Official site of Tribune News serving Tomball, Magnolia and Waller

"Clifford, come here! Clifford, can you hear me boy, I said get in here!"
"Sir", I said as I entered the unfinished kitchen. 
"Look at this, every one of these styles are a sixty-fourth too short or long."
"What's a style Uncle Speedy and how short did you say they were?"
"I said they were each a sixty-fourth too short or two long and a style is the divide between each door on these cabinets!"
"Ok, but Uncle Speedy, what's a sixty fourth?" I asked.
"Clifford how long have you been working on cabinets?"
"Well Uncle Speedy I've only done this a couple of times before, but I still don't understand what a sixty fourth is!"
"Come here and look at this ruler. Do you see each of these little marks between the inch marks? That's a sixty fourth!"
"Do you mean those little, bitsy, teeny, tiny marks?"
"Yes Clifford, each one of those marks represent one sixty fourth of an inch!"
"But Uncle Speedy what difference does one sixty fourth make? I can't even see it much less cut it any closer!"
"Look at it this way son. If you had a cabinet sixty four feet long and you cut every style one sixty fourth shorter than the one before, how short would your cabinets be?"
Now even though I had to go through Mrs. Beards remedial math course three times to get through high school, I was still able to calculate the answer when I finally confessed to him it would be an inch out of whack! That's a lot when you're working on cabinets and they hadn't invented one-inch caulk yet.
This was one of my first lessons in cabinet making from Uncle Speedy Bogs. Now Uncle Speedy really wasn't my uncle but because all the Mueller Boy's called him Uncle Speedy I called him Uncle Speedy too!
I had often asked my dad how Speedy got his name. He confessed to me that it was a nickname given him by all his boyhood friends. He had one crippled foot and they always had to wait on him when they were running anywhere so they just nicknamed him Speedy! The name stuck, even in light of its original connotation that sounds cruel to some, but was really a sign of friendship between boys. We men are like that you know. We take the worst things about a guy and poke fun at them and as we get older we soon realize the nicknames given each one of us are really a true bonding of friendship. Many men carry nicknames from childhood. Moose, Goose, Unk, Speedy, Shorty, Fat Albert, Dog, Bimbo, Cotton, Squi-rrel, Hoss, Peg, Runt, Blackie, Whitie, Stick, Stinky, Blue, Suds, Shine, Hair, Monkey, Smitty, Rubber Butt and Popeye are just a few of the nicknames that have stuck with men that I have known for their entire lives. Mine was Popeye, because as a child I wore a Popeye outfit at Halloween with a can of spinach stuffed down my shirt. The problem was however the can kept falling down the front of my shirt, past my skinny ribs and wound up either falling on the floor or into my pants which really made a sight for wonderment.
When the name is first anointed on them it is usually at a young age. It is initially intended to poke fun at each other but as we grow older we soon realize the name is no longer intended in harming or poking fun at you, it's simply a way of being accepted by other men with common problems, likes and ideas. I don't expect my female readers to understand the bonding two men have when their nickname is used as an everyday, common expression of friendship and acknowledgement.
Well, now I've got a new name to add. It's Pink Sugar. Pink Sugar works at a Panera Bread location down at Spring Cypress and Tomball Parkway. If the place doesn't advertise in this paper they need to because I will tell you that Pink Sugar has been added to my list of good food and faster service. Just for kicks I have started timing Pink Sugar and the crew that produces my lunch sometimes just for fun.
I will tell you that I recently received a bowl of soup and a handmade half a sandwich in twenty three seconds! Now someone will misunderstand that a sandwich made in twenty three seconds can't be any good, but no joke, it is a regular sandwich that Pink Sugar can put together in a flash!  I am a connoisseur of good food and I have eaten at just about every restaurant in this area and fast is not always good but in this case, it really is. What's bothering me now, however, is how does a guy get a nickname like Pink Sugar? What if Pink Sugar wanted to join a motorcycle gang? Can you see him going up against names like Lug Nuts, Flywheel and Jack Hammer? HA!
"What's your name boy?" "
Ahhh, its Pink Sugar"
It makes me think of cotton candy ….hmmm.

