On the Road: The Shiner Trip, Part 2

It’s been a while since I started this post about our trip to Shiner, Texas, with the Fort Worth Mercedes Benz club. For a quick recap, check out the August 31st post, “On the Road: The Shiner Trip.” While on this road trip, I managed to check off a total of three Texas Monthly “Bucket List” items, (numbers 10, 12, and 19), and we had a wonderful time with the fun-loving members of the Fort Worth Benz club. The more I learn about this state, the more I want to know and see.

#19 – Drink a Free Beer at the K. Spoetzl Brewery, in Shiner.

After breakfast Saturday morning, Robert, Jim, and I hurried over to the K. Spoetzl Brewery. It wasn’t scheduled to open until ten o’clock, but as we peeked through the window into the locked gift shop, a woman suddenly appeared inside, unlocked the door, and asked, “What group are you with?” We told her it was the Mercedes Benz group and she ordered us to “Come on in!” Her name was Annie and she was to be our brewery tour guide. Then she said, “Come on up to the taps. What kind of beer do you want to taste first?”

There were four Shiner taps, and Annie gave us each an eight ounce cup with our first choices and three wooden tokens to redeem for our next three. Being that it was 9:45 in the morning, we pocketed our tokens and sipped our beer slowly while waiting for the rest of our group. A short time later they arrived at the brewery, and Robert left to head back to Austin. Annie was an unflappable guide—even when more than a hundred Corvette club members showed up without reservations.

Shiner, like many other towns in the “Little Bohemia” area of South Central Texas, was settled by German and Czech immigrants in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Thankfully, these wonderful people brought their love of beer with them to America. Check out Shiner.com for the story of the brewery and the town. The web site is cleverly constructed, but you must be 21 to log on.

When Cattle and Cotton Ruled.

After lunch, it was off to Gonzales to tour the Old County Jail Museum and do the Historic District Driving Tour. Gonzales calls itself the “Birthplace of Texas Freedom,” and claims to be where the first shot was fired in the battle for independence from Mexico. The town is a little over 18 miles to the northwest of Shiner and has a population of fewer than 7500 residents. It’s one of those little gems that make you say “ooh” and “wow” the first time you visit.

In towns all around the state one can find examples of 19th century, majestic old brick courthouses—it’s a Texas thing—and Gonzales is no exception. The courthouse, completed in 1896, is a beautiful example of Romanesque Revival style and is on the National Register of Historic Places.

The Historic Driving Tour begins at the Old 1887 Jail Museum which operated as a working jail until 1975. Some of you may remember the 1982, made for TV movie, The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez, starring Edward James Olmos in the title role. Cortez was one of the more famous “guests” at the Gonzales County Jail, and gained hero status among the Hispanic population because of his ability to elude the legendary Texas Rangers. The imposing old jail is a very depressing place, complete with a gallows and a special cell for women and lunatics. That’s Jim and me on the right, planning our breakout.

From the jail museum we continued on the driving tour and were astounded by the magnificent old homes along the tour. Cattle and cotton were the industries that fed the economy of Gonzales in the 19th century, and the appearance of many of the homes on the tour suggest that some folks were very successful. There are over 80 properties on the driving tour, some in disarray, and others that take your breath away.

#12: Marvel at the Painted Churches, in Little Bohemia.

We had a free afternoon, and Jim and I decided to check out Saints Cyril and Methodius Catholic Church in Shiner. SS. Cyril and Methodius, as it’s known, was established in 1891, and is one of the famous painted churches in “Little Bohemia.” The present-day church was completed in 1921 and has visitors from around the world coming to tour and photograph its beauty. When we arrived, people were lined up inside for Confession. I tried not to stare at them as my imagination ran a little wild as to the possible nature of their sins. I also wondered if maybe I should mention to a priest that I started drinking beer at 9:45 that morning.

After we left the church, Jim and I retreated back to the Old Kasper House for a nap. We had dinner that night with the rest of the Benz club at Kloesel’s Steakhouse and Bar in Moulton. Kloesel’s was a huge improvement over dinner the night before. Sunday morning after breakfast, Jim and I said goodbye to the Mercedes Benz gang and drove to Austin to have brunch with Robert and his girlfriend, Sarah. We met them at Z’Tejas Southwestern Grill, a popular place for Sunday brunch on Austin’s celebrated 6th Street. After that it was back to Grapevine for Jim and me and goodbye to another road trip.

