texas and I were both young, I was out hunting - just me and my trusty rifle, trudging through the backwoods of East Texas. In those days, the trees were as big around as houses and stretched far up into the sky. Deer and squirrels and wolves and rabbits and all manner of creatures lived underneath the giant trees in those days. Today I was looking for something to fill my stew-pot. I was moving carefully through the deep leaves, trying to stay quiet when I suddenly heard a cracking sound high up above me. Carefully and slowly, I turned my head so that one eye could look into the tree. There, crouched on a straining limb and ready to pounce was a Flying Buffalo!

He was a huge bull, well over 6 feet tall at the shoulder and probably weighed 2000 pounds. I could see his beady red eyes and see the smoke snort from his nose in the cold morning air. He’d seen me and I knew that in just a moment he would dive down upon me.

As soon as I thought that, he leapt! I tried to bring my rifle around, but he was too quick. I jumped to the side, rolled through the leaves, and came up on my feet, running for all I was worth. I heard a crash behind me as the giant beast landed where I had just been standing. Then I heard the buzzing of his wings as he lifted off and knew that I was in trouble. Moving as quickly as a hummingbird, the Flying Buffalo zipped after me. As the buzzing grew louder, I threw myself to the side around a tree, feeling the hot breath of the creature as it skimmed by me, missing by only a whisker. The big bull let out a great roar as he went by.

I brought by rifle up to my shoulder and aimed where the buffalo should have been, but he wasn’t there. I couldn’t hear his wings buzzing or his panting breath. I jerked my rifle one way and then another, trying to find him before he found me. The buzzing of his wings was my only warning as he came in right behind me. Again, I jumped to the side, but this time he was ready and kicked me with one hoof as he went by. The blow knocked my rifle from my hands and I fell, only to roll down the hill into a stand of trees. I shook my head to clear my thoughts as the buzzing of the buffalo’s wings grew closer. I was in a stand of young pecan trees which were very small, only about the size of most trees today. I though they might be too close together for the Buffalo to fit between and so I waited for him there.

He descended from the air in a great blast of wind and headed right for me. The trees were too close together for him to squeeze between them. Unfortunately for me, he just smashed right through them! I couldn’t stay there, so I ran for the big trees. But the buffalo was too fast for me. Every time I thought I might escape, he whipped in front of me. Only one tree large enough to shelter me from the beast was in the pecan grove and I barely made it to its shelter before he could get to me. However, every time I tried to get away, the buffalo appeared. He moved from side to side, keeping me pinned behind the tree. I knew it was just a matter of time before I grew tired and slipped. Then he would have me. There was only one way out.

I faked a move around the tree, and when I did, the buffalo moved to the other side. I jumped up and grabbed a low-hanging branch, swinging up into the tree. When the buffalo didn’t see me on the other side of the tree, he flew back to the last place he saw me. That’s when I jumped – right onto his back!

Now I’ve never been one to boast, but I can ride anything with hair on it – and most things without. That buffalo felt me hit his back and he went crazy. But I had a firm grip on his thick winter fur and he couldn’t shake me off. Up he shot, like a lighting bolt, into the air. We crashed through the branches of the giant trees and blasted high into the sky. I struggled to hang on against the buffeting winds generated by the tiny wings on his shoulders which were beating so fast I couldn’t see them.

The great beast was snorting, bellowing, and slinging his head back and forth. We did barrel-rolls, loop-de-loops, and an immelman. But by this time, I had crawled forward and was sitting on his neck. I reached up as the buffalo dove for the ground and grabbed his short black horns. We were flying at full speed toward the ground as I strained with all my strength to pull the beast’s head up. Gradually, I forced the buffalo’s head back and we leveled out, just above the treetops.

The buffalo was tiring now, and I had him right where I wanted him. If I pulled back on his horns, we flew up. If I pushed down, we went down. If I pulled the horns to the right, we went right. I flew the giant buffalo around the sky, going back and forth, enjoying the view from up above. Finally, I decided to head for home.

