Land Grab

Today we pulled the trigger on the purchase of a spectacular piece of property. It is a prime location with a wonderful view in a gated community.  It has all the amenities you will ever need including: beautiful oak trees, paved streets, all utilities paid, expect lawn care and no property tax…best of all…neighbors who will never complain.

When land in Manhattan is over $1,700.00 per sq ft we feel blessed to have bought at the unbelievable price of $16.25 per sq ft.  You might say we bought the farm. 

Our new address will be:

Block 6 lot B, 5th Street

Resurrection Cemetery

Victoria, TX 77901


y'all come

Never Give Up

I’m not giving up on Christ’s church.  Sure there is bad stuff going on in the church…it’s a church full of sinners. Maybe that’s why I feel at home there.  But really!  The Catholic Church has had some really bad people, bad popes and bad priests in it over the years. Even from the get go…8.3 % of the Apostles, who were hand picked by Jesus Christ, turned out to be bad apples.  Eight point three percent…that’s one twelfth, Judas, turned out to be a bad apple.  And the others...they did not start out as saints.   

There are a lot of good people out there.  When you do the math it leaves 91.7% of them are on the good side...but they don't make the headlines. 

So I’m in it for the long haul…I’m all in.

“As for me and my house we will serve the Lord.”  Joshua 24:15

Waiting To Die

Yesterday, Fr. Pat’s homily was a pungent reminder of an obvious but much ignored reality.  He spoke of visiting the nursing home where the residents all had the same blank stare…that “waiting to die” stare…and he reminded us that we are all waiting to die; but we distract ourselves from thinking about dying with the amusements of this world. 

After nearly 75 years of avoiding this truth…I now find it harder and harder to distract myself with those thoughts.  The older I get the less interested I am in the things of this world…fast cars, motorcycles or airplanes…work, hobbies or vacations.  It no longer concerns me about what’s around the next curve, what’s over the next hill or what’s beyond the next cloud.  It has become more difficult to get excited about stuff and I spend more and more time thinking about the “Hereafter”…thinking about what I am doing or…more to the point…about what I am not doing to prepare for this up coming reality.   I worry about that quote from Matthew chapter 16.  “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

I’m OK with the “follow me” part…but the “take up my cross” part…I am having trouble with.

I find myself just floating along enjoying all my many blessings…for which I am very thankful…but I am not really doing much to push the envelope.  I’m not sticking my neck out, not doing much to evangelize; I’m not being bold like the apostles.  I need to be all in.  My fear is that I’m lukewarm…and we all know what that means.

Dear Lord Jesus

Dare I pray you change my way

“Tail me up” as they say

Give me the boost I will obey

I need a push before judgment day.

Amen.

Owen Family Reunion (July4-6/2019)

Returning from my wife’s family reunion I navigated the crowded highways back home and mused over the events of the past several days. It was a wonderful few days with Mary’s relatives even with my lack of social skills I am always made to feel like part of the family.  

At past reunions I recall listening to my in-laws tell story after hilarious story and laughing so hard and so long my sides would hurt for days.

But this reunion was different.  It seems all the best storytellers have either passed away or have failing memories, faulty hearing and walking canes. 

The best storyteller of all was missing…my beloved mother in law…affectionately known as “Big Red”.  May she rest in peace.  Now, my generation has entered the autumn of our lives.

I was a little saddened as I hobbled my way from the car into the house.  It was a stark reminder that my time is limited…but I’m thankful for all the many years of Owen family reunions that I have been so blessed to attend.

May Our Lord, Jesus Christ, watch over the Owen family and all their children and children’s children for generations to come.

Amen.

P.S: Now, I'm told that the younger crowd stayed up late telling stories and laughing while I was fast asleep.  Apparently, I am officially old.

The Baker's Rack

As the early morning light filtered through the cracks of the shutters...I sat staring at the baker’s rack with all the pictures of my wife and I...our children and their children.  Pictures of our parents, our patents parents and all of their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and great-great grandchildren.

 I couldn’t help but think of how blessed I was as l felt a tear of joy making its way down the wrinkles of my cheek. 

Thank you, Lord, for all my many blessings. 

Amen. 

Back To A Different Time

I crisscrossed the Permian Basin in an effort to trace my childhood footsteps from classroom to classroom. 