It was a great weekend and another opportunity to check out and learn about Texas’ fascinating history and geography. Thanks to the Texas Monthly "Bucket List," there's plenty more to do and see. I'll keep you posted the next time we head out to explore this amazing state.

Donna

On the Road: The Shiner Trip

Last weekend we hit the road again. This time we were off to Shiner, Texas, with the Fort Worth Section of Jim’s Mercedes-Benz club. When Jim told me that a tour of the Shiner brewery was planned, I said, “Let’s go! I can check off another Texas Monthly ‘Bucket List’ item.”

Friday morning we set out on I-35 south to Waco where we were to rendezvous with the other Ft. Worth members at the Elite Circle Grill. We took the South Valley Mills Drive exit heading east and promptly found ourselves in the Twilight Zone, better known around the state as the “Waco Traffic Circle.” Before us was an enormous traffic circle with our destination on the northwest (behind us and on our left) side. Jim proceeded cautiously into the traffic circle, and we were almost completely around it when a black pickup truck nearly broadsided us. We parked and entered the restaurant, only to discover the entire wait staff wearing black t-shirts announcing: “I Survived the Circle.”

Sip a Dublin Dr. Pepper - #10 on the Bucket List

We met our tour organizer, DJ, and since Jim and I were running late, he suggested we run over to the Health Camp diner, a hamburger joint across the parking lot, to grab something to eat on the road. The Health Camp name is a joke because they only serve burgers, fries, shakes and other foods that will eventually kill you. The little diner was one of those neighborhood joints with a few tables inside and a walkup window outside. Their entire wait staff wore “I Survived the Circle” t-shirts also, and they had posters and signs proclaiming the same. We were beginning to worry about our short drive back to the highway.

We ordered our burgers to go, and while we waited, Jim noticed the sign over the pour-it-yourself soft drink fountain: we serve Dublin Dr. Pepper—made with real sugar. “‘Sip a Dublin Dr. Pepper’ is on the Bucket List,” I told Jim excitedly. Named for the Texas town whose bottling plant has produced them since 1891, the Dublin Dr. Pepper is still made with real cane sugar. Since the rest of the bottlers use the cheaper, high fructose corn syrup formula, the Dublin drink is only supposed to be sold within a 44 mile radius of Dublin. And since Waco is 90 miles to the southeast, the Health Camp diner probably had “bootleg” product.

Fearing that too much liquid would be a problem on a 170 mile drive, I told Jim I’d have a sip of his. According to Jim, the drink tasted like he remembered from his childhood when he visited his relatives in Louisiana. Perhaps my taste buds have been permanently altered by HFCS, because I thought it tasted like a cherry-flavored diet drink. The fries tasted like they were cooked after a batch of catfish, however the real Texas cheeseburgers were excellent. What’s a real Texas cheeseburger? Along with the usual—pickles, lettuce, onion, etc., it has only mustard—never ketchup. Or so I’m told.

The Best Little Town in Texas

At 1:30 the five-car caravan departed, heading down Texas Highway 77 for Shiner, home of the K. Spoetzl Brewery. After checking the map closely, I noticed that our route would take us through the German/Czech town of La Grange. This little town of 4,740, nestled alongside the Colorado River, has been immortalized in music, film and on stage. Broadway and movie buffs may remember the musical comedy from the 70’s and 80’s about La Grange: The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. You also might be familiar with ZZ Top’s song by the same name as the town. While the musical was whimsical and broadminded on the subject of prostitution, the ZZ Top song is rather dark. The town itself was clean and picturesque, and the greeting on the sign at the edge of town welcomed us to La Grange, “The Best Little Town in Texas.”

In Shiner, we stayed at the Old Kasper House, a lovely old bed and breakfast. Our son, Robert, drove from Austin to meet us for dinner at Robert’s Steakhouse (no connection) in the nearby town of Flatonia. The restaurant was packed, and our waitress was a lovely, sweet girl, who never stopped smiling while serving our party of twelve. However at the end of our mostly lackluster dinner, our bills were padded and almost everyone in the group was charged for something they didn’t order. We thought maybe that was in lieu of adding an extra 15 to 18 percent gratuity for a large group. Whatever the reason, I’d drive through Flatonia and find a restaurant in another town next time.

After dinner Robert drove back to Shiner with us. Since he was heading back to Austin the next morning, before the brewery tour was scheduled, we stopped at the Shiner Restaurant and Bar so he could sample a Shiner on tap. The tavern side of the bar and restaurant had a beautiful, stately old, early twentieth century polished wood and beveled mirror bar, like the kind in the old, big city taverns in Chicago. Andy, the proprietor and barkeep, was a walking book of knowledge on the historic town, the brewery, and the area. It was a nice, quiet finish to a long day of driving for all three of us.

