<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:sy="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/syndication/" xmlns:slash="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/slash/" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:geo="http://www.w3.org/2003/01/geo/wgs84_pos#" > <channel> <title>STORIES Archives - Before My Clutch Slips</title> <atom:link href="https://jimbored.com/category/stories-see-all/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" /> <link>https://jimbored.com/category/stories-see-all/</link> <description>MEMORY IS A POET, NOT A HISTORIAN</description> <lastBuildDate>Thu, 14 Nov 2024 13:39:59 +0000</lastBuildDate> <language>en-CA</language> <sy:updatePeriod> hourly </sy:updatePeriod> <sy:updateFrequency> 1 </sy:updateFrequency> <generator>https://wordpress.org/?v=6.7.1</generator> <image> <url>https://i0.wp.com/jimbored.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/cropped-logo2-1.png?fit=32%2C32&ssl=1</url> <title>STORIES Archives - Before My Clutch Slips</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/category/stories-see-all/</link> <width>32</width> <height>32</height> </image> <site xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">175338448</site> <item> <title>SURVIVAL IN THE TEETH OF HURRICANE IKE – HOUSTON 2008</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/in-the-teeth-of-hurricane-ike-houston-2008/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/in-the-teeth-of-hurricane-ike-houston-2008/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Thu, 18 Jan 2024 07:37:25 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[TEXAS - all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=12976</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>My next little story is sure to draw howls of protest from Ron. But, trust me on this, I believe it to be true, just as the voices, in my mind, recited it to me. I can just hear her protesting, “dad that is bullshit!” however, my response is, “so where is your side of the story so we can compare them?” “Then, our readers can decide which account sounds more credible.” The occasion was Houston, Texas, in the late summer of 2008. We were visiting Houston and enjoying our second full year of retirement. At the same time, Ron had occasion to work out of her company’s Houston area offices. She decided to stay with us for a few days. Her mom had not yet arrived. In any event, that left Ron and I bonding together in a small two bedroom suite in the Galleria area of Houston. It was something of an apartment/hotel, before the invention of the AirB&B. It had two bedrooms and two baths, separated by a small living/dining area. Shortly after she arrived and got settled into one of the bedrooms, we start hearing about the impending approach of Hurricane Ike. However, we were about 50 miles away from the coast at Galveston, so did not pay any immediate attention to the weather forecasts. Neither of us had ever been in a hurricane, but we had been through some hellacious blizzards. We had also experienced monsoons, dust storms and an earthquake or two. So, I guess I was thinking, “how bad could a little wind be?” I believe it was one day before the arrival of Ike, when she called me at the apartment and asked if I thought we should lay in some provisions. And so started a Friday in September. She has a small list of things like bottled water, ice, pop, beer, candles, batteries, non perishable foods that didn’t need cooking, bread, toilet paper, and some canned goods. I’m thinking that maybe she is buying into the “hype” a little too much but decide to humour her. After all she was a guest. I hop in the car and head to the local supermarket about two blocks way. I pull up and notice not many others were in the parking lot. “Ahha” I thought, “nobody else appears too worried about old Ike, barreling across the Gulf of Mexico in our direction.” I find a spot to park about 15 feet from the front door. I’m kind of smirking to myself, and feeling a little foolish for letting the hype, get to me. I go bopping in, look around to get my bearings and am confronted with a big EMPTY store. I mean isle, upon isle of, almost, empty shelves. You could have let loose with a bazooka round in there, and not hit anything (or anyone). This place was deserted. I’m still not thinking clearly, nor is what I am seeing, now, registering in my mind. It comes to mind that perhaps they are moving and I had missed the notice. After all, we had only been there a couple days, so could have easily missed any news of a relocation. I see one lone employee wandering around, so I track him down. I ask “have you moved?” He looks at me as if I just crawled out from under a rock. “Haven’t you heard”? He inquires? I lean closer……. “Hurricane Ike is coming, we have been sold out of everything for two days now.” “There are no supplies anywhere in the surrounding areas!” “We will NOT be resupplied until after the Hurricane passes.” “That is, if there is anything left of us!” Talk bout a kick in the huevos (eggs). Certainly, if nothing else, that brought me some focus. All of the sudden, I’m thinking that I might have missed something in the tone of the warnings we had listened too. I ask him, “where’s the closest store I can get some supplies from?” “Hah”, he snorts “not anywhere in this city”. I think he is really starting to like his role. Finally, in his little life, he has someone to talk down too. Just then another guy passes. He listens for a couple of minutes and then tells me to go to the “XYZ” Supermarket a few blocks away. Apparently they still had a few things. I jump in my car and fly out into the traffic. I’m now very focused and on the edge of panic. I shoot into the parking lot and am now about 1500 feet from the door. I get in a lineup to go inside. By now I’m about to whimper. The minutes seem like hours, but I finally get in. I run for the water and luckily was able to secure a “flat”, just before they were likely to run out. I found most of the things on Ron’s list. However, had I been another hour later, I would have had none, and then had to go face Ron. So, with goods in hand, and a new attitude about hurricanes, I go back to the apartment to wait out the storm. For the next few hours, I am glued to the tv. Apparently, Ron is still not that concerned. She had retired to her bedroom, with nary a goodnight, be safe or anything. I had been left to face Ike alone. Eventually, I tired of waiting for doom to happen. The wind was blowing, but I didn’t feel it was threatening, so about 11:00PM, I give up and go to bed. Funny thing is, with all this going on around me, I slept quite well. Perhaps it was the sound of the wind buffeting our building that lulled me to sleep. At about 2:00 in the morning, I woke briefly to the sound of the wind, slamming against the building and making the windows in my bedroom shake. Ron was on the opposite side from the wind, so I don’t think she felt the direct force of the hurricane. I tried to look outside, but with the rain coming horizontal onto the window, it was impossible to see. Because we were 9 stories up from the ground and there were no lights in the nearby hotel and other buildings around us, I could not see anything happening at ground level. At this point the power was out in our building. Also as far as I could tell from the window, there was no power anywhere. I laid there listening to the storm and remember thinking, “so this is a hurricane, eh?” Quite incredibly enough, I did fall back to sleep. And only woke at about 7:00AM to a less violent storm. Somewhere I remember reading, that, about 10 inches, or more, of rain fell in a few hours. Now I could see outside. It was a shocking scene. Between our building and their related hotel, were about 200 yards of lawn. This was now completely under water. Incredibly, the first floor of the hotel and the pool deck were under water. Unbelievably, the entrance way could not be seen. We were slightly higher than the hotel by about 12 feet. The water was covering the patio and lapping against the doors on our ground floor. Perhaps, if I could have been seen, I was probably standing there, mouth wide open and drool trickling down my chin. Where once there was a creek winding its way along the street, there was now a lake. Absolutely, no evidence that a creek ever existed there! I am half dazed. Time to get up, I think, and check the news. Still partially asleep, and more than half dazed, I step into the living area. At this point, I am hit with another shock. Suddenly I am standing in water. There was water throughout the living room. More amazingly, the hardwood was popped up and warped into 6 inch high waves. Now hold on here! I’m not talking one or two boards popped loose. But every darn board on the floor. Lying in piles. Apparently, what has happened is that the force of the storm was so much, that it pushed the windows back against their frames, thereby creating enough space for the water to find access to my room. Has anyone ever heard of crap like that? Certainly not me! I had never, in all my years even contemplated water being forced thru a sealed window by the rain. Vaguely, I’m starting to realize what I might be experiencing. And, at this point, I have only been about 5 steps into the main room, let alone outside. Somehow, I could not grasp what I was seeing. I was already retired by this time, and never in my life had I experienced the devastation wreaked on hardwood by water. Like where do you start? It’s not as if you just pick up a board and lay it back down into place. There were hundreds of them! Each one, twisted and mangled and lying in a wave pattern across the floor. Gingerly, I tiptoe across them and get to the TV to see what is going on. Then I realize, no TV, power is out. So, I think, “I’ll just look it up on the computer”. No power, oh well, what about the radio? Oh yeah, no power. Well I’ll just make a coffee and wait until Ron gets up. Guess what, no power to the coffee maker. Only then does it start to sink in, how utterly helpless we are without electrical power. I flick on the lights in the hallway to see if they had dropped my newspaper. Oh yeah, no power! Ultimately, what was there left to do? I tiptoe back to my room and lay down until help arrives. Suddenly, I want my mama. And where was she? Sure, sitting there high and dry in Canada. Just waiting to hear from us about the hurricane. I might say at this point, being in a tiny room with no access to media, coffee, warm food, my computer, etc. makes for a pretty long day. Additionally, back in these days, social media was not like it is now. And besides that, my cel phone battery lasted about 45 minutes. So, along about ten, Ron appears out of her den. She takes one look and then heads for the coffee pot. Oops, no power. She also tries the whole cycle of things, that, we need, to run our modern lives. Having no success, she fades back into her bedroom. Slam! Alone again, and it is about 10:30 by this time. I use my cel too call down to the front desk, to report the damaged flooring, and to enquire as to when my power will be on? I peer out the windows from the hallway, by the elevator shaft. This in order to see what might be happening on this side of the building. Remember, I am 9 floors up, so everything looks kind of tiny. I see what looks like a small tree lying across the entrance driveway. Finally, there is something I can do. Perhaps, I’ll just bop on down there and help someone, push that tree to the side of the driveway. Maybe I’ll find someone to speak to. Possibly the hospitality area will be open for a beer after I clear that tree? Walking across the lobby, I give a nonchalant wave to the desk clerk. He in turn says, “be careful out there!” “It’s still very dangerous.” I give him my confident look and say, “don’t worry I’ll just go out and help move this tree off the driveway.” He just gives me a puzzled look and then quickly looks away. Our entranceway was about 8 feet higher than the back patio. This side, at least, was not flooded. Yup now for a little workout. I pass thru the door, onto the stairs and am confronted by a 3 foot diameter tree, possibly 60...