Every grade, every year was in a different school, a different town as we moved from oil field camp to oilfield camp. 
That’s the way it was back in the ‘50’s when your father worked for a big oil company. 
First grade...Odessa, second grade...Stanton, third grade...Wink. 

I have some very vivid memories from my time spent in Odessa’s San Jacinto Elementary School and Humble Oil’s white slate house. But the challenge was to locate the very spot and all I had was a first graders sense of direction. 

My sister, three years my senior (a forth grader at that time) didn’t know either but her life long, horse crazy friend lived in Odessa all her life. One phone call later I had the exact house address. 
After several wrong turns I was standing in front of the house on 12th street. The typical white slate house identical to all the other houses in the camp was now wearing a dingy blue color, had a tree in the front yard and that little garage was about to fall down. I paused for a picture then headed off in the direction that I would pedal to school. And there it was...San Jacinto Elementary School...eureka, I found it. 

First grade was very stressful. The first day I remember being in line to register all by myself. Mom stayed home to take care of the younger children and my older sister, a fourth grader, just stuck me in line and left me. When it came my turn I was asked, “First name?” I got that one right; but then they asked, “Last name?” I was stumped …no one had ever explained that part I didn’t know I even had a last. “How do you spell it?….????” From that moment on I knew school was not for me. Luckily my across-the-street neighbor, George, piped up. He spelled my last name without as much as a stammer or stutter. I was impressed. How did he know that? He explained it was written on the front steps of my house; as was everybody’s last name who lived in the company houses of the oil field camp. I thought that was extremely astute of George and thought that he was going to be somebody someday. I think his last name was “Dubyuh”.
Needless to say first grade was a rude awaking. When I was a kid they didn’t have kindergarten, pre-k, pre-k-1, 2, 3, etc etc. 1st grade was where it all started. I had no idea there was an alphabet and the written word was news to me. It might as well have been hieroglyphics and for the most part still is. Now days teachers have labels for all sorts of learning disabilities--AD, ADD, ADHD, MR, OCD, and on and on. Back then there was only one S-L-O-W, and that’s what I was labeled. To make matters worse they thought it could be my eyesight so with only a mild optical problem I was given glasses to wear. I can assure you glasses will not fix “stupid”. Glasses will only slow the social development of a child.

As if all this was not enough my father, the engineer, being extremely practical and having a baby girl following my younger brother acquired a 20” girls bicycle and crafted a section of ½” rigid plumbing pipe to serve as a center bar disguise making the bike a “convertible” so to speak. Still in my heart of hearts I knew the truth…it was a girls bike and that played heavily on my mind. Then there was the “lunch box” issue. My parents wouldn’t let me carry a brown sack lunch like all the other kids. It had to be a lunch box. I’m not talking Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck lunch box. Oh! No! It had to be a black workman’s lunch pail like all the construction workers carried. To make matters worse I broke the thermos bottle. In the old days thermos bottles were made with a glass envelope...the same theory used in double pane windows. They had excellent insulating qualities but were extremely delicate and could not survive the fall from a 20’ girl’s bike as it crossed over the railroad tracks. My father, undeterred, purchased a “Stanley Stainless Steel” thermos with an unbreakable envelope and matching screw-on stainless steel cap/cup. There was only one problem. It was one inch taller than the lunch pail was long. Again undeterred, Dad neatly machined out a hole in the end of the lunch box. Voila! This allowed the thermos to be secured in its designated spot with the gleaming stainless steel cap protruding from the gable end of the lunch box and giving it the appearance of a miner’s flash light.

So there I was peddling my girl’s bike across the R.R. tracks to school wearing glasses and carrying a miner’s flash light…hoping against hope that the center bar would not pop out and expose me to the ridicule of my fellow classmates.

And there were other difficulties in that sixth year of life, For some unknown reason I decided to scribe a line around the entire outside circumference of our house’s white slate walls with a red crayon. Our house was one in a row of many identical houses that made up the oil field camp. I really think the red line gave our abode a certain notoriety that set it off from all the rest. It looked kinda like a high water mark…ironically in the middle of West Texas. Needless to say…this unleashed a tsunami of wrath and rage from my father. The fury of which was so powerful that I can recall the exact consequences of my actions to this very day. 