Clifford

I got a phone call tonight from a Fellon. She tried to harass me, but people always forget that I can generally have the last laugh. The word is mightier than the sword.

Ok, Ok, now let me straighten out this story. The Fellon that called me is actually my son's mother in law. No, she is not really a felon, but she really is a Fellon. That is her last name. She thought she could tease me about a recent situation that occurred to me. The two of us have recently had similar occurrences in our separate lives that have caused us distress. She has had a real bad sinus infection which has caused her serious and uncomfortable nose bleeds and I have recently had a nose bleed too! The only thing however is she had no control over her sickness, but shear dumbness caused me to create my own nose bleed.

I was trying to show off and accidentally hurt myself. You would think that a guy who just turned sixty would have more sense, but alas, I'm a kid at heart and made a dumb mistake. My son and I went to the shooting range to get ready for opening weekend of deer season. I'm a lazy hunter and really don't even hunt anymore, but I try to push myself into believing I will do some serious hunting. The truth is I don't like getting out of bed early enough to climb into a stand. Just the same, I do go to the range every year for that "just in case" opportunity and the trip is a tradition for my son and I (and my son in law – if I can get him to go).

Well this year I decided to shoot my lever action 30-30 with open sight, at 50 yards. I did reasonably well grouping ten shots in a hands span while my son was on the other end of the range shooting a hundred yards with my scoped 30-30. As I stood behind him watching his shooting techniques, I noticed by his body language that he was not happy with his shots. Finally he turned to me and told me he was having some difficulty hitting the bull's eye.

Great, I thought, here is one way for the old man to one up him and I just calmly asked him if I could give it a try. I grabbed the gun and sat down at the bench. I pushed all the sand bags aside as I knew that sitting in a deer stand would not offer the comfort and resting on a stack of bags. No siree I was going to free hand it! I threw the gun to my shoulder and fired off a nice quick round at the target. In a split second after my shot was made I glanced through the scope again at the target and sure 'nuff a nice clean hole just an inch or so away from the bull's eye.

Well, I thought in a nano second, I better quit while I'm ahead and then suddenly a sharp pain began to develop as I felt a warm trickle run down the top of my nose. Ohhhh, you dummy, my mind screamed, show no pain, as I stepped away from the bench and stepped back for my son to gaze at his dad's well placed shot. I moved to the edge of the dark shadows and took the cuff of my old shirt and pressed it hard against my nose when my son turned to me and saw me bleeding.

If you haven't figured it out by now, my showing off made me hold the gun too loosely and when I fired the scope came back and hit me across the nose leaving a nice clean cut across the bridge of my German sized schnotzel. (Yes, I know that is not the right word but that is what my Grandma called it). The whole incident became funny by that time, as the pain had subsided, but it made me think back to my Great Uncle Teddy Vogt. I seem to recall the time as a kid when he showed up at a family reunion with a very badly bruised eye from the same situation. We got to laughing among ourselves as young kids and nick-named him Uncle Scope Eye. I guess I learned my lesson because payback ain't funny.

All in all, the pain and no gain was a good time for my son and I to be together and the harassing phone call from Mrs. Fellon made for a good story. I just can't wait to give you a deer hunting report. It's probably gonna read something like this: I showed up at the ranch this weekend to deer hunt. I got up early, well before sunrise Saturday morning, to head out to my stand. After several cups of coffee and a bathroom stop I decided to take a quick nap before walking to my stand and didn't get up until noon..