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/in-the-teeth-of-hurricane-ike-houston-2008/">SURVIVAL IN THE TEETH OF HURRICANE IKE – HOUSTON 2008</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/in-the-teeth-of-hurricane-ike-houston-2008/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>8</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">12976</post-id> </item> <item> <title>I GOT MY KICKS ON ROUTE 66 – TUCUMCARI NEW MEXICO – 2008</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/i-got-my-kicks-on-route-66-tucumcari-new-mexico-2008-1/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/i-got-my-kicks-on-route-66-tucumcari-new-mexico-2008-1/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Fri, 24 Nov 2023 05:06:54 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CALIFORNIA-all]]></category> <category><![CDATA[TEXAS - all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=11955</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>This next trip through my fleeting and fading memory, takes place about 18 months after moving to Vancouver Island. Ange was living with us and attending University, or about to. Ron was now living in Newport Beach, California, a little south and west of downtown Los Angeles. Compared to now, as I write this, I realize that back then we were still quite young. In fact, at that age, I was not yet afraid of answering the phone. Ultimately it was a phone call, that got this piece of our history started. One day, a former colleague and former VP, of the same company I worked for, phoned. (I’ll name him the Scot). It was good to hear from him, and after a few minutes of chit chat, he asked if I could help him. Once again, I got a shot of adrenaline right to the heart. I should have dropped the phone and run away screaming. But not Ol’ Jimbored, nosiree. I just croaked out, “sure, anything”! He asks, “what do you know about natural gas exploration and drilling”? Well I pump up to, lay some real bullshit on him, but what comes out, is a simple, “everything”! He chuckles and says, “you know JimboRed, somehow, I kind of expected that answer”. Well nothing like being predictable, I think. The Scot goes on to say that the group he is now with, holds some leases on a few partially developed natural gas properties. And adds that this group wants to investigate the possibilities of completing the wells and producing gas. The Scot then asks, “if you are going down that way would you mind having a look at them?” This apparently, to give his colleagues some insight into what they had, in what condition they were in, and what might be done to them to further the development of these lease into gas producing properties. An immediate question came to mind. But I only voiced it to myself. I think he just implied that they bought these gas leases sight unseen? I didn’t ask it out loud, because I already knew the answer. Of course they did. Why else would you call Ol’ JimboRed? Especially if you had a well thought out plan in place already. I listen to his babbling about the beauty of this deal, how many billions of cubic feet of gas was trapped below these leases, and their vision of corporate offices in Amarillo, Texas, in the same building as T-Bone Lickens (a pseudonym for a famous wild cat driller and oil field entrepreneur). I did enquire, as to where these leases might be located. And was told they are in New Mexico, very close to a place called Tucumcari. Just the sound of the name of the place, made me realize that this was not going to be close to any tourist Mecca. The Scot explained that the location was about 175 miles east of Albuquerque and about 115 miles west of Amarillo. Yup, I knew it! Right on the tourist route! Of course, I would be driving thru there at some point, while on vacation and could just stop for a look see! I’m thinking, hasn’t this guy looked on a map to see where I might be located. Hell from where we were on Vancouver Island, he was probably just as close, from London. Once again, he asks, “what do you think, could you pop in there and have a snoop around?” Somehow I’m intrigued, I mean here is someone calling me to see if I could take an afternoon off and drive over to some gas leases for a look. What the hell it was only 1850 miles or so, one way. About 4 days of intense driving each way. The thing is, you got to admire someone who could think things thru to this level. Then make a casual call to see if I would jump in my car and drive 3700 miles (return) to look at something that they had bought, but not yet seen. I mean Texas and New Mexico were full of oil and gas field visionaries that would fall all over themselves to help “fleece” guys like these. Hell they were all cut from the same mold. Why bother planning and studying? Why not just jump right in, throw some money around and wait for the gas to start flowing? The reason you call JimboRed is that he just might be able to make some sense of something like this. Besides, he was retired, right? He had nothing better to do, right? At the very least you would have somebody, that you don’t have to pay, and someone to blame it on, if it all went to shit. The long and short is, that, I asked for some time to think through it, and see if there was any logical way I could go and have a look. After some hard negotiation with Deysi, she decided that we could go see Ron, in LA, for Christmas. And afterwards, on our way home, we could make a small detour to New Mexico and have a look at those gas leases. I called the Scot and agreed to do a little snooping around in Tucumcari, after we had spent the Christmas Season with Ron in Los Angeles. He was delighted with this plan. In my mind I’m thinking, “how can anyone work like this, from across the seas, without any knowledge of what they were getting into”? And in a lot of ways, pinning their way forward, on me driving by, and trying to determine what was hidden 5000 feet below the surface of New Mexico. once I decided that I would try to lend a hand, I then immersed myself in oil and gas exploration and production theory. I also got deep into that area of New Mexico, the peoples, history and economics. One of the first things I learned, really got my juices flowing. It just so happened, that Tucumcari was located right smack on Route 66. This was stuff right out of my childhood dreams! In the old days, Route 66 was a highway that crossed the heartland of America from Chicago to Los Angeles. So what? You might cry out! Who cares about an old two lane highway that is no longer in use? I will try to explain. In the days of my childhood say, from the time I was about 11 until 15 or 16 years old, there was a weekly show, on TV, called Route 66. Along with my other favourites of the time like, Gunsmoke, Davy Crockett, The Last of The Mohicans and the Wonderful World of Disney, Route 66 was one of my all-time favourites. It was a series of adventure stories, filmed all across the US in places up and down Route 66. The show starred two young adults that drove along Route 66 in their corvette and looked for adventure. It was a mix of action, adventure, crime and drama. I could see myself riding along with them helping them through many great adventures. And now we, Deysi and I had the chance to drive, parts of this historic route, that now remained. Route 66 was built in the 1920’s and used up to about the early 50’s. At that point a system of Interstate highways were starting to be built, bypassing (or encompassing) Route 66 in many places. By the mid 1980’s most of the Route 66 signs had been removed, as pieces were incorporated into Interstate Highways or abandoned altogether. It was then decommissioned piece by piece and replaced by more modern roadways. However, many large sections of it still remained and could be found in many states. It just so happened that Route 66 ran right down main street in Tucumcari. Now I’m pumped, perhaps after all there was a reason to make a trip to this out of the way place. Deysi never said no to a trip, her gear was always at the ready. One day in mid December 2007 we pack our travelling stuff and head off for LA. Ange joins us, but this time by plane. It appears that by this time in her life she had enough of family travels. I believe she was “over” being locked in a car with her dad, and suffering lectures from her dad on “right and wrong” from a conservative viewpoint. She did however, concede to visit her sister, as long as she could fly. At this time of our lives, Ron was living in Newport Beach, and working for the same global engineering company, that I had for so many years. It was hard to imagine, but after only 2 years she had already got a posting to a major resort like area. What the hell, didn’t she have to do any penance in the crappiest places, first? Places like Northern Canada or the Arctic, or the middle of a desert, Nigeria, or in a war zone. Anyway she was lucky and landed a job, close to Disneyland, Hollywood, Malibu and in Ange’s mind “heaven”. We spent an idyllic time walking the beaches, shopping and soaking up the sun. Ron was a great host and tried her best to make everyone happy. For me it was the perfect time of our lives. The girls were now grown and showing all the signs of being successful, independent women. Ron had found an apartment in a very nice complex in Newport Beach. It was not right on the ocean, but also not more than a few minutes away from it. I remember the weather being warm, just like California was supposed to be. All the time, we were there, the theme song for the show, Route 66, called “Get Your Kicks on Route 66”, replayed thru my mind. We stayed with her until just before New Year. It was one of our best times ever. I remember Christmas gifts from Ron. She thought she was hilarious and gave me all sorts of things to help me as I aged. I received, Manpers, Geritol, Depends, Fixodent, and hemorrhoid creme. I smiled and laughed along with them, even though my feelings were hurt deeply. Not until this time, did I see myself as old. The rest of them gave each other, nurturing, and nice presents. Ron was extremely generous. The Bailey’s flowed and we had a great time. Ange, of course, was in heaven. Now within a few miles of her dreamland called Disneyland. I try to remember the complex that Ron lived in. To me it seemed huge. I am not quite sure but it might have held a couple of hundred units. It had everything. Her’s was a sweet, modern two bedroom apartment. I believe it was in a village called Lido Marine. It was on Newport Bay, on one side, at the end of an estuary, and a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean on the other. We passed a few idyllic days together. And then, a couple of days before New Years 2008, Deysi and I packed our car and headed in search of Route 66 and adventure. I will miss those days of all of us together, forever. Other than the age related presents, which broke my spirits for a couple of days, our time had been great. Goodbye Los Angeles, look out Tucumcari here we come. As we departed I could see Ron, gazing longingly after us, wishing we could have stayed a couple of more weeks. She might have even shed a tear! So very early one morning we are back in the car for a side trip that would eventually take us through California, parts of Arizona, Nevada, and ultimately deep into New Mexico. We did not really have a firm route in mind, other than seeing anything of interest that got in our way. Some idea of travelling along pieces of Route 66 were in our plans...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/i-got-my-kicks-on-route-66-tucumcari-new-mexico-2008-1/">I GOT MY KICKS ON ROUTE 66 – TUCUMCARI NEW MEXICO – 2008</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/i-got-my-kicks-on-route-66-tucumcari-new-mexico-2008-1/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>14</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">11955</post-id> </item> <item> <title>PELE’ THE MEXICAN SOCCER PHENOM 2005</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/__trashed-3__trashed-2/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/__trashed-3__trashed-2/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Sat, 04 Nov 2023 05:56:46 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CANADA-all]]></category> <category><![CDATA[MEXICO - ALL]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=11603</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>In the summer of 2005, shortly after our retirement in Calgary, I receive a call from my friend/associate in Mexico. It had been a while since we had been together, however, we were often in touch. Sale (pronounced Sal e’ Mexican slang for “I’m outta here”), as I liked to call him, was born, raised and worked in Coatzacoalcos Mexico. He was a very successful businessman, from a large family of businessmen and woman. He called to ask a favour. It seems like the time had arrived, for his middle son Pele’, to leave home for a year or two of international education. Their family tradition, was that each and every member of the family would receive some form of education out of country, before being returned home, and unleashed on the Mexican people. He asked if we would host his boy. Deysi and I talked it over and she agreed that this would be a good thing to do. I will call this boy Pele’ a pseudonym reflecting his own image of his soccer skills. Pele’ was enrolled in a private school in Calgary, not far from where we lived. He was going to study grade 11 in English and had the “full boat” of courses. “Geezus”, I thought. I can only imagine my dad enrolling me in a foreign country, to study in a foreign language, at that age. I just shuddered when I thought of the disaster, that, that would have been. By the time I was in grade eleven, studying in my own language and being at home, with mom protecting me, was hard enough. In any event, I am not sure that poor old Pele’ was given any choice. One day, near the end of August they