A Lake Jackson Institution

First bite: This reminds me of...?

Before Whataburger, Churches Fried Chicken, Pizza Inn and McDonalds was the only "fast" food restaurant to be found anywhere in Lake Jackson: The Dairy Bar. Mom told me that the Dairy Bar has been in business over 45 years; it was open when she and dad settled in the Brazosport area after they got married in 1960. It still sits where Sycamore meets Plantation Drive, and from what I am told, the walk-up sliding window for to-go orders remains in use.

There is something special about a Dairy Bar hamburger that I don't know how to put into words. Is it that Slim Hardin processed his own cattle, thus making the word "fresh" superfluous? Or perhaps the way the cheese and beef meld as one, with the patty slightly crunchy around the edges? If memory serves, DB burgers came one way: mayo (possibly mustard but definitely not ketchup!), lettuce, tomato and onion. Oh, and never forget to add cheese and indulge in the perfectly crispy crinkle-cut fries.

Back to my first bite. The Bellaire Broiler Burger, situated where Bissonnet meets Bellaire Boulevard in the Bellaire Triangle, is impossible to spot from the road; you must know that it sits next to the Roadster Grille if you hope to eat there. And you should.

Bellaire Broiler Burger, the Dairy Bar incarnate. Slim's secret is here, even though I'll never be able to put that secret in words. Why try? Just enjoy.

Hemingway

Mid-page 13 of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast has him sitting in a cafe on the Place St.-Michel,drinking rum St. James, working on a story -- transplanting himself is how he describes it -- and then reflecting to the reader "The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it."

How does a story write itself? An intriguing question, yes, and incomprehensible to me. Is this an example of an innate ability which launches an author into that elite group of writers whose works become classics? Great writing is something which cannot be learned? It does not seem fair.

I have not yet formed an opinion on Ernest Hemingway. The Old Man and the Sea was, as I recall, unremarkable. But perhaps a different story would speak more clearly to me about courage and overcoming obstacles than one starring a giant marlin. Feast's book jacket says that it "captures what it meant to be young and poor and writing in Paris during the 1920s."
Maybe I'll understand Hemingway's brilliance when I am through. Or maybe it was just the rum talking.

What would the "right" choice of words been?

Most of you have probably caught wind of this story, and I'd like to know your thoughts. I am tremendously unqualified to write about political issues, so please forgive me for that.

WASHINGTON - Prominent Democrats defended Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid Monday after a new book revealed racial remarks he made about Barack Obama during the 2008 presidential campaign. In a private conversation reported in the book, Reid described Obama as a "light-skinned" African-American "with no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one." Reid apologized to Obama on Saturday, after his remarks appeared on the Web site of The Atlantic. Reid issued a statement apologizing for "using such a poor choice of words." He added, "I sincerely apologize for offending any and all Americans, especially African-Americans for my improper comments." The President issued a statement accepting the apology and saying the matter was closed.

Well.

OK, We all say really dumb things. It would be nice if dumb things weren't published, but it happens, and they can and do swiftly end political careers (Trent Lott).

I suspect this matter will dissolve, since it appears as no Democrat wants to challenge Reid to relinquish his post.

Let us break it down: regarding Mr. Reid's conclusion that then-candidate Obama would be electable...because "he is a light-skinned African American (as opposed to a charcoal-hued African American?)

with no Negro dialect (as opposed to, well I'm not sure there is a word for the opposite, only Mr. Reid would know), and then..

Unless he Wanted to have one?(I'm drawing a blank here, what, that he will and should alter his dialect to please his audience? My attempt to stay unbiased stops here.) Reid may as well have gone on to say (and maybe he did)...the flaws that kept Jesse Jackson from succeeding in the political arena. He was too black.

Wow. We have come a long way, haven't we?

Yes, I am given to hyper-sensitivity with racial issues. I am offended. Any employee where I work would, and should, be fired on the spot for comments much less despicable than Mr. Reid's. Zero Tolerance.