 - Clifford

My daughter recently showed me a picture of Superman. He was in a football uniform except this time he was in a real game. He wasn't dressed up for Halloween as he was the last time I saw him. That was over thirteen years ago and Superman had grown up. Here was a story I remembered from many, many years ago.
Halloween had come and gone and I got into trouble again. It seems that every year that goes by I get in trouble for one reason or another.
Some years I get into trouble for being over zealous in my Halloween activities and then some years I get fussed at for not caring.
If I am in one of my, I don't care years, my wife gets on to me because I don't come to the door every time it rings and ogle and ah at each little candy snatcher that makes their way to our door. If I'm in one of my very active modes she has to get on to me because I tend to go overboard. I can still remember one year at a former church I attended I kinda got into trouble for being too creative.
The Hall family used to live in a location that was way out in the boonies or at least so it seemed.  Tall trees and a lot of underbrush surrounded them and their property had a gully that ran across one area of the land. We decided to have a spook trail and we did all kind of fun scary things. We cleared paths in the woods and I laid some lumber across this little gully that had about two inches of water in it. Once it got dark all of the actors took their various places around the trail and I tended the water crossing.
As the group touring our trail got positioned onto the crossing, I would pour a cup of gasoline on the water as it ran toward the board. I could see the oily skin on the water reflecting in the moonlight and as soon as it got near the bridge I would light the gasoline. The trail of fire trickling toward the board crossing naturally made people scatter. It was fun until the women started getting mad because I was making them get their feet wet while escaping the wall of fire. People got tired of trampling on each other too! Creative panic and controlled chaos is what I called it.
I really felt bad about what happened this one particular year! I always thought Halloween was a time to be so scared it made you wet your pants but apparently that idea went out with bell-bottom pants.
One little trick or treater named Tyler Ligon visited our house along with his mom. I happened to be outside when they drove up and once they made their way inside I hid between some bushes in front of our house hoping to scare everybody that walked out the door. For whatever reason my wife allowed them to exit the side door to our home and little Tyler made his way past my lair as I jumped out and growled real loud. The little fellow was dressed as Superman and as much as he tried not to, he burst into tears, deflating any laughter this old man had. I apologized and my wife got after me with a piece of weed eater string. I guess it just goes to show you that big guys never grow up and all guys, big or little, still need the comfort from the women in their lives.
It was good to see your picture Tyler. I'm the old man that scared Superman.



- Clifford

Editor's Note: This is a reprint of a column published last year. It is being republished by special request.
 
If you sit back and consider your life, are there just a few small things that jump out at you? Have you ever had a split second recollection of a small memory as a child that may literally last just a few seconds in your mind, but it becomes a memory that will forever remain embedded in the corner of your brain? This happens to me occasionally. I can be talking to someone about something or somebody when all of a sudden a small scene plays out in my mind recalling quick short events that bring back good and bad memories. Think about it. I have a hunch everyone has those moments.
I have memories of short events. I can remember the time I cut the muscle in my big toe, while playing in Spring Creek with the Mueller boys during one of our camping trips. It happened in the creek behind what is now Burroughs Park. All I can recall is cutting the underside of my toe, looking at it and seeing some bad stuff but I simply took a dirty sock, wrapped it around the toe and went about my camping trip. It was only years and years later that I realized I had actually cut the muscle under my toe and now I cannot curl my big toe. It remains straight and unable to flex. It is about a five second memory. I remember nothing else about the camping trip – not sure how many of the Mueller boys were there and I'm not sure how long I remained in camp that day after it happened. (In case you didn't know there were seven boys in the Mueller Family, so we did not all go to the same place at the same time and please ladies, now that my mom is gone please don't call me  and fuss at me for wrapping my cut toe in a dirty sock. I now know better.)
Another short event is when my sister Gallbladder hit me in the head with a roasting pan. (I'm sorry, misprint – her real name is Gail) I have no idea why she hit me, but all I recall is this big bong sound coming from my ears as this big, black, speckled roasting pan landed squarely on top of my head. She hit me with the center of the bottom of the pan, so it did not hurt, but in less than one or two seconds I can recall the sound and eventual laughter that arose from the family after she hit me. She says now that I was probably picking on her which I have been occasionally known to do.
I was having a conversation with my neighbor and distant cousin Ruby Vogt a couple of day's ago. I told her that I have a short memory about her mom, Ms Edna Mae.
When I was a young man running the dirt roads of Hufsmith on my bicycle, different people would occasionally ask me to help them with different small chores around the place. I have no idea why or how come I was down at the Vogt home, but all I can recall is that Ms. Edna Mae and I were standing in the yard talking, when suddenly a pole cat (skunk) was running across the pasture.
Seeing this chicken killin', thievin', stinkin' critter she went into a minor semi panic mode. She quickly let out a small sound of shock to see this critter in mid day and she turned and ran up her steps into her house and quickly exited with shotgun in hand. She thrust the shotgun into my hand and hollered "shoot em', go shoot em'" I know I must have already been ten or twelve years old and I had been around guns all my life, but any hunting I did was always with my dad. Here I was, away from the confines of our own property and visiting a neighbor, when she hands me this gun, sight unseen and instructs me to go shoot this varmint. She had it loaded and ready to fire and I took aim.
At this point my memory stops. It's gone! I have no recollection of my shot, no recollection of the end results and nothing else about the whole event, but maybe fifteen seconds of life, as this grown adult woman of whom I admire and love handed me this gun. It was as if I had suddenly achieved the manly, masculine qualities required to protect and serve. Never mind all I was doing was protecting a pen full of chickens. Never mind that I had never used another gun other than my dad's. Never mind that I had never shot a skunk before. All I remember is that moment of life that this lady respected me as old enough to handle the task at hand.
This should teach all of us a small lesson. We humans remember little things. Little spots of life, whether good or bad, are forever etched in our minds, never to be erased. Always strive to leave good memories in peoples lives. Hold back the one bad word or bad comment. Keep that outburst of anger in check. Bite your tongue because somewhere, someplace, somebody is always watching and the memory banks of the brain may never forget.