arrived. From the minute they arrived, you could see Pele’ was brimming with self confidence. There was not a humble bone in his body. He spoke moderate English, probably about three levels better than my Spanish skills. He was not shy, but still had that aura of tenderness shaped by 15 years of nurturing from his mother. You could just feel his energy. His dad tried to keep him calm, but underneath his nervousness, you could just see an ass kicking, competitive nature, busting to be set free on Canada. At long last, my dreams had come true. For the past 20 or so years, I had been forced to stifle my nurturing tendencies. Deysi, Ange and Ron would not tolerate me guiding them. Not even a tiny bit! They called it “picking on” them. Deysi was the defender of womanhood in our home. Her protection covered all of the female family members. My own boys, were, by this time, too big for me to work on. I now viewed Pele’ as “fresh meat” and someone in need of my attention. And I might say, he provided me with endless laughter and fun. His presence helped me pass the long hours, when the Canadian climate and bugs kept me indoors. I think that by the time he left, almost a year later, I had managed to thicken his skin a bit. He gave me an outlet to vent my endless teasing on. I had a great time. I’m not sure about Pele’, but he did stick it out. From the first day at school we realized that this young, innocent boy from Mexico would have absolutely no trouble academically or socially amongst his peers. The girls loved him. They saw him as the answer to their Latino dreams. He did nothing to dissuade them. Hell he viewed himself in the same light. He opened those books in English and dove right in. He never missed a beat. I teased this poor young man, incessantly. I never gave him a break. However, I was not alone in this. Ange had now got a taste of the teasing and she was relentless in her digs at Pele’. An example of this happened, shortly after the start of school in September. It seems that one of the first things the school did, each year, was to gather all the grade 11 students and take them on a retreat into the mountains west of Calgary. Of course, Pele’ did not have any idea of what he was getting into. Hell he had never been in the mountains and forest, even once, in his whole prior life’s experiences. He had no idea. He could not get his mind around travelling 50 miles and going from a warm dry fall into full winter in the mountains. You could not convince him what he was in for. I believe it was Deysi, that finally convinced him, that he needed a better jacket, hat, gloves and boots. This at the very least. Pele’ was a fashion conscious guy and did not want to be seen, wearing Canadian backwoods clothing and dressed like a fur trapper. Rather, for him, a light, stylish windbreaker, hoody, jeans and high end hiking shoes should be good enough. We had lots of fun with this. I am positive that he was convinced, that everything we told him was bullshit, just meant to scare the new guy in town. Ange gets him all dressed in multiple layers of clothing until he resembles a sherpa guide getting ready to trek through Nepal in winter. She is having a great time. Finally, fully garbed she takes a departing picture of him on our deck. Deysi had a heck of a time trying to get him to pack warm clothes and take everything he was going to need for 4 days in the mountains. When it came to food, Pele’ explained that their class was broken into two person “teams” for the trip. One member of each team was in charge of the food. He explained to us that his partner was packing the food for his team, so that his trip allowance was free to buy them candies and snacks. I guess that sounded reasonable. Knowing that his partner was his friend from nearby, we were confident the boy’s mother would make sure they had sufficient food. The problem was, that his friend told his mother the same bullshit and said Pele’ was in charge of food. Both of the little buggers then took their travel allowance and bought sweets and chocolates with it. Off they went for a four day hike, with nothing to eat except some candy. We did not hear about the NO FOOD part until after they returned from their retreat. Apparently the girls, once they noticed those two fools starving to death, and sick of candy, took pity on them and shared their food with them. OMG did we tease him about that. Additionally his clothes were totally inadequate, and someone else had to give him a plastic poncho to keep him dry and a little bit warm. It proved very lucky for him, that the girls took pity on him, or he might well have had to come home. You can just imagine how we would have rode him if had to be evacuated from his first campout. Another first for Pele’ on this outing was sleeping outside in a tent, in a snow storm. Hell most Canadians have never had that experience. He had only been with us a month, and already was sent out into the frozen frontier, armed only with a bag of candy. At the end of it, he was unimpressed. He said that they almost froze and did not sleep much, the whole time. Funny thing was, he was rather silent about this near death experience. He could not see the humour of it all, as we did. When they finally arrived home on the Friday, his ass was dragging the ground. He wasn’t jumping around and telling me how badly he was going to kick my butt on the pool table that night. Nor was he too concerned for what his dinner contained. He just gulped it and headed for bed. He might, even, have cried into his pillow that night. NNNaaaaaahhhhh! One thing we noticed about Pele’, very early on. it was that he had some definite opinions and very set ideas of what was acceptable or not. One way it manifested itself, was in his view of food. Pele’ was 100% Mexican, through and through. What he couldn’t accept were fake Mexicans from Texas (read Texmex) or their food. To him, no self righteous Mexican would ever put their lips around the pretend food, invented by Texans, to be fed to Gringo’s, and represented as Mexican food. To him, things like Chili con carne, tacos, burritos, or huevos rancheros were all inventions of Texans, not Mexicans. He declared, loudly, that he would eat none of it! A visit to Taco Bell, “out of the question!” That meant we had to be pretty creative in our menu choices. After all we didn’t want the poor little guy to starve on our shift. One day, Chili Con Carne Day, on the menu, arrived. Knowing our guest was not going to enjoy anything with a perceived, Texmex ring to it, I had to change our dish. As those of you that know me, will understand, even with my tender and caring nature, it was going to be hard for me to mess with the menu. So I compromised! I made a big old pot of “full on” Texmex Chili. Deysi added some red pepper to it, threw a few leaves of cilantro on top and changed the beans from Kidney style to Romano beans. I have this steaming away on the stove, when Pele’ comes bopping in from school. He says, “JimboRed what do you have cooking for dinner.” With as straight a face as I can muster, I reply, “this is called Caribbean Delight” and add, “I hope you like it”. I must say he dug right in, chomping and smacking, and over the months put down a serious pile of Caribbean Delight. Much to our delight. Another innovation that we had to come up with was our use of leftovers, from previous meals. It was very clear that at home Pele’s family never ate leftovers. I don’t think they even had a name for that situation. The maids made Pele’ and his brothers, fresh food whenever they felt peckish. I hate to say, but in our household, leftovers were a way of life. Especially when I cooked. I never did have the ability to gauge how much we were going to eat at a meal. So, I always doubled my estimates to make sure we had enough. And we always did. Which meant food spilling over into the next day. One day, after a major evening BBQ, I am faced with a pile of leftover burgers. My plan was to use them in my breakfast. I set about making, my version of, Huevos Rancheros. I knew for sure that he was not eating anything Texmex, called Huevos Rancheros. I gathered up the onions, mushrooms, leftover potatoes and meat. I chopped it all up, dumped in some ketchup, and added some jalapeño to the mix. This I fried, stirred around and just before Pele’ came swooping in, looking for his brekkie, I cracked about a dozen eggs into this mess. I then took an equal amount of cheese and covered the whole thing. I gathered up the leftover hamburger buns from the previous night and threw them into the oven to toast. Of course, as soon as he arrived to the kitchen, he inquired as to what I was cooking. I had to be quick, and blurted out, “this is called Cheeseburger Eggs,” and added, “I made them specially for you”. I piled a large scoop onto a toasted bun and set it in front of him. Once again he dove in. Many’s the time, over the next few months, when he wanted, his now favorite dish! I was always happy to...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/__trashed-3__trashed-2/">PELE’ THE MEXICAN SOCCER PHENOM 2005</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/__trashed-3__trashed-2/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>4</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">11603</post-id> </item> <item> <title>THE GREAT JEWEL HEIST OF THE WOODLANDS TEXAS AND OTHER TRAUMAS</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/the-great-jewel-heist-of-the-woodlands-texas-and-other-traumas/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/the-great-jewel-heist-of-the-woodlands-texas-and-other-traumas/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Mon, 20 Mar 2023 03:45:05 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[TEXAS - all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=10256</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>Not all of my memories from our time in Texas were of laughter and peace and tiptoeing thru the tulips. It’s just that JimboRed, in his fading light, mostly remembers the good times. However, this post is written about a very difficult event for us, something we had never been exposed to. I write it down, not necessarily because I want to remember it, but more so, because it reminds me of other good times in our lives. Most of this post is written from Deysi’s recollections, interspersed with some pieces I recall. By now, we were well settled into the Woodlands, Texas. Deysi, as usual was leading us. By and large, we were comfortable in our new area. And as usual, like any other big event in our lives, I was travelling somewhere. The Woodlands was a city of about 100,000 people, approximately 18 miles north of the city of Houston. It was an affluent community, with most people commuting to the big city each day. Living around us were the type of people, that wanted to leave the big city behind at night. Ange was in grade 12, and Ron was in Edinburg at University. As always I was travelling to some foreign location, and gone for a few days. That meant Deysi had lots of free time to explore her community. Up to this point, we found it a very safe and peaceful place to live. Until…… One day Ange was in school, and Deysi was waiting for her to come home. She was using our company car, and was flitting around, doing chores and shopping. It was early afternoon when she decided to pop into the local car wash and give our vehicle a clean. I was at work and no where near the vicinity. Not even in the country, I believe. Without question, this was good and bad. Had I been there I would have probably had our car at work. And that maybe, would prevented Deysi from being in that exact time and place. At the same time, I most assuredly would have been to blame for what happened to her, if it happened while I was home. Deysi, pulls in, to the car wash. proceeds to pop the doors open, and then grabs the vacuum. Soon, she is busily cleaning the back seat. The noise is as if a Jet were flying low, overhead. Deysi is completely immersed in her job, and at peace with the world. Finished in the back, she drags the hose around to the front seats. She pitches her purse into the back and starts to clean the front. When she finishes, she notices, that her purse is not in its usual area, on the back seat. She quickly searches the car. Then she “thoroughly“ searches the car. Panic is starting to set in. The feeling that comes with the realization of what had happened, is one of being violated. She is now in tears. Looking around Deysi spots a pair of young men (say early 20’s). She asks, one of them, if he has seen anyone near her car. He says, “no, but if you go inside they have a camera and can tell you if anyone was in your car!” Deysi, now in a state of full panic, goes inside the carwash office. Of course, there is no camera, or (if there was) it was not functioning. Now she goes back out to find the young guy that appeared to try and help her. Of course he was gone, along with the other person, waiting for him. Deysi’s purse and all her belongings were gone with them. She is devastated. She