I'm Just Being Frank

Me tending to the rose bushes at three years of age.

As if there weren’t enough issues dividing us these days; vaccinated/ unvaccinated, flour/corn tortillas (I actually swing both ways on that one; flour for breakfast, corn most other times) I’m going to add another one to the list: hats/no hats.

Generally speaking, I think the population can be divided into those who wear hats and those who don’t.  I fall into the latter category for the most part.  I harbor no deep seated dislike for hats.  I own several and on occasion will wear one, but hats are not my go-to accessory like they are for some folks. I would add that I’m not including people who wear them for work or as part of a uniform or who use them as props for role playing.  If handcuffs aren’t enough and you need a hat to make “naughty police officer” work for you and your partner, who am I to judge?  I should also clarify that I’m not including baseball/trucker caps as hats per se.  A well worn, well loved cap is like a trusted friend who has been with you during the ugly times, both literally and figuratively.  It’s always tough to tell them goodbye and I’ve had to do so several times over the years.

I’ve developed a recent interest in hats as a result of a visit to my dermatologist a couple of weeks ago.  I won’t go into detail because let’s face it, skin conditions are probably second only to colon health when it comes to topics to avoid when discussing one’s personal well-being.  That said, I find myself needing to shield my face from the sun and thus have been on the hunt for the perfect wide-brimmed hat.  Nothing fancy, just something to wear on my walks or while working in the yard or when role playing “naughty pecan forager.”

Saturday I had plans to meet a friend for lunch at a restaurant within walking distance of my house.   As luck would have it, South Congress has not one, but two haberdasheries located on opposite sides of the street. It was a glorious day and the avenue was packed with tourists. I stopped in at one store on the way to lunch and the other on the way back.  Both times I found myself among the Ashley/Ashleigh/Ashlees who were trying on bolero hats studded with conchos and realized that I would lose my Austin bona fides completely if I bought an overpriced hat on “SoCo” so I demurred.  Though I have to say I was kinda channelling Stevie Ray Vaughn in the mirror if only for a hot minute.

Sunday was another beautiful day so of course I had to lace up my walking shoes and patrol the neighborhood.  I stopped and visited with neighbors walking their dogs and working in their yards.  I passed the chapel on the St. Ed’s campus just as the priest walked out to the sidewalk to meet the congregation right before they exited.  We exchanged pleasantries and I felt like I had received all the benefits of holy indoctrination without having to sit through mass. 

Towards the end of my walk I came upon a yard sale that was wrapping up.  A young woman named Tina was gathering up what hadn’t sold including a couple of hats, one of which was canvas with a wide brim that could be snapped to the sides of the crown, a chin strap and a neck flap.  I walked up to her, introduced myself and asked how much she wanted for the hat she was holding in her hand. She replied, “Two dollars.”   I tried the hat on.  It fit.  I had no mirror in which to check my appearance, but I didn’t need one.  Now when I go for a walk I leave with only my house key, my driver’s license and hopefully an empty bladder. I explained to Tina that I didn’t have any money on me, but I lived in the neighborhood and could be right back with the cash.  At that point she said, “Do me a favor, just take it.”  I protested, she insisted.   She said that it was her boyfriend’s hat that he had worn on his adventures and that it was time for a new hat for new adventures.  A hat with stories.  And good karma.  And it was free.  Good luck finding that on SoCo, Ash.

This past week I was walking near the St. Edward’s campus when I noticed what I thought was a piece of trash right in the middle of the sidewalk. It was in fact a card from a deck of standard playing cards, a Ten of Spades to be exact. There’s nothing unusual or out of the ordinary about a Ten of Spades when it’s part of a big happy deck in a casino, but to encounter one by itself in the middle of a sidewalk in an urban area (a cursory glance revealed that there were no other cards nearby) invites speculation as to how exactly it got there. Was it a sidewalk magic trick gone awry? Was someone playing gin rummy in the backseat of a speeding car and tossed it out the window? Or my favorite pet theory: some 10 year old kid attached playing cards to the spokes of his Schwinn banana seat bicycle with clothes pins and it fell off (Raise your hand if you have done this. If you have no idea what I’m talking about just OK, Boomer! humor me and move on.)