Stanton, TX

Now second grade in Stanton, TX was even more of a blur. The only memories of that time period were not the most pleasant. I still bare the scar on my index finger as a reminder to keep my hand out of the moving parts of a garage door. Then there were the mandatory naps Mrs. Gray imposed on us second graders...she apparently needed a break. I’m not sure why I remember the naps maybe because it was the only time I was awake during class. 

By chance I came across the Stanton museum and hoped they might have some historical maps or something that would assist me in my hunt for the house or school house for which I was looking. Turns out the enthusiastic museum curator...apparently excited about the fact that anyone wanted to know anything about Stanton’s history...pulls out a ‘52-‘53 school annual. And there it was...documented proof...I did in fact attend 2nd grade. Fortunately, report cards were not on file. 
She also put me in touch with Sara (7th grader at that time) a life long Stanton resident. Sara had a wealth of information actually more than I wanted to know. She described the exact location of the old Humble camp which had been bulldozed and now a trailer park occupied the property. The elementary school was still in the same place but new buildings made it unrecognizable. 

Wink-city limits, population 1006 according to the sign. The word “city” seems to be misused. 

The single structure school house has grown into a massive complex. The football field with it’s wooden bleachers now looks like a professional stadium apparently a testament to Friday night football. In West Texas, Friday night football is a religion and attendance is mandatory. 


Fond memories of recess, red rover, tops and marbles overshadow classroom activity...the teacher must have realized any attempt to raise my academic acuity was a waste of her time. I did enjoy the traveling science guy who froze a banana in liquid nitrogen then used it as a hammer to drive nails then at the end of the demonstration ate it. He also had a Van De Graaff generator...perhaps that’s what sparked my interest in electricity and physics. 
That was the year I got a real boys 26” western flyer bike. I remember good times at the camp playground. There was a slide that must have been three stories tall. We would sit on a piece of wax paper and careen down the polished stainless steel slide in attempt to reach warp speed and then plow into the ground with absolutely no concerns for our safty. Yes, those were good times, we rode our bikes without helmets, we drank from the water hose and traveled in cars without seatbelts. 

The electric train we got for Christmas was probably because Dad wanted it. He even mounted the track on a huge board and installed it in an old oilfield shed. I spent hour after hour playing with that American Flyer train. 

Then there was the car air conditioner dad built. His design was a ram-air plenum that extended over the top and spanned the entire width of the car. It stood nearly 12 inches high and the inlet, the entire front side, was opened and fitted with a porous pad. 

Built from galvanized sheet metal the long box, with a “u-turn” shape at one end, brought the ram air from the outside of the car down and around into the passenger side front window. 

At highway speed the oncoming hot dry air would be forced into the box though the inlet passing over a wet mat…which cooled the air by the evaporation process…then into the car. 

It was held on the top of the car with four pairs of suction cups and straps with hooks...borrowed from his car-top luggage rack. Everybody had a car-top carrier back then and every car had rain gutters (drip rails) to hook onto. 

The water reservoir, for wetting the pad, was a 5 gal can located in the trunk and somehow through an elaborate system of piping, plumbing and pumps it got to the box on the roof. 

Evaporative type coolers work well in dry climates. The larger the spread between the wet bulb (dew point) and dry bulb temperatures the better they worked. And it worked great in the dry West Texas air. 
There were a few drawbacks. First, it only worked at highway speeds because the air supply stopped when you stopped. This made sitting at red lights problematic. Second, in my father’s massive design, it allowed water to collect in the large roof top plenum. During a left turn the same forces that opened doors...flinging the unsuspecting out into the street...acted upon the lake of water producing a tsunami that would surprise and almost drown the front seat passenger. What memories. 

There’s not much left of the Humble oil camp in Wink. The camp’s water tower still stands exactly where it did but all the houses are gone. You can still make out the two abandoned streets that served the camp. Our house sat at the end of the first one, the back yard adjacent to the pipe yard where the water tower still resides. 

And so it is. 

How blessed I am to have such wonderful memories.

A Rose Is A Rose

A rose is a rose is a rose, no mater the name it smells the same.  

I am renowned for my lack of political correctness and lack of social skills. I also hold the world’s record for “most time spent with foot in mouth”…so what I about to say should come as no surprise.  

It is what it is.  Changing the name does not change the facts.

Using some politically sanitized label does not change the facts.

Snuffing out the life of an unborn child is murder.  See rule #5.  

“Thou shalt not kill.”