then calls me to ask what to do. Of course I am a big help, and launch into a round of cursing. She immediately calls the cops, who are about as helpful, as if she would have called her cat. Their response is, “happens all the time, we have very little success in ever catching one!” Well I suppose that is very true, unless the thief stopped by the Starbucks and confessed his crime. The cop then adds, “best call your insurance company!” He takes a few personal details from her and then with an “adios”, and another case closed, he vanishes into the afternoon. Now those of you that know Deysi, know this is one tough Peruvian. But this one event transformed her peaceful life into one of worry, sadness, some anger and a lot of disillusionment towards her fellow man. I believe we figured out what had happened. While she was in the front of her vehicle vacuuming, the little “rat bastard” snuck up to her back seat and quietly removed her purse. He probably gave it to his partner, waiting in the truck in the next stall. When he was spotted by Deysi and asked about anyone around her car, he distracted her with the camera story. Once she went inside, him and his evil companion vamoosed. Of course I am away and no help at all. Desyi is nearly catatonic with grief. She has lost a small amount of money, all of her credit cards, her personal items (I don’t know what all women carry), and a smaller purse containing some of her jewelry and many of her special rings. We had been together for more than twenty years at this point, and had travelled to see the sights in many places. In each place we made it a special memory, by buying her a ring with a stone from the area we were in. For example an Opal from New Zealand, a Ruby from Paris, an Emerald from Italy, a Diamond from Africa, the Fire Opal in Australia, and many others.They were not real expensive, but each one had a special place in her heart. No value could be put on them. I am, of course, completely unhinged once I hear the devastation they have unleashed on my partner. I try to calm her as much as possible, but I am sure, I was of little solace. Being out of the country, I was probably more of a pain in the ass, than help. Mostly, I am hollering about capital punishment for such crimes. Also, the fact that, had this been Arabia the thief would have lost a hand. I also go on about how you don’t see many Arabians with no hands, thus there must be some deterrent value, in punishment. I am ranting now, demanding a border wall. And then, Desyi points out that the “little fellow” that stole her stuff was a full on Texan. Nonetheless I will not be stifled. When someone hurts me, I can deal with it. However, when someone hurts those closest to me, then a line has been crossed. At that point, I could become dangerous. It is a very helpless feeling seeing a loved one in mental anguish. It devastates me, because of my inability to heal it. I can fix property issues, flat tires, accidents, but cannot relieve mental pain and suffering. I mentioned, earlier, a feeling of being violated from these acts of petty thievery. It is a real and long lasting feeling. You start to trust people less and less. It destroys your feelings of peace and safety. And yes, it does make ol’ JimboRed swear. Ange is now busy, trying to console mom. Understandably, she is inconsolable. Nothing is going to help. I am calling in every hour, and vacillating from rage to care giver. Ange, meanwhile, is the steadying force and trying to keep us both from “flying apart”. In the midst of all this pain, the front doorbell chimes. Neither of them are in a state to accept visitors. This better not be a politico or a thumper! Deysi opens the door. There is no one in sight, however, lying at her feet is HER PURSE. She cannot believe it and lets out a gasp of surprise. It is stunning, to say the least. She again looks up and down the street, but there is no one in sight. These pieces I am filling in from Deysi’s memory. She picks up her purse and quickly searches through it. Unbelievably, her credits cards were there, her ID and driver’s license, all of her personal items are intact. The only, remaining, missing items were the small amount of cash she had and ALL OF HER JEWELRY. OF COURSE EVERY ONE OF HER SPECIAL RINGS IS GONE. It is hard to imagine the feeling you get when you see a half of your items stolen and then returned. It was a relief that she got back her purse, her ID, credit cards and other cards and documents that are very annoying to replace. However, the most valuable items, that held a lot of memories were lost forever. Deysi felt slightly better about getting some of her stuff back. After all, the crooks were away without a trace, and could have just as easily thrown her stuff in a ditch after pilfering through it. Which in fact they probably did! Then perhaps a Good Samaritan spotted the discarded purse and went to the trouble of tracking down our house, to return the items that they found. If so, then this shows some sign of decency, remaining in some people. Deysi was willing to cede back, some amount of humanity to the Texan culture. Or perhaps, they brought it back looking for a reward for “finding” her items. But then maybe chickened out on approaching the door and realizing that I might be Texan, and could easily expect me to be standing behind this door equipped with a big ass gun. Whatever the reason, it did change our way of living, dramatically. We were now more aware of our possessions when away from home. We surveyed our surroundings and the people around us more closely. And we stayed away from car washes for a while. And ol’ JimboRed tried to comfort our leader through her pain. It was an event that we never want to have repeated to any of us or our family as long as we live. I, for one, will forever hate thieves. You might ask, “what good could possibly come from this memory?” For me, possibly, the good we got, was to sit down an re-live all of the places and times where we hunted for, and purchased all of Deysi’s rings. For me that makes it worth dredging up this sad memory and laying it in front of you. Hopefully, my next post will be on a much happier occurrence. I’m thinking of one about the time ol’ JimboRed hung up his spurs, and told them, “to take this job and shove it, I ain’t working here (or anywhere) no more!”</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/the-great-jewel-heist-of-the-woodlands-texas-and-other-traumas/">THE GREAT JEWEL HEIST OF THE WOODLANDS TEXAS AND OTHER TRAUMAS</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/the-great-jewel-heist-of-the-woodlands-texas-and-other-traumas/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>10</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">10256</post-id> </item> <item> <title>PAPI AND THE SKINNY PIGS EPISODE, 1979</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/papi-and-the-skinny-pigs-episode-1979/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/papi-and-the-skinny-pigs-episode-1979/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Tue, 31 Jan 2023 00:58:19 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[PERU-all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=10605</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>My next story comes from somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind. This time, I was just laying in bed contemplating my 74th birthday, when this vision of Peru leapt into my mind. It is a very meaningless and even frivolous memory, but I decided to put it to paper, anyway. It is a story that demonstrates how, even the best of intentions can go wrong. The scene is high up in the Andes mountains, near our workplace in Huambo, Peru sometime in early 1979. The principal characters are my Canadian/German friend (Wolka from the Colca) and Deysi’s father (Papi). I am writing this because, as I lay thinking about it, I had to chuckle a bit at the recollection. Before I continue, I want to lay out a bit of the background, surrounding our job in Peru. Just in case anyone has forgotten why I was there. The Canadian company that I worked for was part of a group of World Bank Countries who were funding a major humanitarian project in Peru. I was sent along to see if I could help. Our task was to divert a river (Rio Colca) from high in the Andes, thru the mountain tops and out onto the Atacama Desert. All for the purpose of irrigation and growing food crops. It was a huge job consisting of a couple of hundred kilometres of tunnels and canals. The place, where I spent all of my two year assignment, was called Huambo. We lived there in a camp at about 11,000 feet above sea level. Within a year of my arrival, I had met and been wooed by an Andean beauty, who I variously call by the name of Deysi, Bubbaloo or more often “sorry, love”. After our marriage we lived together, during the weekdays, at our camp in the mountains. About every 5th or 6th week (on a rotation basis) we were required to remain in camp over the weekend. This was to provide a management authority, onsite, in the event of something happening and a management decision being needed. So, during these times, Deysi and I would bring her family, dad, mom, sisters, and brothers up to the camp for a weekend away from town. They never said “no” to an invite, so I assume they enjoyed these trips. Our sector looked after a series of canals and tunnels near the end of the project. We were located at a point where the diverted river would be turned west and dropped down onto the desert. We had a very self-sufficient site. It included everything and everyone needed to construct roads, tunnels, canals, buildings, services, camps and medical facilities. The tunnels and camps were divided between tunnel superintendents (or engineers). They were completely responsible for housing and feeding the labour force they needed for their own particular piece of the work. This is where I met “Wolka from the Colca”. He was in-charge of a couple of tunnels and canals, close to where our main office was located. So we would see him daily. Wolka, was a big German/Canadian boy from Vancouver. He was about 6’1″ tall, and weighed in at a svelte 250 pounds. He had a very funny shape. From his neck down, his figure was all one size. His upper torso was 50 inches around, his stomach was 50 inches and his hips were 50 inches. Attached to this barrel shaped torso were two legs, that resembled tree stumps. Wolka was very opinionated and took great pride in his work. He had tramped around Latin America for many years and could speak Spanish like a Peruvian. I mean, if you wanted to talk around a subject, Peruvian style, for hours, then he was your man. Geezus, when I write that down, it hits home. I am sure I am half Peruvian, because I can beat around a subject endlessly, before getting to the point. In any event, Wolka being in charge of his group of tunnels and people, was always looking at ways to reduce costs. Additionally, he was always trying to improve life for his workers. He measured his success in daily progress at his work fronts. Wolka did not take lightly, any criticism of his work record, his work ethic or his decisions regarding his area of responsibility. He was a big strong man, so only the very brave or mentally unbalanced, ever confronted him. Him and I became fast friends. I shared a flat with him before being wooed by Deysi. Even after we were married, Deysi and I shared a flat in Arequipa with Wolka, for some months, prior to finding a house to move into. My story starts about 3 months earlier, before Deysi and I are married. When, one day Wolka enters our staff diner and announces, “I have just had a great idea!” As usual, with that kind of pronouncement, a crap storm inevitably followed. He goes on to explain. “I am going to raise food for my workers right at the tunnel front instead of buying it from the local villages.” He adds, “that way food for my workers will be more fresh. “I am going to raise pigs, using the scraps from our kitchen.” “We will raise them, until they are of a suitable size, and then feed them to the workers.” “Pork or Chancho is one of the favorite foods of my workers.” Looking around the dining room, I see looks of boredom, disinterest, or who cares, displayed on the faces of those present. I’m not sure if anyone, including myself even had an opinion of his new idea. Undaunted by our lack of interest, he goes to the nearest village and purchases 8 piglets. He proceeds to build a pen for them at his tunnel face, and feed them on the waste from his kitchen. This, he views as a major recycling breakthrough. Wolka was a bit obsessive-compulsive. That meant, his pig raising days took up a lot of his free time. Not to mention that each and every meal, we ate together in our staff dining room, included a progress report by Wolka, regarding his Pig project. He was a man obsessed. It like to have drove, those of us around him, crazy. Every word was Chancho this, Chancho that. This went on for a long time! Anyone that got anywhere close to him, was regaled with pig stories. If