- Clifford

Dear Friend That Will Remain Unnamed,

I just need to let you know that you are now part of one of my special clubs that I have created. It is called the "useless club". It can also be called the "useless man's club".
Last night there was a conversation between two ladies that we both know. During the conversation there was a discussion about your wife.
I know she has not been feeling well and unfortunately she has had to make a temporary stay in the hospital. There were questions exchanged between these two ladies about her condition. They were concerned about her as they both care for her in a great way and they were really, really wondering how she was doing.
The problem, however, is that the one lady was depending on updates about your wife from yourself. Apparently your updates were not detailed enough. Even though you have given general information it did not contain the necessary details that most women require. The information you have given was openly called "useless". I can share this with you because as with most things, women sometimes think we guys are just "useless".  I know that you are older than I am and I know that you have a lot more wisdom than I do, but you really need to learn how women want detail. I think I have been married a few more years than you have and I need to share some things with you.
It's not enough to simply tell a woman that your wife is doing "fine". Even though the reasonable and logical answer is a one word answer, you must provide detail to a woman – important details too.
It is fully understandable that over detailing any situation simply adds to your already burdened life, because one detail always leads to another question and sometimes men are simply being tested to see if we are telling the truth. It is a trap. It is the female way to find out if we are really as smart as we know we are or could it be that we are simply giving them details to pacify them.
You and I both know that more talking creates less oxygen on the planet and we men need a lot of oxygen when hunting and gathering to feed our families, but the female intake of oxygen is an ongoing everyday massive undertaking. On the other hand however we do need to provide detail mixed with most of the truth. Let me explain.
If a person asks you how your wife is doing, here would be a sampling of an appropriate answer.
"My wife is doing very well thank you. When we arrived at the hospital to check her in she was wearing a blue outfit with beige shoes and her hair was made up in the normal fashion. It was pulled back slightly to the left and it was tied back with a nice hair ribbon. She walked steadily into the room by herself before being admitted. She held her pen in her right hand while signing the paperwork and she was smiling with a slightly tilted head while signing the papers.
As she finished her paperwork we made our way down to her room. It was painted white with a brown wood framed door and the floor was white vinyl. The bed is on the right hand side of the room and it had beautifully placed hospital sheets pulled taut across the bed.
She slipped into her pink gown with white lace on the bottom hem and she wore white cotton slippers. As I helped her into the bed she was greeted by a nurse named Jackie who was very polite and helpful. She was asked to plan her meals for the day and I assisted her with the chicken soup for lunch and ground beef gravy steak for her supper with peas, carrots and a roll. She had tea to drink.
As I exited the room we held each other tightly. Her room number is 2003 and her doctor will be visiting at 4 p.m. this afternoon with updates. I will return to the hospital to see her at that time and I will be glad to provide further updates then."
Do you get the picture David? Do you see that extreme detail is needed when explaining things to a woman? 
Now. There is a way out of this however. The way to make a woman feel you are needed once again is the next time you are asked to repair something around the house, even though you may not really know how to make the repair properly, at least attempt to act like you do. Fake it! Grab whatever it is that needs repairs and jiggle it, hit on it, move it around and maybe it will fix itself. Then once it is working again she will find you very, very useful. She will call her friends and heap praise upon you for making the repair and she will think you are the smartest guy in the world. Just hope and pray she never asks you for details on how the repairs were made. That's when the big trouble begins.
Your Friend and Advisor,

- Clifford
President and CEO of the Useless Man's Club.