Murder is murder it still smells the same…it stinks.

I’m sure there are those who will continue to break the rules but it’s not right to support their bad behavior with tax dollars.

There I said it.

  

Lord, send some Jonah karma

Like walked the streets of Nineveh

Or show some repentance cinema

I’d rather skip the moral enema.

Some times it clashes

Those sack cloths and ashes

But perhaps it’s best we modify our dress

No need to stress just pass the test

Amen

35mm Negatives

Do you remember the old 35mm negatives that were stuffed in the package with the prints? 

I found a bunch in the desk drawer I was cleaning out. 

Holding them up to the light I strained to make out the images trying to recall the places and faces of whom I had photographed. 

This got me thinking about how much easier it is to perceive the situation when looking at the print, the positive, not the negative. 

And then I pondered the idea of all the man make rules and regulations.  

All the “thou shalt not” rules...don’t do this and don’t do that. 

How much easier it would be if we just stuck with two rules, the two positive rules Jesus taught us.

He said to him, “You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments.”Mathew 22:37-41

This would work if I really looked at my actions and words with real love…and looked at every neighbor...searching for that little bit of Jesus hiding away in each of us.   

Dear Lord Jesus

When I’m down and feeling blue

And mucking about in a stew

All the times I’ve had no clue

I forget to call on You.

And when it seems a painful labor 

To truly love that dreadful neighbor

I need to ask this special favor

That I may feel Your love to savor.

So on this day I truly pray

That You might show me the way

To think of You when I stray

For my ransom You did pay.

Amen.

Unbelievable

As I kneeled in my unbelief while the priest raised the bread and the wine and declared “The Body and Blood of Christ”…I thought how could this be…this is unbelievable. My mind wanders and wondered about all the other unbelievable mysteries, the Virgin birth, three persons in one God, the seven Sacraments, walking on water, water into wine and on and on. 

 Then I thought.  How can it be that so many times I have experienced unbelievable situations, bad situations that I was powerless to execrate myself from but some how they were resolved?  “Dumb Luck” can only go so far.  There has been too many times that some power…some God…some unbelievable God was watching over and taking care of me. 
And what about all the good stuff, all the blessings: the roof over my head, my warm bed, a good life and a wonderful wife…it is all unbelievable.   

 And why is it that nothing gives me the calm and peace that I find in knowing that God is in charge and everything will be OK?  That is unbelievable.  

So if God is God he can do whatever unbelievable stuff he wants.   

 I’m going to take him at his “Word” and believe the unbelievable stuff.

Consequently, I’m in…hook line and sinker…I choose to believe even if my tiny brain can’t figure it out.

Amen.

Mark 9, 23-24

 “If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.

 Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

A Trip Back In Time (Before time runs out)

                                                          I

When I realized that the number of time I would possibly blow out my birthday candles could be counted on my fingers…Mary and I decided it was time to make that trip of a lifetime while we still could.

Not knowing what to take I have put off packing under the elusion that I will have some epiphany at the last minute. I’ve learned from past trips that you can get what ever you want at the local Walmart. So packing light and “VISA, don’t leave home without it” have become my mantra.  Apparently there is no Walmart in Israel and I’m glad.  I didn’t want this to be a “vacation” vacation. I didn’t want to be a tourist. I want to see and feel the Holy Land as if it were two thousand years ago, if that is possible. 

I was feeling a little uneasy about the trip…thinking about flying in a big airplane with seats that only recline in a metaphorical sense, looking outside through a peepholes three seats over and trying to determine exactly where I was. And…worst of all… not being the pilot, not having any control of the stick and rudder.  

Then there was that going to an unfamiliar place. Being driven around in a bus not knowing exactly where I was or where I was going.  I’ve got to have a map and a compass.  I’m not comfortable just looking out the window at the scenery and not knowing the longitude and latitude.  So, I spent the whole day on Google maps plotting our entire itinerary, recording the mileage from stop to stop and checking the Google street view through the eyes of that little orangie-yellow man down in the tool bar.  Pouring over the maps and material
.  Now, I can look forward to the pilgrimage that will take me to the places where my Redeemer was born…lived, died and rose again.  