I guided the buffalo back to my ranch and landed him in the yard. Once we were on the ground, he was so tired that all the fight in him was gone. I led him to the barn and put him in a stall, gave him a quick rub-down and fed and watered him. From that time on, I had myself a flying buffalo. I rode him to town when I needed supplies and used him to round up my cows. After many years, the big bull buffalo grew too old to fly and I retired him to his own pasture, where in the company of a three-legged mule, he lived out his days in comfort.

For years, other people had hunted the buffalo for their tiny, but very tasty wings. After I captured my buffalo, I never had the heart to do that anymore. So I developed a sauce that made chicken wings taste like flying buffalo wings and sold it to some nice lady up in New York. A little while later, that lady became famous selling chicken wings dipped in my special flying buffalo wing sauce. She became so famous that they named a city after the Buffalo Wing, but later they shortened it to Buffalo, NY.

And that’s how the buffalo wing came to be made with chicken wings. No foolin’.

OMG, HURRICANES!

It seems that with the formation of sub-tropical storm Andrea, the 2007 Hurricane season is on. Yay! So this morning, we have an article from the AP about local officials questioning the Texas hurricane plan.

"Mike Montgomery, the emergency management coordinator for Harris County, which includes Houston, said he had been told privately that the county should not rely on Guard forces to help with an evacuation before a hurricane. Montgomery said he had been told many of those troops would probably be diverted to the Rio Grande Valley because of the limited resources available there."

Look, I know the guy who developed the plan to evacuate the Texas Gulf Coast. Bottom line is that it cannot be done. There are not enough roads to get everyone out given the typical warning lead time. And the Valley is the worst. The estimates I saw for deaths in the Valley given a Cat 5 strike at Brownsville are 4000+. Apparently several colonias will simply cease to exist.

There is nothing the state can do except pray that it doesn't hit down there at that strength.

Berry Cobbler

Last night when I got home, I was met at the door by Girl1 who insisted that I keep a promise. The other day when we were taking a walk around the subdivision, we saw a bunch of blackberry vines next to a fence. Girl1 begged and begged to go pick some and I let her, but she wanted more. I was worried she'd be covered in chiggers if she kept going deeper into the weeds, so I told her we would come back and pick enough for a pie. So now I had to pay up. I changed clothes and off we went, La Patrona, Boy2 and Girl2 in tow (Boy1 could not be separated from his Gameboy without surgical tools).



We got down there and started picking berries. I used to do this all the time when I was growing up. There are lots of blackberry vines around the places we would put out round bales for the cattle during the winter. We would pick blackberries and find turtles at the same time. One year we caught about 12 turtles. We painted numbers on their shells and turned 'em loose. Never did see any of them again, though.

Anyway, we picked about 3 cups of blackberries in about 30 minutes. In that time, Boy2 fell in the water and took his pants off, Girl2 ran into a fence, Girl1 got about 15 berry stickers in her hands, and La Patrona got stung by a wasp. Not too bad.

We took them home, washed them off and made a cobbler with them. La Patrona is a mean cook. Took about 10 minutes to eat the pie, but it sure was worth it.

Concealed Handgun License

My mom's uncle was killed in the First Baptist Church of Daingerfield in 1980 by a madman with an AR-15. That murderer, who was about to go to trial for incest, took the lives of 5 people, including a little girl. My mom's uncle was killed when he tried to rush the murderer. I never want to be in the position my uncle found himself in that day.

So, I have finally decided to get my concealed handgun license. I probably won't be able to take the course for a month or so, but it will get done before July. I've been putting it off for years because I was, frankly, too lazy to take the all-day course. I hate sitting in a room for that long on a Sunday. But it's the only way to do it around here.