I was making my way home several years ago down Hufsmith Road and was about to round the deep corner before you get to Mama Goodsons old café site. I was traveling east on the inside corner, when I noticed a cow in the pasture to my right. She was on her front knees rocking back and forth like she was about to try and leap into the air. I then noticed her rear legs were nowhere to be seen and she appeared to have both back legs amputated. I thought to myself how cruel somebody must be to take off her back legs and leave her in the pasture to fend for herself. I then realized this cow was in serious trouble. She had already worked up a great deal of saliva in her mouth, which is a good indication of stress on a cow.
I stopped the car and dodged a few cars, whose occupants were of course wondering what kind of foolishness I was up to, as I made my way over to the fence.
I could tell this poor cow was in great need of help as her rear legs had both become victim of a small sinkhole and were obviously dangling in thin air several feet below the earth.
I knew the family living in the house, so I made my way to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Foley. As I got back to my car the cow finally freed herself, but she had peeled the hide off the front of her back legs.   
It seems a pipeline had been buried on their property several years ago and the ground had sunk around the pipe. This cow had torn her legs on the buried line when she fell into the hole. I went ahead and drove up to their home and reported the problem for which they were thankful.  
Mr. and Mrs. Foley once occupied the property known to me as the Old Mahaffey Place. I don't know if this is factual, but local history tells me Mr. Mahaffey was the first postal carrier here in our area from many, many years ago. The post office at Hufsmith used to deliver the first mail to this entire area. Now, once again I want to say this is local story only, but I am told Hufsmith used to deliver mail to Tomball, Rosehill, Cypress, Klein and Spring and a part of the Oklahoma community. The nice thing about local history is it can get all jumbled up to make the story more exciting and there are only a few people who can really verify the truthfulness of the story, so with each and every retelling of the same story the truth gets stretched more and more.
As I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Foley my Grandma Osgood and Aunt Agnes Williams came to mind and Mrs. Foley and I both had a good laugh.
Grandma and Aunt Aggie were two soul mates. During their later years in life they attached themselves to each other like bread and butter. Grandma was a shorthaired lady with white hair and Aunt Aggie had long dark hair. Aunt Aggie drove a car and grandma didn't. Aunt Aggie lived alone after Uncle Percy died and grandma didn't like living alone when grandpa died. Grandma fished and I never saw Aunt Aggie fish. Aunt Aggie made a big garden every year and I don't remember grandma's gardens as being very big.  Two women of opposite ideas and lives, but so closely knit they were inseparable. Where one lady went, so went the other.
Several years ago Mrs. Foley was outside one day when she saw this black and white Ford car driving aimlessly around in her cow pasture. Now there's nothing strange about a car in the pasture, but in this case there was no gate to give access to the field. It seems Aunt Aggie missed the stop sign from Zion Road to Hufsmith and they flew through the ditch and tore down part of the fence, landing unhurt, but stunned in Mr. and Mrs. Foleys cow pasture. These two women were well in their late sixties, early seventies at this point of life and a traumatic jolt of jumping a ditch left them dazed and disoriented.
As Mrs. Foley went into the field to flag this strange car down, she realized these two ladies were somewhat out of sorts. Mrs. Foley asked them if they were ok and they seemed undaunted in their task at hand which was to get to Willing Workers at Church, "could you please show us the exit gate"?
Mrs. Foley tried to help them, but they insisted they were running late and simply needed to get out of this pasture so they could get about their church work, not realizing the car could be damaged or they could be hurt and not even realize it.
Off into the sunset drove Aunt Aggie with Grandma Osgood in the passenger seat, never to look back again. Two friends in life who shared many memories and many laughs, probably barely realizing the potential seriousness of their accident. More worried about their church work than themselves.
Many years ago these two friends passed away. Aunt Aggie first, then grandma had a stroke less than three weeks later.