After I got home I wondered if there is any significance to the Ten of Spades so I turned on the Google and boy, is there ever:

“Ten of Spades means SADNESS mixed with tears and disappointment. This is just a bad card. It’s poisonous like jealousy. It will in a great measure counteract the good effects of the cards near you. You might be overcome by the feeling that nothing is right and the only thing you wish is to be left alone. Ten of Spades is also a warning: take care not to get addicted to your sorrows.”

First off, I would like to nominate the Ten of Spades as the Official Playing Card of 2020. Secondly, I am changing my walking route until I’m sure that it is no longer in my path as I’m afraid of picking up bad juju just passing by it. And thirdly, I’m compiling a list of names and addresses of people who can expect to find a Ten of Spades on their front walkway if they don’t clean up their act.

When you think of a rock being challenging it’s usually in the context of climbing one or perhaps encountering one the size of a football right where you want to plant that Pride of Barbados. However, I have found a rock that challenges you in a different way. May I introduce you to Question Rock.

I first encountered Question Rock a couple of weeks ago while on my walk. It’s approximately 6″x12″ in size and located in a heavily trafficked area near a sidewalk that runs next to St. Edward’s University. At first I didn’t pay Question Rock much mind and regarded it as being nosy. After awhile, however, I began to see Question Rock was merely doing its job. Every time I pass by now I imagine it asks me a question. Sometimes it’s something mundane like “How are you doing?” or “Hot enough for you?” Other times I imagine it being passive aggressive and asking questions like, “Is that as fast as you can walk?” or “Did you know that Old Navy is having a sale on T-shirts?” or simply, “WTF?” And other times I imagine it asking the questions no one else dares to, “What bad decisions have you made lately?” or “What the hell are you doing with your life anyways?” The beauty of Question Rock is that it has no answers; you have to find those yourself. And should I ever find Answer Rock I’m not about to tell anyone where it is.

I’m also now on the lookout for other punctuation rocks. I think encountering Comma Rock would be delightful because let’s face it, when you’re walking 3 miles in 90 degree heat with 90% humidity any excuse to pause is welcome.

I have no need for Semicolon Rock. Semicolons are the bisexuals of punctuation.

I think Exclamation Point rock would be a lot of fun; kinda like running into a catty friend at a bar, ordering a round of vodka tonics and then talking sh*t about everyone you know. “YASS QUEEN!”,”NO WAY!”,”OMG!” and “I’M AS HARD AS A ROCK!… because, you know, I’m a rock.”

I’m not sure I want to encounter Period Rock, at least not in the punctuation sense or any other sense really now that I think about it. There is a bit too much of a sense of finality to that though I have to admit it would make for a succinct marker for a final resting place. Full stop indeed.

This month will mark five years since I moved into my current house and in that time six people on my street have died, or on average one every ten months.  A couple of qualifiers:  My street is actually three contiguous blocks so it’s long with about fifty homes on it.  Even so, that’s over 10% of the residences that have been paid a visit by the grim reaper.  And while my previous street had half that many homes, I can only think of four neighbors who passed away in the nearly 27 years I lived there.  Also of note, of the six who are no longer members of the neighborhood association one was 102, one was six months shy of her 100th birthday and another was 96.  The youngest was a fellow who I would’ve estimated to be in his mid forties, a diabetic and an alcoholic and drove an Audi I dubbed “the whiskey wagon” due to the fact that it was less than two years old and had dents in all four fenders.  He also enjoyed yelling at me to get my attention when he saw me out front and would then come over and stand in my driveway holding a plastic cup filled with red Gatorade and vodka and tell me how much he didn’t like my house.  Love thy neighbor and all that, but in his case the epitaph, “He did it to himself” would not have been undeserved.

Two of my neighbors passed away just last week, one of whom was a speaking acquaintance and the other I didn’t know at all.  And if I understood the news report from Gene, our de facto block captain and trash cart whisperer who has lived on this street since childhood, they died on the same day.  Something else they had in common was that both of their houses were listed for sale recently and both were under contract at the time of their passing.  Also, both homes were marketed as teardowns.  So not only are the homeowners gone, their homes will be as well in fairly short order.  

One of the hot topics in Austin real estate these days is gentrification; older modest homes, many of which have fallen into disrepair and located in central neighborhoods, are torn down and replaced with much larger, more expensive homes that change the character of the neighborhood. Full disclosure:  I live in an abode that is in the much-maligned style of the urban or modern white “farmhouse”.  I’m fine with it and so are my neighbors.  I figure that when I get older and become REALLY eccentric as opposed to my current level of only being mildly so, I’ll paint the exterior a vivid shade of cerise thereby giving rise to a whole new generation of haters who will come stand in my driveway sipping their IPAs and telling me how much they dislike my house.