I have not listened to any talking heads on the issue, but I can imagine the debate. How do the writers even begin to come up with a "talking-point" defense?

And I have wracked my brain. There are no "better" choices of words to serve as a salve to the "poor" choices of words with which we were assaulted. Are there?

Oh, how I wish President Obama would have immediately and justifiably chastised Mr. Reid. President Obama does not deserve to just disregard the appalling insult and "take it for the team". We want better for our Commander-in-Chief.

I am sad.

thoughts on acronyms

BLOG: What does it mean? Ah, check the Internet (of course) BLOG: Web Log. Makes sense. I felt better until this fact popped out: There are over 4 million acronyms. 4 million. Yikes. How many do I know by heart? Here I must ask for your indulgence.

This is my brain dump: NATO, NASA, UN, OPEC, PGA, FMLA, HIPPA, FDIC, UAW, ERISA, COBRA, and COBOL. Do I really know what they stand for? I must, right? But it is "hard-wired" into my genes to check for sure. My findings, for what it is worth, and a note or two about what these may imply about our world and me.

NATO: National Alliance Treaty Organization. Got it! I am going to ask Jack or Dan to see if this is taught in school.

NASA: National Aeronautics and Space Association. Okay, easy, since it is just down the road apiece.

UN: United Nations. Also, User Number, User Name, or User Network...

OPEC: Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, or something.

PGA: Professional Golfers' Association (Thank you Tiger "Cheetah" Woods for putting this one in the front of my brain)

FMLA: Family and Medical Leave Act; and along the same lines, ERISA, FDIC, UAW, HIPPA and COBRA. Mesh of new times and old times.

COBOL: Common Business Oriented language, of yore. Now: Completely-Outdated Business Oriented Language. Hmmm... I'll concede to that.

Finally. TAMU. Period.

Please comment if you are so inclined. This is the fastest I have posted a BLOG, and no time to edit to meet my standards. LOL, BFF, and IDK (IDK, My newest -- Jack taught it to me and oh so handy).

Diana

Be Prepared

Posting a blog every morning is proving to be an ambitious task. At the moment, I have no topic in mind, except for the ominous ARCTIC BLAST which will produce cold, really cold air. Casey Curry, meteorologist on channel 13's Eyewitness News, has clinched the lead story for this morning's broadcast. With a smile, she repeats, ad nauseum, that Thursday is THE day; a mix of snowflakes and rain will/may fall from the sky, while we Texans helplessly observe.

Will I alter my routine on Thursday? Not significantly. I know I will moan BBBRRR when I set off for work in the morning, and my gait will quicken slightly. I will nod in agreement a thousand times when I hear "sure is cold today", or some derivative, with the folks with whom I exchange small talk. I will remember to protect my kids, Blue and my one exposed pipe. The bushes will have to fend.

Beyond that, no change. I do not mean to be insensitive to those who reside under bridges, I trust our social services network will ensure they stay warm. We will survive while our atmosphere breaks its decade long record for its coldest day. A record to applaud? No. A record producing the "where were you on January 8th, 2010 query? No. The sad effect will be the number of house fires inevitably sparked due to the use of faulty space heaters. These are the lead stories scheduled for Thursday and throughout the weekend.

Please allow me to be the first to wish you a heartfelt "stay warm", I will not be the last.

Diana

Amelia M. Garcia: 1907 - 2004

I miss my grandmother. It has been over 5 years since she passed away. Mom reminded me that Grandmama was a writer, and that any ability I have I inherited from her. What would she think of this blog? I want to post the tribute I drafted the evening after she died and recited at her funeral Mass; this is how I will always remember Grandmama:

Grandmama lived with us my entire life; virtually all of my childhood memories include her. I realize now the many moments I took for granted. I cherish her wisdom and all the lessons she taught me. I recall her soft-spoken words, her gentle demeanor, her cheerfulness, her poise, her selflessness, her even-temperament and her patience. She maintained a passion for reading, shelves bursting with Robert Ludlum novels. Grandma was also a prolific writer, corresponding weekly with my Tia Angelina in Laredo.