- Clifford

Ok, I know this is a dated story and yes, I'm cheating today and re-hashing something old, but like I always say, we all eat the same kind of foods at different times, so why not re-read an old story once in a while.

This past year has been a good one for me. Many of my personal dreams and ideas are coming to pass and I must say I look forward to the new year with a new fervor and delight. I know that regardless of the everyday occurrences in one's life, the overall outcome is still gonna be alright. I'm secure in my faith and beliefs in God and in him I place all my trust, well, sort of, well, almost anyway, unless one decides to tempt fate and do something stupid.  I just hope my stupid days in life are over.

I had enough of those times as a young boy, but I have had a new chill run up my neck a couple of weeks ago that made me re-think my moves and habits up at the ranch.
Now I need to preface this story with a fact. For those of you who do not know me, I am pretty straight laced in my lifestyle, so I can tell you this story with a straight face and a clear mind.

The family ranch is located in Independence, which is north of Brenham about twelve miles. We are in Washington County and our property backs up to a creek named Yegua Creek, which is the spillway for Lake Somerville. (Yegua is pronounced Yeah Wall for all of you folks who can't speak Texan. Another confusing issue is Kuykendahl, pronounced Kur Ken Dial for those of you new to our area) The land is really isolated and has boundaries surrounded by several thousand acres on all sides that are inhabited by less than ten or so people. There is no though traffic and only one way in and one way out. During hard rains we can actually get flooded in, as the water rushes over the road. We are in a fairly remote area for these parts.

About the second week of November, on a cool, crisp afternoon, I was leaving the ranch just about sunset. As I drove down the one lane road approaching our gate, my mind was in a numbed state because I had just finished a couple of hours of relaxation while doing my chores.

Now I know that statement is a bit contradictory. You may ask how can I relax while working? For me, personally, working with my cattle or just messing around outside is relaxing. It can be blazing hot or freezing cold, but if I am away from my desk at work, the pressures of life seem to flow away while I am busting my body doing manual labor. Now all you people who work outside all day probably do think I'm a bit crazy feeling that way, but it's true. I enjoy the manual labor even though it's hard work. My mind is free and all I need to worry about is making sure I don't get myself tangled up in tractor parts or barbed wire and make sure one of my cows doesn't knock me down and hurt me.

Anyway, I finally made it to the gate and got out to lock it. After closing the gate and placing the padlock, I turned to walk back to my truck and I happened to take one last view of the land ahead, as a movement caught my eye in the brush.

"What is that," I thought and my mind immediately said "oh, it's just an old coyote".

I again surveyed the animal and said to myself "wait, a coyote doesn't slink though the grass like that!" Wow, look at the size of that creature! Look at its tail! That sucker has got to be at least seven or eight feet long! That's, that's, that's a cougar!"

And as suddenly as my mind grasped hold of what I was seeing it had already slipped into the next clump of bushes and I did not see it again. 

The animal was a beautiful, extremely dark coated animal, almost black in color and it was in a stalking mode. I don't know if it was approaching a rabbit, squirrel, bird or what, but the cat I saw was an honest to goodness mountain lion or cougar, if you will!

As I drove away in somewhat disbelief I was a bit taken back by what I had just seen. I was reluctant to share this with anybody as I know they would think I am crazy!
After a week or so I got up the nerve to talk to a hog hunter in the area named Zeke. When I mentioned this to Zeke he went to cussin' and sputterin' about wanten' to wrap that cat around the local biologist's neck!

It seems Zeke has seen this cat for several years, but the local authorities have told him that cougars are no longer in this area. I think Zeke is pleased that two of us have now seen this cat.