Lots of people see no need for guns, but I don't have that luxury. I'm obligated to protect certain people, namely my family. I can't rely on others to do it for me, nor can I count on fate to keep bad things from happening. The Good Book says, "the Lord helps those who help themselves," and I plan on helping myself by having the means to protect my family wherever I go.

Lord, that sounds pompous. Anyway, I'm doing it,so it doesn't really matter why.

I figure at first I'll carry the Makarov.

It fires a 9X18 cartridge, but I'm of the opinion that 8 rounds of 9mm hollow points will take care of most problems. I may trade up for a more modern, non-Commie Bloc gun in the future. The things I like about the Mak is that it's small and it works. I've never had it misfire or a failure to eject. It also has a manual safety, which I prefer. Glocks and other handguns with passive safeties give me the willies. I'm sure they are perfectly safe, I just don't like 'em.

My Spurs

These are the spurs I wore when I was cowboying. My dad gave them to me. They've got "Sanders" stamped on the side, but I don't know anything about them or where dad got them. I think they're pretty cool. As you can see, they've got the symbols of the standard card suites on them. I've seen others with the same motif, but never any like these. I always wanted to get a bridle or a bit that matched. I'd probably have to have it made, though.



I cowboyed when I was a lot younger than I am now, but I bet I could still get away with it. I cowboyed with my dad who has been ranching all his life. Most of the time it was a very expensive hobby since he owned an oilfield construction company. After he retired, he went into ranching full time.

It's a little known fact that ranchers can actually have a lot of free time. We spent all that free time hiring out to work cows for other ranchers in the area. In East Texas, most ranches are small affairs (100 to 500 head) and when it's time to work the cattle, you call your neighbors to help out. Now when I say "hire out" you may think that you're actually going to make money. That's not the case. I think the most I ever made for a full day of work (that's sun-up to sundown) was $40, lunch, and all the beer you could drink. And that's what made it all worthwhile.

My dad's friends were a bunch of old guys like he is and I called them the Wild Bunch. It was kind of half in jest, but they did get into a surprising amount of trouble. I've seen them run over by a whole pen full of cows, hooked by mean longhorn crosses, and bucked off onto rocky ground. They kept at it though. I guess it's because that's what they did. It was really a lot of fun. Maybe one day when I get these kids paid for I can do some of that again.

Green Meanie

Did I tell you that I am an environmentalist? No, really. I have been substituting CFL bulbs for incandescent bulbs at the house for quite a while now. I went to Sam’s and found these nifty little things for about $13.00.

I figured they would save me money. My wallet, which is near and dear to my heart, appreciates this.

But I knew there had to be a down side. Apparently, these things contain mercury. Yes, I said mercury, which everyone knows is the most deadly poison this side of Chernobyl. Some lady up in Maine broke one of these bulbs in her house and subsequently talked herself into a $2000 cleanup to fix it.

Now I’ve always been one to appreciate the environment. Heck I don’t even let the Horde throw their trash out the window. I’ll also admit that I have been party to some really poor environmental decisions.

For example, when I was working in the oil fields in East Texas, we had a substantial amount of crude oil spill into a creek. A pipeline busted and just filled that creek up with oil. Standard procedure for cleaning up a spill like that was to place booms in the creek below the spill to contain the oil, then take a vacuum truck and suck it all up. For some reason that I can’t recall, the decision was made to burn it off instead. So once the booms were in place, we pushed some dirt across the creek below the spill, poured diesel on the oil, and lit that baby. There’s nothing quite like watching a 1/2 mile of burning oil, then ½ mile of burning trees as those close to the creek caught fire. Luckily it had been raining, so only those adjacent to the creek burned. I bet the flames were three stories high. After the flames died out, we took bulldozers and scraped the mud and dirt out of the creek bed and hauled it off. By the time we were finished, the creek looked like those drainage canals in California right before they poured the concrete. Nasty.