you ever had an hour free time, then Wolka would take you up to his work front to show you his pride and joy. That being, his pigs. He fancied himself a downright business genius. Wolka believed, that soon, his idea would catch on at all of the workfronts throughout the Andes, and he would be seen as a hero. He measured these pigs daily, impatiently waiting for the time when he could serve them for dinner to his workers. His favorite word had become Chancho. Myself and others around him were truly tired of stories about his litter of Chanchos. He could talk pigs for hours. Even on the weekends when we went down to the main city, his pig stories followed. Before leaving the mountains he would assign one of his most trusted lieutenants to feed and guard his pigs. I believe his security was tighter around the pigs, than anywhere else in his domain. Often times, on the weekends, we would join Deysi’s family for lunch or dinner. Wolka would then corner anyone present and bombard them with tales of his pig plans. In his mind he was a social and environmental pioneer of the Andes. He could not have been more proud of himself. Many times I noticed some of the people, that he had cornered, gazing into the ceiling with that, “who gives a crap” look on the faces. He was oblivious. After the passage of a few months time, and at the point that none of us could stand another pig lecture, he announced that the pigs were nearing fully grown and about ready for the dinner table. I could see everyone present shrinking into their seats at fear of being invited to the Chancho feast. After all, most of us had heard so many tails of his pigs and their exploits, that we felt somewhat attached to them. Eating one of them would have been a little sad. He would spread his arms apart and demonstrate just how big these Chanchos had now grown. One part of me could hardly wait for him to eat these pigs so I didn’t have to hear about them any longer. Shortly after his announcement, regarding the impending full growth of his herd, it came to pass that Deysi and I were to remain in camp one weekend. We sent a driver down to Arequipa to pick up Deysi’s family for a weekend adventure in the Andes. Because there was nothing to do onsite over the weekends, we spent much of our time touring in the mountains, and seeking adventure. Deysi’s younger siblings seemed to love it. There was always something for them to do there. They pretty much were allowed full access to the staff quarters, kitchen, games area and anything else that they encountered. Everyone tried their best to spoil the young ones. On this particular weekend, Wolka, having heard that we were staying and bringing up the family, decided that he would also stay in camp. I believe that he thought, “finally I have some outsiders to show my pigs to”! And sure enough, they had barely set a foot on the ground, when Wolka has Deysi’s dad cornered and is giving him an economics lecture about the beauty of recycling waste into full grown Chanchos. I’m not sure, but perhaps, Papi was ready to get back in the van and return to Arequipa. However, he “sucked it up”, and nodded patiently while Wolka pounded him with pig lore. My god, I was convinced that Wolka was going to make us eat one that very weekend. Bright and early the next day, Wolka was pulled up in front of our quarters to load everyone into the van for a trip to his tunnel fronts. Oh good, I can hardly wait! Not! We arrived at his work front and were given a tour of his domain. As I said before, he was extremely proud of his work and his work place. I mean, it did look pretty good. However, how good is a tunnel face at 12,000 feet in the Andes, ever going to look. It was not someplace you would choose for a vacation getaway. He saves the best for last. You can feel the hype growing as he leads us in back of the kitchen to show us his pride and joy. At last he has an audience. He plants himself and asks, “there what do you think of those?” Deysi and I and the children are making the appropriate noises of appreciation. In front of us stand 8 black pigs. Now it’s Papi’s turn. He stands very quietly looking over this litter. He then puffs himself up to make his pronouncement. And out comes, “SON MUY FLACOS”. I let this sink in, and then realized that, Papi just told Wolka that his PIGS ARE VERY SKINNY! I was about to let out a mountain shaking laugh, when I saw Deysi’s look. You know, the one that warned me to stifle myself or risk injury. Nonetheless, I nearly wet my pants. You could not have, possibly, hurt poor ol’ Wolka’s feelings any more than if you had just stolen his pet dog. He looked as if someone had soccer kicked him in the huevos. Never at a loss for words, this one cutting statement from Papi had brought the pig farmer to his knees. He looked at me as if he was going to rip off one of my arms and then beat me with it. The words that came out...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/papi-and-the-skinny-pigs-episode-1979/">PAPI AND THE SKINNY PIGS EPISODE, 1979</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/papi-and-the-skinny-pigs-episode-1979/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>12</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">10605</post-id> </item> <item> <title>THE SURPRISE BIRTHDAY THAT WENT HORRIBLY WRONG</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/the-surprise-birthday-that-went-horribly-wrong/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/the-surprise-birthday-that-went-horribly-wrong/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Fri, 30 Dec 2022 05:25:00 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CANADA-all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=6293</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>Editor’s note: I must apologize for breaking away from our times in Texas, to bring you a story that flickered by my screen, and that I just could not resist writing about. This is just one example of the many times our girls had me convulsed in laughter. There was never a dull minute around them! This next Post is from the middle of the 1990’s and is likely to get me in some real trouble. Thing is though, I can’t just turn off my memories and blank them out of my mind. In the same manner as my big mouth; my pen just gushes out what comes steaming down the track. This one was a beauty and for sure it is hard to determine which of us was more surprised. It could have been the Birthday Person, Deysi, Ange, me or the gathered invitees for this monumental event. The occasion was “an almost adult year” birthday of our oldest girl Ron. It just so happened, like anywhere else we had ever been to in our travels, Ron had made tons of friends in the relatively short time that we had lived in Calgary. At school or around her circle of BFF’s she was a social diva, full of humour, pranks and actions that kept her buddies giggling, constantly. At home she was not quite so “nurturing” with her mom and dad. I don’t think she “got” our natural sense of humour. So Deysi gets this wild idea of having all of her friends over to our home for a “surprise” party. My god, how a dozen or more teenage, “going on 30” year old, girls could keep this event a secret was truly beyond my comprehension. I expect has never happened since, anywhere! To pull this off Deysi recruits Ron’s best friend “Crusty” (of telephone switcharoo fame) to organize and coordinate this group of young adults. Once again, if you will, just think of what Crusty accomplished, and be in awe. So a few days prior to her birthday date, and one day after her Mom’s birthday, the surprise was sprung. Again, her buddy, Crusty was key in making this happen. She set it up, so that she convinced Ron that they would come home from doing something, somewhere, to get ready to go out for the evening. (Deysi will help me out here, my memory of the exact details blurs a bit). In any event enter all of her friends, on time, with their transport well hidden. Others had been dropped off at the door. This, all well-before the Birthday Person was to arrive. Soon they had coats, shoes and purses stowed away and were all hidden around the bottom floor of our home. Right on cue, Crusty and Ron arrive. There is not a peep in this house. She breezes in, asks mom why the lights are out, to which Deysi and Ange respond by hitting the switches. Her friends jump out and scream “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”. Ron is stunned. It takes her a few heartbeats to realize what has just been sprung on her. And then she loses it big time! She has a major fit, glares daggers at her mom and I, and exits “stage right” for the stairs and down to her bedroom. “SSSLLLAAAMMM” goes the basement door and then silence ensues. It was very hard to see who was the most surprised by her reaction, but it’s safe to say that at least 15 mouths were left gaping. We had just learned a big life lesson about our girl. After travelling with her all of her life and spending 99.9% of our time with her for all those years, we finally learned that Ron HATED THEN, AND DOES TO THIS DAY, ANY FORM OF SURPRISE! As I said the audience was stunned, gaping and silent. When Ron slammed her door, you knew this was not a space you wanted to cross into, if you valued your life. A few minutes of strained silence ensues and Crusty decides to go down and see if she can coax the guest of honour back upstairs. Eventually she returns, with Ron in hand. Mom and I know that she is still “pissed”, but like a politician she handles the crowds well. For the rest of the evening she had fun and her guests truly enjoyed the party. Deysi and I, with Ange in tow, headed for our room where we cowered in anticipation of the abuse we were going to receive once she was free of her guests. I can honestly say, that never again did we ever try to spring any surprise on our girl. Now, I expect her to say “Dad this sounds like bullshit”, but let me assure you in advance, it’s as true as my feeble old brain allows it to be, at this time of my life. (Now if you choose to disbelieve me, just ask ol’ JMW if he ever sprang a surprise on Ron). As a footnote, I might add that her little sis Ange, never had then, or now, any opposition to a good old fashioned surprise. And as for parties, anytime, any style, any occasion was good for her. “Bring it on’ is her attitude, especially if it happens to be at Disneyland.</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/the-surprise-birthday-that-went-horribly-wrong/">THE SURPRISE BIRTHDAY THAT WENT HORRIBLY WRONG</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/the-surprise-birthday-that-went-horribly-wrong/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>8</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">6293</post-id> </item> <item> <title>THE OLD MAN AND THE FINCA</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/the-old-man-and-the-finca/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/the-old-man-and-the-finca/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Fri, 04 Nov 2022 20:06:00 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CANADA-all]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CONTEMPORARY-all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=9912</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>I guess some of you may have already noticed, that after a long, long, literary dry spell, my feeble brain has now dribbled out another thought. It ends a period where I could not remember why I was writing these memories and for whom. I am now back. My old mind is just throbbing with things, possibly, worthy of putting to paper. That is, once I secure the required permissions, from those that I might offend. This next piece is about what it takes to make an old man happy at this stage in life. Well, it goes like this. For the past couple of years Ron and JMW have been searching for a permanent home on the island. Deysi and I have been looking at potential properties, for them, from one end of this island to the other. They already have a wilderness retreat on the north end of the island, so we never really dared hope that they would have more than that. We concentrated our search in the southern quadrant, closer to a major city and a small International airport. During this time we experienced real estate prices doubling and doubling again. As prices rose, we felt our faint hope of ever having them on the same island as us, slipping away. I think it has been, a lifelong dream of Deysi to have both of her girls somewhere close to her. Ange already lives within 3 hours. D2, A and the grandkids are an hour away. Having Ron and JMW here also would bring fulfillment. Having said this, and as we watched prices skyrocket, our hopes became mere phantoms. Realistically it did not look promising. However, Deysi kept us beating a path from home, “down island” in search of this elusive dream. We looked at a wide range of properties, almost exclusively they were in a rural setting, slightly out of the traffic flow and provided some element of privacy. I might say