I'm still secure in my personal faith but this sighting has made me re-think those quiet walks through the woods. I think I may start carrying some added protection. A faith-booster if you will…


- Clifford

I am living proof that wisdom comes with age. The older I get, the more wisdom I exude with each day that passes. My greatest wisdom is related to marriage and therefore, I need to expound this wisdom to the younger generation of men. It is my duty to pass this wisdom along to make marriages better for the men of the world! Young men, hear my words of wisdom and heed them, well! There are a few rules you must learn to live by in order to keep peace in the household.
Rule # 1. Never assist the woman in your life by carrying crystal plates, cups or other fine chinaware that is considered an heirloom, or that may be expensive. I don't care how strong or manly you may be, these items are always subject to jump off of tables or out of your arms without notice. If your wife asks you to move these items, simply act like you are gagging real bad or go into a coughing fit. You can fake a bad hand, broken leg or even a strained back, but never lay a hand on these items.
Rule #2. Never offer to carry any kind of food or baked products that are being used for special celebrations such as weddings, anniversaries or showers. Recently I’ve held true to my beliefs on this and was saved by my insistence to not carry a wedding shower cake. My wife and I had gone to a local bakery to pick up this cake for my niece's shower that was being held at our home. The cake was a three tiered cake and it was in a box, but I told my wife that it would be best if I do not touch it, knowing full well that the worst could happen if I touched the thing. My wife carefully carried the box from the store and it was my job to drive her and the cake home while it rested gingerly on her lap in our car. We made it home just fine and the cake was carefully placed on the serving table for consumption the next day. The cake was covered and there it sat during the night awaiting the event the next day. I was instructed to leave our house during the shower (Rule #3. Always leave the house during showers!) and I gracefully obeyed the demands to vacate the house early. While I was away and as my wife and some of the other ladies opened the box to begin preparations, to their awe, shock and dismay THE CAKE HAD FALLEN OVER AND WAS SMASHED AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE BOX! This of course is a major disaster to any group of women. If it were a group of men we would have simply passed out forks to all the guys and eaten right out of the box in assembly line fashion, but for the lady folk this was really, really bad. There was only one hour before the shower and they scrambled back to the store and found a quick replacement. Not as pretty and not as well prepared as the first one, but at least they had a cake to take pictures with, even though it was a replacement cake.
Rule # 4. Act shocked and dismayed even if you really don't care what happened to their cake. Always sympathize with them.
And now that I am passing down my wisdom to the younger men, here is one last bit of advice on another subject. Always check your fly. Twice now in the past few months I have caught myself coming into work with a feeling of air about myself, only to find out I had failed to zip up. But last week, I had a different problem. I went to the hospital to visit my friend Buddy and as I walked across the parking lot this same feeling of air came about me. I immediately checked my fly only to find it securely in place. As I continued up the elevator and down the hall to his room I knew there was a problem so I quickly reached down once again to check things out, when I found I had busted my pants between the legs. I went in to his room anyhow and there was his wife Carolyn and other family members. Carolyn politely asked me to have a seat but I politely refused and remained standing with my body slightly turned away from them as I visited. Oh well, it wasn't the first time and I guess it won't be the last time these things happen. Life goes on.