Anyway, back to the subject. We used to find old switches in the oilfields from pumpjacks that were installed in the 40s. Those switches had little vials of mercury in them for making electrical connections. We’d break the vials and catch the mercury in pimento jars, then proceed to play with it. We would roll it across the table at home, shine dimes up with it, and generally just play with it. It’s cool.

But with the way people are about it these days, I’d think twice before I even admitted to breaking a CFL bulb with 5mg of mercury in it. The EPA might descend on you and make you tear down your house or something. Sissies. Just shut up and throw the glass away. If a little bit of mercury is going to kill you, you don’t have long for this earth anyway.

If, and this is strictly hypothetical, the wind blew my new blister pack of CFL bulbs off the top of my shopping cart and two of them broke, I would not tell anybody. I would furthermore, not take it to the hazardous waste collection site. I would simply put it in my trash can with all the other junk I throw out. A little mercury sure as hell isn’t going to make much difference in the College Station land fill.

"Is he normal?"

La Patrona and I are interested in getting Boy1 and Boy2 into some sort of music program. Boy2's autism treatment group says he is very tonal and would probably benefit from musical training. Some autistic kids are even savants in the musical field.

I think Boy2's most likely talent area consists of eating all the food in the refrigerator and harassing his sisters.

Be that as it may, La Patrona contacted the local Suzuki Strings provider about Boy2. The woman's first comment upon hearing that Boy2 is autistic was that "I don't have any experience teaching retarded children." La Patrona attempted to educate the lady about autism with a short description of his problems, but the woman replied with the question, "Is he normal?" Well of course he's not normal. If he was normal I wouldn't be telling you about it, now would I? Anyway, after about five minutes of attempting to convince this woman that just because he was autistic did not mean he was unable to learn, La Patrona gave up and told her, "I don't think I want you to teach our sons, after all."

Some people are just dense. I'd bet you a dollar that either of my boys would come out on top in an IQ contest with this "teacher".

Bathroom Renovation Day 1

J.B. from Wilson's Plumbing showed up today just as promised to start on La Patrona's new shower. I took some pictures when I was home for lunch and this evening. Click on the pictures below to see the gigantor version.

First, he dug out the concrete to position the new drain and repositioned the water supply pipes.





He also removed the drywall to run pipes later. We're going to have two shower heads in this shower - one of the rain shower heads another on a slide bar for the Horde to use to soak the rest of the room. We figure they might actually get clean while they're doing it.




After lunch he came back and laid a mortar bed that slopes toward the drain.







When he was done for the day, he cleaned everything up. It was almost as clean after he was done as it was before he got there. The work, as you can see, is top notch.

J.B. will be back tomorrow to run the pipes. So far Wilson's Plumbing gets a big thumbs up from me.

Just What the Hell is This Supposed to Be?

College Station is a fine town. The city fathers, such as they are, are a bit more questionable. But I'm sure every city wants to encourage growth, provide a good quality of life, and purchase exceptionally ugly modern "art." Look at this:



It's called "Diana's Quest." I assume it's supposed to relate to the Goddess of the Hunt rather than Lady Diana who would probably only be questing after new clothes or land mine bans or whatever it was that she did. But I digress.

This is typical of the "art" you'll find in College Station. It's ugly. It's random. It's usually made out of scrap metal that looks like it was welded up by the local high school vocational shop.

Personally, I think this one looks like something the Transformers would use for birth control.

Now lest you think I am just a mean spirited person who is out to get the artist, let me say that I am sure Joe Smith is a fine man. He lives over in Caldwell, and if you ever drive down Hwy. 21 towards Austin, you'll see the many sculptures in his yard. According to the Arts Council of the Brazos Valley, Mr. Smith has six sculptures in College Station. I wonder how much the city paid for those.