it was enjoyable. It gave purpose to our daily excursions. We would pack our picnic, arrange for two or three properties to visit and head out. There were many great debates on the relative merits of everything we looked at. We had found a long suffering realtor, in that area. He did not seem to mind showing us endless properties. He was a very optimistic fellow. As time passed, and the property offerings, grew more sparse, our hopes of them ever moving to the island, dulled. Then one day Ron arrived to look at some properties that we had located, near a small city, towards the south of the island. One in particular, was on the outskirts of town, and not that remote. However, it did appear promising. What it had was 10, clear, flat acres of usable land. It seemed perfect for some sort of business venture, which they had expressed some interest in. We went and looked. Ron walked around and looked at everything in great detail. She consulted with JMW (at home working) almost constantly, while walking the property. We started to feel a small glimmer of hope. Our hopes dimmed, once we realized that it was too close to town for them. Although on the outskirts of town, it was still only a stone’s throw from Walmart. Deysi was thinking, “too civilized” and she was right. We started to get the real feel of what they wanted, as we showed Ron around the properties that Desyi had selected. We had a good time looking at high priced land and dreaming of what might be. With nothing purchased we returned home for our last day together, before her leaving. Desyi decided that since Ron had some time free, then maybe we could look at a couple of properties around home. She had the realtor from down-island arrange for a colleague to show us around. I was only half paying attention because, I never even dared to hope, that they might settle anywhere near “the old folks”. If I had even considered them buying nearby to us, I would have been a lot more interested in looking at my 70th house. Somehow, the second property we viewed, just called to Ron’s heart. Again, she gave JMW the blow by blow as she strolled around this property. It was rural, about 15 minutes from our hometown, close to the ocean, about 2 miles, and down a dead-end road. The property consisted of 9 acres, 50% heavily treed, a house in the middle, 250 feet in from the road, and flower gardens, a pond, fountain, and berry trees. It was paradise. We spent the morning looking at three properties and then I left them for my weekly round of golf. I was, as usual chopping and hacking around the course, cursing and swearing and having a marvellous time. All thoughts of house hunting had left me. And then I got a message. It was Deysi. She told me that they were going to make an offer on the property. I’m going, “which property”? “The one near home, with the forest and the gardens”, she cries out. Well you coulda knocked ol’ JimboRed over with a phantom punch! I cannot believe it. Even in my prime, I would have had a hard time making that momentous of a decision, in the matter of a couple of hours. Not so for Ron and JMW! With a little encouragement from Ange, it seemed like it did not take them much time, to “change the world”. If I was “gob smacked”, you can imagine how Deysi was. She was so excited, she liked to have fainted dead away. This summer, the deal closed, and the rest is history. I cannot remember such excitement “since the pigs ate my little sister”! So, that is how ol’ Jimbored arrived at a “happy place”, this late in life. It now seems as if we are caught in a whirlwind of activity. I have endless weeds I can pick, if I ever run out at home. We are left in charge of the finca during times when they are away, preparing for their final migration to the island. I put on gardening clothes and just wait for Deysi to assign me a little patch of weeds to curse at. Aaahhhh, heaven! I could go on describing, what I call “the finca”, but I think it is just better to stifle myself, and let our early photos do the talking. I often wonder during these periods of seclusion, surrounded by nature and wildlife, when things are so peaceful and still, if I holler out a thought to the forest. “Am I still wrong”? The answer, TK, is I think so.</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/the-old-man-and-the-finca/">THE OLD MAN AND THE FINCA</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/the-old-man-and-the-finca/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>12</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">9912</post-id> </item> <item> <title>IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN JIMBO RED HUNTS TEXAS – PART II</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/in-the-footsteps-of-famous-frontiersmen-jimbo-red-hunts-texas-part-ii/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/in-the-footsteps-of-famous-frontiersmen-jimbo-red-hunts-texas-part-ii/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Wed, 27 Apr 2022 14:37:43 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[TEXAS - all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=9707</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>Just as I promised, this next post is Part II of the hunting saga, at the King Ranch, Texas, in January 2002. Once again, ol’ Jimbo Red was invited to accompany a group of executives from our parent company, on a hunting trip. At this time, I had heard of things like this happening. Apparently, in the name of Marketing, or of “customer relations”. However, I had never really experienced this level of debauchery and decadence, previously. Although I had been accused by Deysi, of all sorts of wild and hairy partying, while away on business trips. Nothing I ever got into, came close to reaching the level of this. In order to maintain close and personal relations with their best customers, one of our parent companies, had leased a +/-50,000 acre piece of the King Ranch, in which to entertain their best clients. This parent was the largest oilfield services company in the world, and is involved with many of the kings, presidents and rulers of oil rich countries. That is what they mean by “their customers”. And this place, is where they took them to wine and dine. The lease came with guest quarters, a huge building containing, dining room, meeting rooms, and a big ass bar. Texas style. The complex also had guest houses, hunting store, and a “full blown”, meat processing facility. In addition to staff quarters that included park rangers, hunters, hunting dogs, guides and hosts/hostesses. I can not even put a number on the cost of this place, but at least several million, per year, just to maintain. I had no idea, that this was how you marketed to your customers. My understanding was, that, someone buying me lunch was near “to crossing the line”, of getting too close to their customer (me). My how naive I was! Not only did I not know that this kind of thing existed. This place, was not the only lease, of this type, on the ranch. There were other similar setups, besides this one. Each of them designed to entertain the rich and famous. Geezus, how my world just changed at the moment of realization. “Ok, ok, I’ll, now get on with the story of the hunt”. On the second morning of the hunt, as promised, they woke us at dawn. I was pumped! I could remember the previous night when I swore, I would never eat again. Well, the body heals itself quickly. I was up, cleaned, dressed and bellied up to a table, long before they gave everyone else, second call. It was basically myself and predator, ready to rock and roll. They brought us a breakfast that made the British “heart attack on a plate”, look anemic. It included a cowboy steak, a few strips of bacon, cut 1/4″ thick, a stack of flapjacks, syrup, a bushel of potatoes, chuckwagon beans, cheese, butter, mushrooms, some crawfish, and biscuits. I “passed” on the grits, explaining that I needed to watch my waistline. Fully fortified, we waddled over to the hunting shop. From there, we were split into groups, depending on what type of game you wanted to hunt. I was with a couple of the guys that wanted to hunt birds. My boss and his boss, decided that they would look for big game. Predator, the converted non hunter, was fully armed with a .340 Weatherby rifle and was going after javelina, (wild boar). Each group was placed on top of a truck, special made for safari hunting. Behind the cab, on a flat deck one ton truck were a row of cages about 4 feet high. These housed the hunting dogs. Each truck carried two or three dogs. We sat on a bench seat on top of the cages, about 8 feet off the ground. The view of the hunting land was spectacular. Then, off we went, each group in a different direction. It was early in the morning and still a little bit cool. Now I could understand, the need for the warm clothes that we had to bring. However, the sun was shining and it was glorious. Very quickly, after our start, we received our first excitement. We approached a copse of woods and our vehicle stopped. The hunter, then unloaded his dogs to give them a bit of a stretch. One of the hunting dogs, barely hit ground when he bolted for freedom. I mean he took off like a jet fuelled dragster, headed for the open yonder. The hunter yelled something to make him stop. That only fuelled his flight. Then the Hunter whistled. The dog looked briefly over his shoulder, put his head down and shifted to high gear. It looked like that dog was headed for Oklahoma. The hunter calmly steps away from the truck, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a remote. Then, he points it at the dog and gives it a tap. Instantly, that dog froze in place. He looked like Wily Coyote, as the Road Runner zipped past him. He had one front leg and one back leg off the ground and was frozen, in place, between strides. Now, the hunter lets out a couple of shrill whistles. That dog, turns around and with it’s head and tail lowered, slinks back toward us. It seems as if he was wearing an electronic collar, but had forgot about it, when he made his break for freedom. The dog returns to us and is shooed back up into his cage, for a time out. He looked, truly, chastised. I personally have been in that same situation, a few times. We unloaded, got our guns ready and were placed around the edge of the woods. A couple of dogs entered from the other side, and sure enough, scared up a “covey” of game birds. Bam, Bam, Bam, we blazed away. I hit one and immediately a dog was on it. He deposited it at my feet. Now I’m thinking, “this is my kinda hunting”! “No more tramping the bush for me”. The balance of the morning passed in the same manner. Climb up on the truck, drive to a copse of woods, get off, wait for the dogs to scare something up, then bang away at it with our chosen weapons. Then repeat! I did not, nearly, hit everything I shot at, but also, I did not embarrass myself. Indeed, I was, by far, NOT the worse shot. While writing this part of my story, a memory flitted past, which made me chuckle a bit. The then, president of our parent Company (our guy), and later to be a VP of the USA government, hunted this same land. Of course, he was signing the checks to pay for this lease. So, if I thought, that, I was pampered, then just imagine how he was treated! Anyway, one day him, along with his group of politicos and buddies, were hunting birds just like us. It so happened, that around one copse of trees, the dogs flushed out a local lawyer, who was promptly shot by the company president. It just so happened that this lawyer, “zigged” when he should have “zagged”, and popped right out in front of the shooter. Mistaking him for a dove, our guy shot him full of birdshot. Please have some sympathy, stifle your laughter. I know some of you are thinking, “well its only a lawyer, no big deal.” “Or a lawyer, so what?” However, please be kind, even lawyers have mothers. Most of them anyway. Luckily he was hit with birdshot, and recovered, after a stretch in the hospital. The side of his face was not so pretty for a while, but it did make him look more Texan, if anything. You cannot imagine the political mileage the press got out of this incident. I believe it created a whole round of Politician/Lawyer jokes. Things like, “one day (our guy, now VP) invites Hillary out for a hunt……………”. Anyway, I now move on. The morning passes, we return to the lodge for a lunch, which kind of resembled dinner, of the previous night. The difference being, that, it might have been one or two courses shy. I protested loudly but still dug right in, to the meagre offerings. We all bragged of our prowess. I enquired about predator, and was told, he was hot on the trail of a javelina, and wouldn’t be joining us for lunch. Talk about a transformation, from, “I’m not killing anything”, too carrying around the largest rifle they had. And then, tracking down the most dangerous animal on the ranch. We were told to go have a rest, and reconvene at the hunting shop, in a couple of hours, for the afternoon hunt. My boss donned his silky PJ’s and slept like an Egyptian