I was asked if I was excited about going…but I’m not sure “excited” is the correct adjective.  I’m a little curious and a bit apprehensive about what to expect.  I’m concerned that my bad knee will hinder my ability to walk the cobble stone streets of the Via Dolorosa.  But I’m determined to trod that path even if I have to drag that gimp leg one step at a time the entire way…it will never be as painful and a nail thought the hand.  My hope is that I will be able to better appreciate the Bible, piece together the puzzle of snippets I hear at Mass by knowing where it all took place…maybe even crank my faith up a notch. 

                                                II

And then…like Dorothy…I’m no longer in Kansas.  

I’m standing on the shores of the Sea of Galilee smelling the charcoal fire as Jesus calls to me…eating the fish that swallowed the coin…walking the road from Nazareth to Capernaum after standing on Mount Precipice.  I’m sailing on the “Jesus Boat” after He calmed the sea and listening to the beatitudes on the hillside. Renewing our wedding vows at Cana was like a taste of the best wine. 

Then to Jerusalem…Walking the Palm Sunday road, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane and singing “Hallelujah” in the tomb…all moments I’ll never forget.  East to Jericho, the Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth (where I bobbed like a cork), the Jordan River for renewal of baptismal vows. 

In this place there are too many the holy sites, too many rocky hills, too many breath taking views, too many unforgetable moments and too many cultures for me to comprehend. In this place there is too much geography, too much topography and too much history for me to fathom.

It’s a place of the Old Testament and the New Testament with pockets of illegal settlements, separation walls and groups of people with many different beliefs. I get the impression that it’s still an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. There are complicated confusing rules that change from town to town, from neighborhood to neighborhood and from church to church. “don’t walk here”, “don’t sing there”. Being stoned is the price you may pay for breaking some rules.

It is such a mishmash of culture, architecture and beliefs.  Strange customs, strange manors of dress, at less it seem strange to me. I was amused by the ones dressed in black with black fedora hats that appeared to be several sizes too small and long curls of hair hanging down each side of their face.  They wore long tassels and wide phylacteries. How strange that those who stuck to such strict rules of the Old Testament (such as not pushing an elevator button on the Sabbath) walked around talking on a cell phones. But, then again in their defense, I didn’t see cell phones mentioned in Leviticus, Numbers or Deuteronomy.  

I struggled to sort out my thoughts of the previous nine days as the wide-bodied metal bird chase the sun across the Atlantic. It was whirlwind trip of the Holy Land that traced the steps that Jesus walked and still walks. From Bethlehem to Capernaum, from Jerusalem to Jericho, and all those places the Bible talks about. I experienced the texture, temperature and topography.
The smell, sights and sounds overwhelmed me but the place has changed me…I needed to change.

It is so comforting to know that God is in charge and every thing will be ok.  I am so blessed to be able hang out with people who take God seriously. 

It’s you my Lord that saved the day
And that’s a debt I cannot repay
Thank you Lord for all you’ve done
Thanks to you the day is won.

You my Lord have paved the way
Help me now not to sway
To you my Lord a prayerful cry
Into your arms I long to fly.

Amen.

III

I’m back home now, back to work, back to my normal day-to-day routine.  

I’ve been asked “how was the trip…was it emotional?”  

Honestly it was not emotional, but it was educational, overwhelming, enlightening, awe-inspiring, amazing, awesome…I’ve yet to find the right adjective.  I was besieged by so much information, so much history, and so many different cultures and religions that I never had the time to get emotional.

I did not need this trip to make me believe that Jesus Christ risen is my Lord and Savior.  But those flat pages…those black and white pages in the Bible seem to have a three dimensional quality…now they are in living color.  I can smell the breeze off the Sea of Galilee, feel the ground beneath my feet that Jesus walked, and I can see myself in the upper room…and that is very emotional.  It is difficult to get through a Mass without biting my tongue, holding my breath and fighting back the tears.  

I can’t say the Rosary without having visions of the garden of Gethsemane, that “hole” at Caiaphas’ house, the Temple walls or the tomb Jesus lay in and rose from.

The trip has added a whole new dimension to the “Word” it now has a texture that I never imagined.  No longer is it just hearing the word.  It’s like I can taste every word and smell every page.  It is no longer a story that took place in some far-a-way land. 

Yes, it was an unforgettable trip with some unforgettable people.  

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for a trip of a lifetime.  

The memories of which are so sublime.

The land of milk and honey now is real.

And that Holy Land is the ground I feel.

Amen