- Clifford

Yes, I know someone is going to tell me they have heard this story before, but my family has been fighting the various sick bugs that have been floating around and I'm just plain tuckered out. I just don't feel like writing a new story this week. It always feels good to confess one's shortcomings, so I guess numerous confessions ought to bring me up a notch or two with my maker. Therefore, I am re-running this story entitled Confessions of an Altar Boy.
I wonder how many families have spent Thanksgiving dinners learning old dark secrets held by the men in their families?
You know the type of stories I am referring too, don't you? Johnny used to smoke cigarettes in the barn or Dan used to slip out at night through the window to ride his bicycle into town.
I can still remember how smart I thought I was, when I would climb in the big cedar tree down at the pond to smoke a cigarette. It was several years later that I found out my dad knew all along I was sneaking down there to smoke! I was shocked that he was so smart! I thought I had outwitted my parents numerous times, only to find out later in life that my parents weren't as old fashioned as I thought they were.
Well, this is one of those stories of confessions. My mom has heard it before so I'm good to go on this one – then again she probably already knows I wasn't always the sweet little boy she thought I was.
While growing up in the Tomball Lutheran School, we took daily confirmation classes in the seventh and eight grades. Part of the right of passage was to become a candle lighter for our Sunday morning services.
Of course when we would enter the sanctuary of the church we were in full robes and gave an appearance of being a cut above the normal antics of young boy's. The truth of the matter is we were acting like devils in the back room before service began and, as I have always said, God gave boy's hair to cover the growing horns.
One of the first small things we always wanted to do was taste a communion wafer. It was to our great surprise one day we found a whole box of these things under a cabinet in the same room we kept our robes. I can't remember who found the wafers, but I still remember indulging myself in the first taste of a piece of cardboard like substance that melted in your mouth into a distinct glob of yuk.
We soon acquired a taste for these things and for several days we would enter the back room of the church on our way to our confirmation classes and get our daily dose of wafer.
I don't know if they had anything to do with a rash of constipation, but I do recall after a week or so the wafers were eventually moved. I guess one of the ladies noticed the disappearance and hid them from our sight. It's a good thing the wine was kept elsewhere!
On better days we learned the value of fire. Of course one of our duties was to make sure the wicks on our candle lighters were always fresh and in order. Regardless if they  really needed a new wick or not, we would practice and practice lighting the wick and putting them out. We soon learned the longer the wick the bigger the flame and the flame soon put off soot. We also discovered the idea of running the wicks at high speed and writing on the ceiling of the room with the black soot emitting from the wick.
Now before you start wondering why there wasn't an adult in the room, you need to understand all of this went on a few minutes before the service actually started. The pastor of the church would be in the room with us, but he would then move to another room and we were left alone. It was assumed we would behave since we were in church, but somebody forgot we were still boys. Robe or no robe we still had a lot of mischief up our sleeve and our sleeves were real long while we were in those robes!
More next week as I continue the Confessions of an Altar Boy.
- Clifford

This is part two of a story I started last week named Confessions of an Altar Boy. I hope you had an opportunity to read last weeks article but in case you missed it I need to re-cap. I am describing actual events during my days as an altar boy in my childhood church.
Boys and lighter fluid are a dangerous mix.  Our duties were designed to bring honor and dignity to the church service, but if the congregation only knew the number of little devils that were lighting their candles, they would have probably passed out.
We used lighter fluid to assist our efforts in lighting the wick on our candle lighters. These were the tools used to actually light the candles before our church service. They had a long wax candle that could be controlled by a slide on the tool. I'm sure there is some religious name for these things, but I know you have seen them. They have a wick on one end and a bell shaped cone on the opposite side to extinguish the candles.
One day while using the fluid, we found that lighter fluid burned fairly cool. Now I know fire is always hot, but some fluids burn hotter than others and lighter fluid burns cool.
We soon learned we could drop a little fluid on the floor in one spot and light the terrazzo floor, but not cause burn marks. It was really cool too! A small blue flame burning from concrete was very amazing to us guys. As time passed we learned the art of writing our names in lighter fluid. Talk about having your name in lights! As time passed our little flames grew to bigger and bigger flames, almost to the point of getting out of hand.
If we thought somebody was coming to check on us we would quickly stomp out the fires with our feet. If the puddle of burning lighter fluid was deep enough, you could slap your foot on the flames and cause the fluid to splash.
This splashing would create little fire droplets all across the room. It was really neat to see the series of little drops of fire. Occasionally we would have to slap the fire out with our hands if it hit the walls.
An odd thing occurred while stomping out one of the flames. We soon learned that the UN-burned lighter fluid would stick to the bottom of our Sunday shoes and we actually had a burning foot that really didn't burn. Our antics went from burning shoes to soaking our hand in lighter fluid and lighting our hand like the guys in the movies. We called ourselves stuntmen. Sword fighting with burning fingers was a good pastime.
I know a lot of my readers are wondering who in the world could have done such things. I'll never tell. Just remember, many of the male readers of this article can relate. I will simply say many of these guys are now holding different positions in different areas of the country. Some of them are Church Elders, a couple of Ministers, past sunday school superintendents and a vast array of job duties.
I can only imagine how many people in our congregation sat through church thinking they smelled singed hair. I guess they thought it was the candles that the sweet little angel altar boys had provided for them.
If only they really knew! I guess now they do!


- Clifford