The recent turn of events on my street got me thinking that there is one group that has been largely left out of discussions on the displacement caused by gentrification: dead homeowners.  Has anyone thought about the impact that tearing down the homes of the recently deceased is having on the haunted housing market? They have not. What if you had made plans after shuffling off your mortal coil to come back and haunt the people who bought your house only to find out that it’s no longer there?  Where do you go? Would you check in to a hotel and haunt the guests staying there?  Somehow I don’t think knocking things over in a strange place would be nearly as satisfying as it would be doing it in your former home. Maybe move in with your kids?  Newsflash: If you couldn’t get them to change their behavior to suit you while you were alive you’re going to be even less effective at it when you’re dead.  Go ahead and adjust the thermostat because you think it’s turned down too low in the middle of the summer and they’re wasting energy.  They’ll just come right behind you and turn it back down but this time they can’t see your disapproving looks so what’s the point?

And fair warning to whoever buys my house if it’s still standing when I take my leave:  Your interior design game better be on point because if it’s not that “thunk” you hear in the middle of the night will be me taking those floor height resin candlesticks you bought on sale at Home Goods and throwing them in the closet. 

Beautiful morning for a walk here in Austin, TX. so I headed down to the track at the St. Edward’s soccer field to get in a couple of miles. It was obvious that there was going to be a match held shortly as the players from the opposing team were beginning to slowly filter on to the field. I figured I probably had time to get in a few more laps before the game started, but then the sound guy showed up with his equipment and proceeded to conduct a sound check. His song of choice? “Believe.” Hearing Cher at 80 decibels so early in the day caused me to have a mild case of cognitive dissonance since I felt I should be walking briskly with a cigarette in one hand and $3 well drink in the other. I had to leave. Maybe next time I encounter that situation I’ll see if he takes requests and ask for something by Fleetwood Mac.

This morning I waited for the snow to melt (ha!) before going on my walk and let me tell you brothers and sisters, it was BRISK. I took my usual route through the neighborhood and St. Edward’s University campus to the athletic field where I try to get in as many laps as time and body will allow me to. It was in between classes so there were lots of students milling about and I was amused by the number of male students wearing shower sandals and white socks and the number of coeds who were delighted to have yet another excuse to wear that puffy coat they got on clearance at Nordstrom Rack.

When I arrived at the track I picked up the pace and about 500 feet in noticed that there, right in the middle, was a banana; not a banana peel but a fully intact banana. I didn’t let this discovery break my stride, but my curiosity was piqued so on my second lap I slowed my roll as I approached the banana and inspected it a bit more closely and without picking it up could tell that it was moderately ripe, had a few bruises and that the peel was unbroken. I carried on. By the third lap I had decided I was going to make contact with the banana. I once more slowed down, this time glancing around to see if there was anyone nearby who looked like they might be missing a banana (there wasn’t) and then reached down and picked it up off the ground. It was indeed a fine banana. But now what do I do with it?

I set the banana down on a nearby bench on the off chance that its owner might claim it. I resumed my walk and every lap when I walked past the banana I felt compelled to acknowledge it; a slight nod, a smile. At one point I think it smiled back. If you think about it, bananas are really good at smiling. Of course the inverse is true and they’re also good at frowning. At any rate, with each passing I pondered its fate. I briefly toyed with the idea of turning it in to lost and found just to see the look on their faces then realized they probably would have called the campus police. I finally decided that if no one had claimed the banana by the time I was done I would take it with me.

Then I was faced with how to get it home. Do I carry it in my hand (I was wearing gloves due to the cold), because let’s face it, there’s not anything even remotely creepy about an old guy with a gray beard wearing sweats, gloves and a fishing hat carrying a banana through a throng of young people, many of whom aren’t even old enough to drink. I then had the idea of putting it under my hat with the added bonus of getting in touch with my inner Carmen Miranda by wearing fruit on my head and humming “South American Way” all the way home. I also considered sticking it in the pocket of my track pants and repeating the same punchline to myself for the next mile and a half, “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

But ultimately I drew my inspiration from Gwen Stefani who obviously found herself in the EXACT same situation when she sang:“Few times I’ve been around that track, So it’s not just gonna happen like that, Let me hear you say, this sh*t is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S”

Indeed it is, Gwen. Indeed it is.