mummy. The afternoon hunt comes along and now I change it up. I decide I will go look for Bambi to shoot. Two of us, join a hunter in a King Ranch pick up truck. We are in the back seat, our guns in a rack. it was now getting hot, so we rode along with windows down. We followed some dirt roads, away from the main camp. Pretty soon we were immersed in some thick brush. This stuff was thick and gnarly. The mesquite and hickory grew about 12 feet high, and none of it really qualified as trees. We peered into it for a while but soon realized we were not going to spot anything in that brush. I decided that if Bambi did not walk square into the middle of the road, then I would not be shooting her. It was perhaps a bit boring, but peaceful. Eventually we came to an area, clear of brush, where you could at least see off the road. The driver stopped, went around back and started, what sounded like, a small motor on the tailgate. He hops back in and we creep down the road, at a snail’s pace. The motor is making a loud whining, grinding, crunching type sound. I look back and it is spewing corn, oats, barley, and lord knows what else, all over the road behind us. It suddenly hits me. We are spraying deer feed all over the road. Within a matter of a few minutes, we could see deer emerging from the brush line and heading toward the road. I’m clambering for my gun. The guide says, “wait, wait”. Now we are barely moving and the deer are getting closer. They are pretty, much coming right up behind us, and eating as they walk. I open my door and lean out. And one of these deer, walks right up to me. It looks like it is going to jump in the backseat with me. I could have stuck my rifle barrel in it’s mouth. Somehow, my lust for shooting Bambi, left me. There was no possible way, that I was going to shoot, something, at 10 feet away. I would never again have been able to look anyone in the eyes. To this day, I believe, that one event, lead to my loss of interest in shooting animals. I believe the hunter, sensed, what we are thinking and quietly turns off his feeder. He says, “why don’t we go over for the evening Dove shoot?” “It’s real fun”! Geezus, why can’t they name them something like, buzzard or vulture or raptor, so I felt like shooting it. Why Dove? Anyway, 5 of us, plus hunters, dogs and trucks convene on a small pond. Somehow, it looked more like a manmade watering hole. The only person missing from our group was the pacifist predator. He was apparently, still out bonding with a javelina. So, we gather, and are spread out around the water hole. And were then instructed, to face outwards, backs to the water, guns raised and wait for the arrival of doves. Still, I’m wondering if this is a setup. Could it be, that, these...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/in-the-footsteps-of-famous-frontiersmen-jimbo-red-hunts-texas-part-ii/">IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN JIMBO RED HUNTS TEXAS – PART II</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/in-the-footsteps-of-famous-frontiersmen-jimbo-red-hunts-texas-part-ii/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>2</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">9707</post-id> </item> <item> <title>A TSUNAMI IS UNLEASHED IN OUR DRIVEWAY, HOUSTON 2002</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/a-tsunami-is-unleashed-in-our-driveway-houston-2002/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/a-tsunami-is-unleashed-in-our-driveway-houston-2002/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Sat, 26 Mar 2022 01:44:26 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[TEXAS - all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=8811</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>As it came to pass, the year 2002, brought us another move. This time from Edinburgh, Scotland to Houston, USA. It was not unexpected, nor was it unwelcome. In many ways, we had spent more of our married life together, in the USA. So, in a way, it was like homecoming. It just so happened, that the company had decided to move their head office to Houston. Along with that, they decided that ol’ JimboRed, needed to move his ass there, also. Deysi was up for it. She was used, to me dragging them, away from wherever they felt comfortable at the time. Of course, by now, Ron was fully into her Post Graduate Degree at the University of Edinburgh. It appeared that, once again we would have to abandon her. She tried to appear sad, but failed. As usual, when I moved, chaos reigned. My work never stopped. My travels around the world, like a blue ass fly, did not cease. And as a consequence, 100% of the burden fell on Deysi’s shoulders. I mean everything! She interviewed movers, notified all of the appropriate authorities, regarding our rental, utilities, school, and on and on. About the only thing I accomplished was to make a detailed and itemized list of our possessions. I left out the cat, because I figured, this is where we would part. Yup, you guessed it. I think Deysi, put it like this. “if the cat doesn’t go, neither do I.” Or, “the cat is higher on my list than you Jimbo”. “If it doesn’t go, you needn’t bother packing either”. So once again, this pain in the butt, was readied for travel. Well, once we had “priorities” straightened out. The work began. Amazing, but for all of our travel, we had still managed to accumulate an impressive pile of goods. It took a “man and a boy”, a week to wrap it, box it, and load it. All under the watchful eye of Deysi. She had ridden in this “rodeo”, many times, and knew exactly what she wanted. I, of course, was everywhere, except at home helping. You can imagine, that I did receive, my share of verbal abuse, for my lack of help. In the middle of all of this, Deysi had to find a place for Ron to stay, after we left. It needed things like, curfew, security, den mother, and church, in order to qualify. Ron, just rolled her eyes, and looked heavenward. Ange, was somewhat easier. Although she had made many friends in Scotland, I believe that she was ready for a move. All I had to promise her, was a new car on our arrival. She was 17, and already we had run out of gifts, to bribe her with. What next, I thought, “an airplane, or boat or apartment at Disneyland”.Soon we were ready. Deysi had managed to get the chaos organized. The only thing different, this time around was, that we were able to make one “house hunting” trip, prior to moving. Deysi chose the Woodlands, Texas as the place we wanted to be. It was outside of the city, close to the airport, and at the end of a, little used, tollroad, 18 minutes from the office. Within a few days, she had located us a house, arranged a mortgage and got on with the business of moving. The house she chose was a newer, colonial style, two story brick. Our new home, had a large swimming pool. Palm trees surrounded it. Inside was a huge open plan family room, kitchen, eating area. Off to one side was a formal living room, as well as a formal dining room. The main floor also contained the master bedroom suite, with doors opening onto the pool deck and hot tub. Upstair were three additional bedrooms, a tv/movie room and a couple of bathrooms. This home was spectacular. The price was less than half, of an equivalent one, in Scotland. Ange found a school, and immediately knew she would need a new car. The students parking lot was full of BMW’s, Merc’s, sport cars, and other high end toys. The home we had picked, was far enough away, to made it necessary, for her to have transportation. My heart was set on a smaller type, character type, foreign car, something like a ten year old Datsun or Subaru. However, once Ange spotted all of the new vehicles in the student parking, I had, already, lost my dream. The best I could do was to convince her that a brand new Honda Civic was a good car. She only half believed me, but gave in and reluctantly accepted it. Geezus. A little bit of a sidebar now. Some of you might now be wondering, why Ange got the new car, and Ron got to walk, when, she wouldn’t drive a used Toyota. Well the difference is this. The new Honda, in Texas cost $20,000. The second hand Toyota, in Edinburg, cost 20,000 pound sterling. That was roughly $45,000 US dollars, at that time. “Aaaaahhhh”, you might say, “JimboRed you are not so mean. You may have a point, after all!” Moving day comes and I am in Norway. The movers pull a big ass, shipping container, into the parking area in our complex. Then they proceed to fill his 40 foot, (2500 cubic foot), container, from top to bottom. Deysi’s possessions took every square inch. There was not a centimetre to spare. It was jammed. That done, along came a truck to haul it to the Port. At the port, it was put onto an ocean going, container ship. And finally, adios amigo. The relocation took place during summer break, so the trauma of having to live in a hotel and shuttle the girls to school was avoided. We hung around Edinburgh for a couple of weeks, toured in London, and made a trip or two to Houston. Then we were finally off to Texas to start work and await our goods. It was a chaotic time. Ron was left in Scotland. She now had a summer job in a law office. If I remember, she went in after hours and filed the hundreds of folders and documents, that had been looked at each day. I don’t quite, remember how the cat got there, but somehow it arrived. There was no “cat prison” for it on this trip. The time passed, while we awaited our belongings. We stayed in a Hotel in the Woodlands, Texas. It was near our new home and Ange’s school. Shortly after our arrival, Ange had her new car. it was not the Corvette or BMW of her dreams, but she decided, it would just have to do. If that was “all we could afford”. She carried her pain, in silence. All is well, I am working, Desyi is organizing and making the house ready. After about two weeks we are notified of the impending arrival of our goods. At about the same time, I am also notified of a quarterly management meeting in London, for sometime around the scheduled arrival of our goods. What could possibly go wrong. You have probably guessed by now, that both of these events, coincided almost to the day. It was a train wreck approaching. Once again, Deysi is going to be left on her own to deal with a major move into the new home. I, as usual would be off like a “butterfly”, flitting around the world. In Deysi’s mind, I had this all planned. The day before, I am to leave Houston, I receive a call that our container load of goods would be delivered to us in two days. As much as, I proclaim my innocence, with the timing of these events, I am getting no sympathy. I have to leave, but her parting words echo in my mind. “You will pay for this Jimbo”. She means it. On my part, I go with my stomach in knots, ridden with guilt and feeling a bit sorry for myself. In London, we convene our meeting. Not much has changed. The usual suspects are given their verbal beating. A couple of the innocents “are hanged” and a couple of the guilty are “promoted”. The world is at peace. I remember the second morning of our meeting. I am, about, half-engaged in what is going on. The other half is distracted, trying to figure out the punishment I would suffer when I return home. Suddenly, our meeting is interrupted, and I am called out for an emergency. My blood runs cold! Deysi is on the phone. I ask what is wrong. In her bravest voice, but with a slight quaver, she says, “our container arrived from Scotland. They put it in the driveway. When they opened the doors, it was full of water. It was like a flood came out!” At this point, I know she is close to “losing” it. She continues, “everything is soaking wet with sea water!” “All of my stuff is ruined!” Then she wants to know, “what you are going to do about it?” One of the few times, I was, ever, without a response, was that very moment. I felt like fainting. Or maybe crying. Somehow I knew it was all my fault, and I was in for an ass-kicking. Deysi, goes on to tell me, that, everything we own is destroyed and piled up in our driveway and garage. I am dumbstruck! I can’t think of anything to say, but I know she is about to “lose it”, big. However, JimboRed’s icy, calm nerves kick in at this point. I am, now, completely in control. This calms Deysi, also. She sees me so strong, that she can’t help but toughen up. (What Deysi says is).What, actually, happened, is that jimboRed had a blank moment, and then the cursing, screaming, sobbing and slamming things around, started. He is like, “Lord what did I ever do, to deserve this?” A voice from the sky booms out, “LET ME MAKE A LIST FOR YOU!” “He crumples up on the floor, in a fetal position, and lies there, a quivering mass of flesh. Hearing his distress, I now take over”. The one decision we do make, very early, is that I need to get my ass home. The second thing is that we need to get pictures of this catastrophe. Deysi springs into action, buys about 10 rolls of film, and snaps a 3 inch thick, pile of photos. We have a significant amount of the Atlantic Ocean, now in our driveway. In the midst of it sits our goods. The camera sounds like a machine gun, as Deysi, shoots roll after roll. In the meantime, I am furiously trying to get out of England and back to Houston. The movers put as much as they can in the garage, cover the rest and take their container from our yard. They promise to be back. I think they were just about as shocked as Deysi when they opened the doors to that tsunami. As promised, the movers returned to try and make a bad situation better. However, there was no righting this wrong. There was not one piece that did not get soaked by water from the Atlantic Ocean. It is not completely clear, exactly how our container was filled with water. But it appears, that when stacking the containers, at the port, or on the ship, the one on top of ours was misaligned. The feet, on the bottom of the container missed, the landing spots, and punched 4 great holes in the top of our container. It was then transported, misaligned, with these gaping holes being washed over by sea water, every time a wave was hit. Over the course of a 10 day voyage, with the water, washing over our container, 24 hours per day, it gradually filled up. Sure enough, about the same time that I make it home, the movers’ remedial crew...