Snakes in a Yard

I was sitting in my chair in the livingroom watching a little television. Boy2 and Girl2 were in the backyard, doing whatever it is they do. As usual, they were only wearing underwear. Girl2 started screaming. This is not remarkable in itself as she feels the need to use screams as her major form of communication. Apparently small children who are the youngest of four often feel the need to use loud, piercing yells as part of their offensive and defensive repertoires. La Patrona looked over the back of the couch and made a sound remarkably like Girl2. Then screaming, "Snake! Snake! Snake!," she barreled into the backyard like a momma Grizzly on meth. By the time I got outside, she was beating the poor creature with a weight bar.

In La Patrona's defense, she grew up on the High Plains with a healthy population of rattlesnakes and so takes a dim view of anything reptilian. And if it gets next to one of her babies. . . Well, let's just say you don't want to get between her and anything threatening her babies.

After I got her calmed down and disposed of the recently departed, I got the rest of the story. Apparently when she looked up, Boy2, our 4 year old autistic son, was attempting to kill the snake with the weight bar while his 2 year old sister screamed encouragement from the sidelines like a Celtic war-bride. The only reason that the snake was still alive was because Boy2 has poor motor skills and missed the snake the first time.

La Patrona later asked me if she had, "introduced the children to violence." Given their actions, I'm pretty sure they've already got that particular aspect of human behavior down.

Now she wants me to hang the dead snake in the crape myrtle out in the front yard "as a warning to the other snakes," like her half-Indian grandmother used to do. I bet that would get the Homeowner's Association's panties in a twist.

She's crazy, but I love her.

The recently departed:

Elaphe guttata, a corn snake. RIP

I Was Almost A Dead Man

I almost died this morning. I was driving along Highway 6 about 7:30 on my way to work. Listening to the radio, minding my own business. Suddenly, the F150 ahead of me slams on his brakes. I mash mine to the floor, and I quickly figure out that I’m just not going to stop in time to avoid an unplanned and likely unpleasant meeting with his rear bumper. I swerve over into the right-hand lane, where I immediately notice some kind of station-wagon looking thing, I think it’s maybe one of those Volvos, sitting at a 45 degree angle in the lane ahead. A suburban is parked on the shoulder almost next to the Volvo. Now panic sets in. I quickly move back into the left lane and towards the shoulder. Luckily by this time, the F150 has moved past the impromptu roadblock and I slow down enough to avoid hitting him.

As we roll past the Volvo, which doesn’t even have its hazard lights blinking, I see the problem out of the corner of my eye. Two beagles are in the median. These idiots have stopped in the middle of a highway where traffic is running 75 mph to save two stupid dogs.

Good lord, they’re only beagles. They won’t even dent your bumper. It’s like running over an armadillo, except without that little thump when they jump right as they pass between your tires.

Why these folks thought that risking their lives and mine for dogs is beyond me, but it goes to show that some folks just aren’t real good at making cost/benefit analyses. If I was a fighting man, I might have pulled over and have a come-to-Jesus meeting with that jackass in the Volvo.

But given that he/she was stupid enough to stop in the middle of the road for a dog, I guess it wouldn’t have done much good.

Early Childhood Intervention and Autism

La Patrona and I have 4 children. Both boys are on the autism spectrum. Our oldest, Boy#1, has Asperger’s Disorder which is typically a high-functioning case of autism. If you met him, you would think that he is very intelligent and a bit on the eccentric side. He has an extremely high IQ and very poor social skills. He needs some help maintaining his composure at school, but is mainly just like the other kids.

Our youngest boy, Boy#2, has been diagnosed with Pervasive Development Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified, the dreaded PDD-NOS. He is four years old and does not speak in sentences. However, he will occasionally read a few pages out of one of his board books to us. He flaps his hands and often will not look you in the eyes. He has difficulty walking and doesn’t run. He’s a happy kid who is also very smart, but more locked away than his brother.

Boy#2 has received intensive therapy through the College Station Independent School District. CSISD has a autism-specific program at its College Hills Elementary program that took Boy#2 when he was 3 years old. They have been a blessing and made huge amounts of progress with him using specialized teaching procedures for kids with autism. I cannot speak highly enough of them.

