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.