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/a-tsunami-is-unleashed-in-our-driveway-houston-2002/">A TSUNAMI IS UNLEASHED IN OUR DRIVEWAY, HOUSTON 2002</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/a-tsunami-is-unleashed-in-our-driveway-houston-2002/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>6</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">8811</post-id> </item> <item> <title>THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT COULDN’T STOP GIVING 2021</title> <link>https://jimbored.com/the-christmas-gift-that-couldnt-stop-giving-2021/</link> <comments>https://jimbored.com/the-christmas-gift-that-couldnt-stop-giving-2021/#comments</comments> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Jimbo Red]]></dc:creator> <pubDate>Thu, 23 Dec 2021 17:46:17 +0000</pubDate> <category><![CDATA[STORIES]]></category> <category><![CDATA[CONTEMPORARY-all]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">https://jimbored.com/?p=8478</guid> <description><![CDATA[<p>The Christmas Season 2021 is now upon us. This year, as it approaches, I realize that it is time for a Christmas post. I know, most of you are saying, “yeah, so what” or, “who cares, anyway”? My only response is, “well Deysi does!” One reader is enough to set me into a writing frenzy. Just the thought of one person pouring over my babble, indeed, gets my juices flowing. As I prepare myself to spill out my most cheerful Christmas story, it is clear what I will write about. This year my post jumps right out at me. I will never forget the Christmas 2021 gift that “just kept giving”. So this, Deysi, is for you, and anyone else bored enough to read it. Just prior to Christmas, Ange decided that we needed a new soundbar for our TV, so that I could hear my movies. (Ange is the only one that sees my hearing loss as a disability, and not an age, or character flaw). It came by UPS, and was dropped at our door. I had no idea what it was, or who it was for. Anyway, we open it and there lies a new surround sound woofer, tweeter and a couple of hooters. We finally realized it was from Ange. What a great surprise. Early the following morning I hop out of bed to install this marvel of electronics. It did not take me long too realize that this new technology was not going to work on our 15 year old TV. At this point I should have run and hid! “No problem,” says Deysi, “we need a new TV anyway”. “Geezus,” I thought, “what could possibly go wrong here?” This soundbar was like a tiny snowball at the top of the hill, just waiting to roll down and pick up momentum. Until, ultimately, it stopped at the bottom, a huge, lumbering ball of snow, ice, sticks and dirt. Now I am faced with a new TV. Of course the one Deysi wanted was not available in town, so we had to drive to Nanaimo, to get one. So now I have a new, all singing, all dancing TV loaded into our vehicle. Finally after an 8 hour day I have this behemoth lying in the back of our car, like a dead elephant. Now I just have to carry it up 2 flights of stairs into our tv room. How in hell am I going to do that? Wait a minute, I’ll ask Deysi to help me. I guess you can see where this is going. About halfway in, we are no longer speaking to each other, she has left me twice, and I have apologized 3 times. But we do wrestle it all of the way upstairs. After some minor struggles and disagreements it is finally in place on it’s stand. And lo and behold, I connect the cluster …. of cables from TV to gadgets, gadgets to gadgets, and the new soundbar to everything. I even have a few cables hanging out, in case I need extras, or ever figure out what they were supposed to, connect to. I truly believe that, had I been 12 years old, I would have connected this thing in a few minutes, and that it would have made sense. Anyway, I have the TV working, and sound coming out of the gadgets, into the soundbar. I have a half dozen remotes laying around, but a miracle has happened. Sound is coming out of the soundbar and reverberating off the walls. I sink into my chair, so proud of my accomplishments. It is now time to watch some serious TV, without the “seniors” subtitles. Not so fast you might say, “it can’t be that easy”. Well, you would be right. I have been sitting in a contented state for about 5 minutes, when Deysi says, “Jimbo?” Immediately, I shrink into my chair and pretend I don’t hear her. She says, “you know, with the new soundbar and TV, that couch and those two recliners look so old and out of place!” The hairs stand up on my neck! Now, one day since receiving the surprise package, I already have a new TV, just to support it. I also know what new furniture will cost. About the same price as a decent car. So, I’m saying, “no sweetheart, I like our furniture. It is rustic and finally broken in, too fit our bodies. I think it will be good for a few more years”. I head for the door, looking for escape, but don’t get far. She now says, “I have an idea”. The cold sweat is now running between my shoulder blades. “We will just take these pieces and swap them with the ones in the theatre room, downstairs. Those have hardly ever been used.” That means, taking these big, leather, overstuffed monsters, carrying them down two flights and then shoving them down a stairwell, that turns 90 degrees in the middle. I say, “no way, impossible, I cannot possibly lift them”. Further, I add, “those pieces in the theatre room are even bigger, and never coming out of there.” Now she’s rubbing up against my bicep, squeezing it and saying, “a big strong bull like you, can surely get those pieces, down there, for me.” I tell her, “not without a man and a boy, I can’t.” Now she springs her trap on me, “so it’s settled then, you hire a man and a boy and just swap those pieces out!” She then flounces off, very happy with her work. Meanwhile I am in a fit of self abasement. I’m alternately kicking my own ass and punching myself, for being tricked, once again, into something that I don’t want. I can hear her, and that evil cat, “high fiving” as they walk away. Geezus, doesn’t she know I am over 70 years old! I have trouble lifting my fat butt out of my couch, let alone lifting the couch. I can not see any possible way those couches are going down that stairwell, or coming up, either. All I can see is our house ripped apart and walls pulled down to get that furniture out of there. But now I am trapped, so I go to the phone book in search of a man and a boy for hire. I find one and tell him my problem. I explain just how big and heavy these pieces are and how small the hole is to get them in and out. Silently I’m praying that he says, “nope, can’t be done! You are much better off leaving them where they are”. I was ready to pass the phone to Deysi, so she could get it from “the horse’s mouth”. He pauses for a few seconds and then blurts out, “yup, I’m your man, no problem, I’ll be there Saturday.” Deysi is clapping her hands in glee, bobbing up and down and saying, “ask him how much, ask him how much.” He has not seen the house, the furniture or the stairwell(s). Yet, she wants a firm price. Geezus! I am now trying to dissuade him from blurting out something else, stupid. I tell him these are big, heavy, awkward pieces going down stairs and thru a keyhole. However, I’m stuck now, so we make an agreement that he will bring a, big, tough boy to help him. I then spend the rest of the week measuring openings, test–lifting one end of the couch, and thinking up, unsolvable problems. My worse fear, is to get that walrus-sized couch, stuck in the bottom stairwell, and not be able to get it out. Not without some major ripping and tearing of walls, at the very least. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat and I can’t pretend that it will be fine. Deysi’s take on it is, “you worry to much!” “Go find something else to do.” Friday comes and Ange, who started this joyous chain reaction, arrives for a visit. She listens to Mom’s idea, and gives me the “are you completely losing it”, look? But out of her mouth comes, “what a great idea, I’ll help.” You see, she knows her mom and it is already too late to change Deysi’s mind. Saturday morning arrives and my last hope of changing the direction of this disaster, disappears, as the man and a boy arrive, right on time. The man was a big, burly, furniture lifting, piece of work. His helper however was about 5’2″ and 140 pounds fully loaded. Deysi has disappeared to her room, leaving me to “deal with it”. Ange looks at this team and says, “Dad you are not lifting one thing!” I had my weight lifting “hernia belt” strapped on, but knew I had better get out of the way, or she was going to get Mom. I show them the task. Now the man can clearly see what he is dealing with. He says, “well it doesn’t look like we can get it down those bottom stairs.” I’m relieved and ready to call off the whole thing. Until he says, “but we’ll try our best.” He grabs one end of that monster couch and the little guy grabs hold of the other. I know I could be of no possible help. I could not really even lift one end from the floor. So, after a lot of grunting groaning and straining, they have that big elephant stuck in the bottom stairwell. My heart is in my throat. Ange is now telling them to, “turn it this way, push it back and wiggle it down.” Low and behold it pops out of that hole and is in the theatre room. I am amazed. But the bigger, heavier one still needs to come out, and go up those stairs. They grab hold of it, lift it, move it a couple of feet and then set it down. There is no way, they are going to get it into those stairs. Now the man makes a management decision. “I’ll just go and get a friend. We need 3 of us to lift this.” With that the man and the boy leave. Now I’m thinking, if they don’t come back, I will have no couch in the family room and no chance of Ange and I, moving it back up. We are discussing how hopeless our situation is. I then decide to go get some tools and see how much of it we can dismantle. Well, like a miracle, one third of it comes apart and falls off into Ange’s arms. About the same time the man and boy return with a short, but stout friend. The job is suddenly manageable. The man then becomes the non-working foreman. He now instructs the two little guys how to move the remaining stuff. It all worked. So after some very stressful moments, Deysi’s house has been turned upside down. She is quite happy. The $175 that the moving team cost, was nothing. At least now I can plunk myself down on our new furniture and watch some serious movies. You think? Deysi is standing there tapping her foot and has another revelation. “Jimbo”, she smoothes out, “with the new soundbar, new tv and new furniture, those old TV trays look tired and faded. “Nooooo”, my mind shrieks out!” Yup you guessed it. Another tour of every furniture store within 100 miles looking for new TV trays. Alas, she can find nothing she likes. “No problem” she declares, “we’ll just paint ours”! Now two things I know about this statement are: first, “we” doesn’t mean “we”, it means “me”, and second, I knew I‘d rather paint a barn, than paint 8 of these TV trays, with their one hundred edges and moveable parts. But not to be deterred, Deysi does indeed consider the case, closed. So in her mind, another job done; check. My protests mean nothing. To her I’m just whining. Three...</p> <p>The post <a href="https://jimbored.com/the-christmas-gift-that-couldnt-stop-giving-2021/">THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT COULDN’T STOP GIVING 2021</a> appeared first on <a href="https://jimbored.com">Before My Clutch Slips</a>.</p> ]]></description> <wfw:commentRss>https://jimbored.com/the-christmas-gift-that-couldnt-stop-giving-2021/feed/</wfw:commentRss> <slash:comments>12</slash:comments> <post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">8478</post-id> </item> </channel> </rss>