Boy#2 also receives speech, occupational, and physical therapy from Brazos Valley Rehab. They do a good job with him and we are pleased with their programs as well. Especially their Hippo-therapy where the put the boy on a pony and ride him around an arena. He loves it and really looks forward to hippo-therapy days.

Early Childhood Intervention was the key to getting Boy#2 the treatment he needed. Our doctor was dragging his feet on diagnosing Boy#2 with anything, but we knew something weird was going on. The babysitter for our youngest daughter suggested we call ECI, an organization we had never heard of. We called and within a few weeks, they had an initial diagnosis and had started treating Boy#2’s symptoms. Without their help, it would have taken us longer to get Boy#2 treated and we would have lost valuable time. ECI also led us through the requirements needed to get Boy#2 into the pre-school autism program which has led to such wonderful results.

Boy#2 is not a normal kid by any stretch, but he’s getting there. Without ECI, we would never have been able to get him the help he needed at such an early age.

If anyone has any questions about autism treatment in College Station, please email me at devilyack at gmail dot com.

Construction Next 1 Weeks

My lovely wife, who I call "La Patrona" for reason which will become obvious, decided to renovate our kids' bathroom. Stands to reason; we haven't changed the bathrooms in the four years since we built the house.

It's a small room, about 10'X5'. We originally had a claw-foot bathtub in there because we thought that would be cool. Having a claw-foot bathtub as your only bathing option for 4 kids (aka "The Horde") is not a good idea. So we are going to put in a shower.

On the suggestion of some friendly folks over at TexAgs, we called Wilson Plumbing to come look at it and give us an estimate. We called on a Tuesday, they came out on Wednesday, only 30 minutes late (which is extremely punctual for a plumber). The estimate was ready on Thursday - $982. Urk.

So now La Patrona is casing the plumbing supply stores for a diverter valve (she wants 2 shower heads) and some fixtures. I am watching my bank account evaporate before my eyes. Goodbye Evil Black Rifle, I never even got to own you.

The plumbers are due to begin demolition on Wednesday and finish construction on Thursday. They will just be moving a drain about 20 inches (in a concrete floor - ought to be loud) and run some pipes in the wall. La Patrona's mom & stepfather are interior designers and will lay the tile and build out the rest of the shower.

I'll try to get some pictures of the effort up on the site so everyone can see what's going on.

Edit:

Here's a picture of the bathroom now. You can see the stubs of the waterlines and the drain on the left-hand side at the back of the room. Click here for a larger picture. Also note the cheesy garage sale picture on the wall.

Beinvenidos

Welcome. This blog will be about life here in the Brazos Valley, a mid-sized community in the middle of the inhabited portion of the state. This location is highly classified and no matter if you think you know where it is, you are wrong. Just because there is a large state-run educational facility here where the principle product is engineers, vets and business majors, all with a propensity for wearing maroon means nothing. Move along.

My main interests related in these webpages will be local issues including which restaurants will let my kids in the door, how many of the local politicians are crooks and/or crazy (answer - all of them), and other various issues that interest me.

I'm currently a bureaucrat for a large state entity. I have a JD (UT) and an MBA (A&M). In my past lives I worked as a roughneck in the East Texas oilfields, I cowboyed for several years while growing up, and I was a staff attorney for a Texas State Representative. I also lived overseas for a short time. I have four children, two boys and two girls, and a beautiful wife whom I adore.

I have a strong connection to Texas. My earliest ancestor who arrived was Elisha Isaacks, a Scots Irishman, whose family originated in Ulster. He came to Texas in January of 1822, just a bit earlier than legal (My ancestors were undocumented before undocumented was cool). He settled in Bevil's Settlement. From his line, I'm of the seventh generation born in Texas and the ninth to live here.

And if you haven't figured it out by now, Devil Yack was a nickname given to Jack Hays in his days as a Texas ranger.