Today, I can vividly picture us feeding the ducks at Lake Jackson Farms, with the crusts saved from loaves of Mrs. Bairds' bread. The 1974 Plymouth Volare took me to ballet, twirling, band, piano and school. Grandma outlasted the Volare, which she drove well into her eighties.

Grandmama sewed every one of her delightful dresses and constantly had a needlepoint project and the daily crossword puzzle by her side. She enjoyed biscuits for breakfast, coffee-talk with Mrs. Lopez, pan dulce for merienda, cheese enchiladas and Arroz con Leche. Lillian Vernon was Grandma's favorite catalog; how thrilled she would be that mail-ordering is now a national pastime. Each day, I passed through her open door, greeted by the sweet smells of Estee Lauder. We sat. We talked. Grandma was the consummate listener.

Grandma was pure in faith and honesty (granted, she did have a perpetual habit of snatching our socks and gloves in the winter!) To her, we owe the Garcia penchant for good-hearted sarcasm - her charming wit endured until the end. Everyone shared in her generous hugs, kisses, smile, laugh, warm hands and heart, compassion, encouraging words and her unwavering love for her family and friends.

I could go on, but all of you who had the honor of knowing my Grandmother can easily fill in the blanks. The world will never again taste the grandest flour tortillas ever made, but we are lucky to have our blessed memories of a beautiful Grandma, inside and out.

I can only hope to live my life as well as she lived hers. When presented the task of picking a baby girl's name in 1999, with proud hearts, Jeff and I chose Katherine Amelia Christman. Grandmama, we love you, miss you and God bless you.

A proclamation

"Why?"; "Cool"; "I have been meaning to suggest it"; "Finally!"; then, "You aren't going to write anything about us, are you, mom?" From left to right: my youngest son, oldest son, middle sister, cousin-who-is-more-like-a-sister-than-a-cousin, and back to youngest son. These are the initial responses from my proclamation, "I started a blog today".

"I started a blog today". A proclamation. Not one to draw attention to myself, I am content, comfortable with letting events unfold as they are meant to in my family -- through the grapevine. Our grapevine is reserved for topics, well, those kinds of topics which beget follow-up questions. For instance, "Why?"

To answer my youngest son's question, okay, all of you know I am referring to Danny, my response is...hmm...I don't have a definitive response. After years of writing blog-style e-mails -- before the word blog was part of our lexicon -- perhaps I feel the need to branch out, or reach out, or just plain get it out of my system.

I've read the musings of Leon Hale and Ron Rozelle and realized, okay, I can muse too. Mr. Hale and Mr. Rozelle have fans, followers. Maybe I will too someday? Channeling Sally Fields, I hope my readers will "like me, really like me". Not to get carried away, you readers know who you are: my family and very close friends.You, the chosen ones, are predisposed to like me, either because you have to, or you have complimented my writing in the past. One step further -- encouraged me.

A proclamation to those who wish encourage me: "No worries; I will not quit my day job, so let the positive comments commence!" (I believe there is a spot to post comments at the bottom of the screen, a blog is a beautiful thing). Diana

High Altitudes

From 11,000 feet in the atmosphere, Joe Robert has 1 bar available on his Droid. How do I know? He used it to wish me, from a Utah slope, an early Happy New Year while mentioning, “I am waiting for my kids to join me so we can snowboard down.” First of all, where the heck does the one bar come from? I’ll never know. Secondly, you will not hear those words expressed by me (the latter not the former). Ever.