I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I haven’t had a library card since they did away with card catalogs (you know, the kind with actual cards). I decided that I would do one thing today to enrich my life that didn’t cause me to spend money or break a sweat and it turns out getting a library card was just the ticket. It was my first visit to the new library since it opened almost 2 years ago and I must say it’s quite impressive; lots of light, tastefully appointed and because this is Austin it has a bar, of course. The children’s floor looked like fun, but seeing as how my card clearly stated I was an adult I would have looked out of place, or possibly even been detained, if I had spent too much time there. Any of you with small children who would like to loan them out as props one afternoon so I can blend in better, please let me know. I’ll buy them a drink in the bar afterwards. “Put it on Uncle Frank’s tab!”

I also checked out my first book today, The Interior Circuit: A Mexico City Chronicle by Francisco Goldman. I did so based on the recommendation of Jenny Huth because, well, she’s Dr. Huth. I’m contemplating a trip to Mexico City next year and thought it might get me in the frame of mind to make the journey. Now I just have to remember to return it by August 31st or incur a late charge. And THAT will be the real test of whether or not I’m an adult.

I’ve seen this photo before and today it popped up in a FB group I follow (yesterday was the birthday of both Ann Richards and Liz Carpenter). I never met any of these women, but one time when my mom was visiting we were eating lunch at Texas French Bread when Ladybird and a friend came in and sat near us. I remember being struck by how similarly dressed she and my mother were; denim skirt and a crisp collared blouse, minimum amount of jewelry. I’m pretty sure neither of them ever had a Chico’s Kind of Day in their lives.

Another time I was by myself at Jason’s Deli in Westlake and Liz Carpenter and a companion were there eating dinner. To my delight she toddled over to the soft serve ice cream machine and got herself a tiny cone before leaving.

And when they were filming a scene downtown for the movie “A Perfect Life” and using one of my cars, we were all treated to a catered BBQ lunch on the grounds of governor’s mansion. I was one of the first ones there and Ann Richards was sitting at a long table near the front talking to someone. She looked up and said, “Come on in! The food’s over there,” pointing to the buffet.

So technically I can say I have eaten with three out of the four women pictured here. And the Queen is still alive so…

I started to comment on someone’s Father’s Day post featuring a photo of their dad as a young man with, “You’re definitely not the milkman’s kid,” but then self-editing kicked in and I decided not to because A.) While it’s meant as a compliment it’s also kinda snarky and I’m not sure they would have appreciated it and B.) We are rapidly approaching the day, perhaps today, when people younger than myself will not get that reference. I can barely remember our milkman except that he worked for Borden’s and bore a slight resemblance to Ernest Borgnine. He wore a uniform with a black-billed cap and carried a wire basket with bottles of milk in it that he left by our back door. And I don’t ever recall my mother telling me to go outside and play while he was there. So to all the dads, milkmen or otherwise, Happy Father’s Day!

I found this photo in a box along with hundreds of others when my aunt in San Antonio passed away in 1993. I don’t know anything about the men in the photo; there’s nothing written on the back of it indicating who they might be, where it was taken, etc. I’m certain that it was taken during WWII and I think it’s fairly safe to say that my aunt probably knew at least one of them (none of them were family members that I’m aware of), but past that everything else is a mystery. Where were they from? Where was the photo taken? Did they see battle? Did they come home, marry, have children? So many questions.

In the instant that this photo taken the reality of war was suspended for at least a brief moment and that’s the romanticized image that many of us have about WWII in particular, that it was “the good war.”

My father served as a Marine in the PTO. He never talked much about his military service except to retell a hilarious story of him coming face-to-face with a komodo dragon while scaling a cliff on the island of Tarawa. I don’t think he ever felt as though he did anything extraordinary and if you were to tell him that he did he no doubt would have waved you off, probably with a cigarette in his hand (a habit he picked up while serving unfortunately). Humility was a hallmark of The Greatest Generation and it is sorely missed these days.

Today we honor all the veterans of all the wars. We thank them for their service whether we have a personal connection to them or not. And there are probably still a few crusty old birds who will say that it was no big deal but it was sir, it was.