Neither Danny nor I recollect the last time we teetered at 11,000 feet, because we passed-out there, or so we were informed. The malady is termed high altitude sickness, and the only cure, per Eric, is “to get lower, sooner than later”. I mention Eric because he left Howard Lane in Bellaire, going on 8 years ago, to reside in Evergreen, Colorado, near mile high city (5,280 feet in the air for those of us who cannot convert a simple mile to feet), and has duly adapted to the oxygen available, or not available, so to speak.

Shortage of oxygen; I prefer sea level, where the oxygen is plentiful. What do Houstonians exchange to live here versus Evergreen? Crisp, clean air for the water infused, dirty variety (and though not life threatening, but worth noting, great hair). My lungs have adapted to living zero feet above sea-level, though my hair and nose never will. I am allergic to everything.

This malady is termed “rhinitis” and the only cure is staying inside, or swallowing nightly the non-prescription pill – Zyrtec. At just over one dollar per dose, it is worth it. How much would I pay to breathe uninhibitedly? More than one dollar, less than…let us hope it never comes to that.

Challenge me, but I don’t think humans were meant to “go high”. Case in point: The frozen cadavers littering Mount Everest; Into Thin Air is a sobering read. You may ask, what about the Sherpa community? They are indigenous to the area, as are the Papua New Guinea dwellers. I will state the obvious that we Americans are not indigenous to either; we should rightly stay put.

Thank you, mom and dad, for choosing the Brazosport area on behalf of us, blessed are we. Here is to a happy, frizzy-haired, 2010!

tennis 101 - a well placed ball

Onomatopoeia: the word for a word that sounds like what it means. For example, swoosh. This is the sound of my tennis racket whipping through the air – making nocontact with an oncoming, swirling tennis ball. Swoosh. What is the word for the sound a tennis ball makes when it hits the sweet spot of my borrowed racquet? Ping? I am not sure; I’ll tell you when I hear it.

I could see on Dad’s face his reluctance to pop open a brand new can of bright yellow Dunlap 1 tennis balls. But he did, to hit the ball with me, because he is my dad. We haven’t played together in over twenty years, and he remembers that I was never that good even then. I approached the courts with a low expectation of my current playing ability. Over the course of an hour, I improved from horrible to bad. My goal is to move from bad to moderatly embarrassing.

Dad is 72 and playing tennis three times a week. He claims that the secret to staying competitive is perfecting the art of a well placed ball. It does not matter how hard your opponent can swing the racket if he can’t get to the ball in time. I am inspired to find Jack’s unused, pristine tennis racket and pound a backboard. I’ll never be a great player, but hearing “ping” instead of “swoosh”, well; it is gratification enough for me.

Hot Cereal

I can see my breath in the air, so yes, it is cold outside. Yes, the familiar red box sits in my pantry, ¾ full, likely called upon during last winter’s cold spell. If today were a school day in 1976, mom would be in the yellow linoleum-walled kitchen, not yet dressed for work as a Spanish teacher at Clute Intermediate School, solicitously peering into a pot boiling water, preparing to gradually add the ¾ cup of Cream of Wheat powder and whisk it in one consistent motion. The key to minimizing “lumps” is to stir it frequently while the cereal is simmering. Mom made perfect cereal 90 percent of the time, which did not bode well for me. I searched for the lumps – they dissolved into perfection in my mouth.

I discovered a few revelations about Cream of Wheat when I inspected the box this frigid morning. The figure, a black chef holding single-handedly a bowl of steaming cereal while smiling enthusiastically, has been the trademark since 1893 (you can find anything on the internet.) The box is indeed a cardboard box, just as it was 117 years ago when funds were so low that Tom Amidon had to “cut cartons by hand, label the packages himself, and crate them in wooden boxes made up from waste lumber.” The history of the cereal is worth a look at www.creamofwheat.com.

Cream of Wheat is good. It is a top-seller, despite its allegiance to a little-known grocery company – B&G Foods. I dare say eating Cream of Wheat cereal is part of our national heritage. It is time for me to enjoy a bowl, garnished with sugar and milk, and I hope a few lumps.