Next: Morning at the brewery and afternoon at Confession in Little Bohemia.

Donna

Not My Hero; But I Did Laugh

When I began this post last night, I wrote: “Over 45,000 people ‘like’ Steven Slater on Facebook.” As of 7:45 this morning, that number is over 100,000 fans. In case you live in a vacuum, Steven Slater is the JetBlue flight attendant who quit his job Monday—and quite dramatically, at that. After an unpleasant encounter with a passenger, Slater opened an aircraft door, inflated the emergency evacuation slide, grabbed a beer, and exited down the slide. My first reaction when I heard about it on the radio was: “Well, he did what every one of us would have liked to do at one time or another in our careers as flight attendants.

I’m going out on a wing here and betting that a majority of those 100,000 fans are flight attendants, past or present. And while most flight attendants may have fantasized about popping a slide, grabbing a beer, and blowing the big aluminum tube, thankfully, we are, for the most part, a stable group of people.

“Move ‘em on, hit ‘em up, Rawhide.” Tiomkin and Washington

Last week I was in Detroit and trying to catch a flight back to Dallas/Ft. Worth. After about an hour’s drive in morning rush-hour traffic, my brother dropped me off at the airport on the departure level, and I entered the terminal building. It was a mob scene inside. There were people lined up for the automated check-in machines and dozens of people working their way like a conga line through stanchions and velvet ropes to speak to a live ticket agent.

Then it was off to the security line. Nearly 50 people were in line ahead of me and there were only two x-ray machines with working crews. For the next half-hour we did “clutch and go’s:” pick up, push, or drag your bag…inch ahead a little…move bag…move feet…move bag…move feet. You get the picture, right? All the while a morbidly obese, uniformed TSA agent was weaving back and forth in front of the crowd, shouting orders about security procedures. It was dehumanizing and nerve wracking.

Sardines in a tin.

My flight to DFW was on an MD-80 airplane with the five across, two-seat/three-seat configuration. The overhead bins were jam-packed full, and as we used to say, there was a butt in every seat and a face in every window. Does any of this sound glamorous, exciting, or even remotely pleasant? No. So, imagine being locked in an aluminum tube for a few hours with 140 paying customers who have just been treated like cattle and feel as defensive as I did.

Something happens to some people when they are cooped up in an airplane, surrounded by strangers. Their language may become shockingly vulgar, they may become physically abusive, and they often reject any kind of authority—especially from a woman or a gay man. Most flight attendants accept that the stress of getting to the airport, getting through security, and being stuffed into a crowded airplane in combination with delays, service cutbacks, and too much alcohol many times, triggers the bad behavior. But believe me, there have always been people who behave badly on a plane—long before 9/11 and today’s challenges.

It’s not only on airplanes that people behave badly. A policeman I know once had a woman deliberately drive her car into him when he gave her a traffic direction she didn’t want to follow. He said she was lucky he didn’t shoot her. Flight attendants don’t have weapons, except for their wits and their training. Since 9/11, they have not been able to rely on the pilots to come out of the cockpit and help if things get out of control in the cabin. On the other hand, since 9/11, more and more passengers are more than willing to jump into a fray and help defuse a bad situation.

Flight Attendants don’t make the rules, but they’re dying to.

Most altercations between passengers and crews on the airplane happen because of a “rules violation,” and flight attendants can seem like “rules Nazi’s” at times. Turning off cell phones, stowing luggage, fastening seatbelts, staying in seats, and smoking in lavatories, are a few of the issues that make problems for cabin crews. It is said the rules of aviation are written in blood, and all of the rules about these issues have been written in someone’s blood. If you think that sounds a little overstated, I assure you it’s not. Aircraft accident investigations have revealed that these seemingly small issues have caused loss of life.

I’m not a fan of Steven Slater and his behavior. I like to think that I held it together pretty well for forty years, with some minor exceptions. I’ve been shoved, verbally abused, and insulted by the very customers whose lives I was expected to save in an emergency. I’ve been permanently injured doing my job. And yes, I have fantasized about opening a door, inflating the slide, and zipping off the job, but I’m one to worry about consequences. Our real heroes are the flight attendants of US Airways Flight 1549 and others whose professionalism and bravery saved the lives of their passengers and coworkers. What Steven did was irresponsible, but give us this moment to relish in our umm. . . .folk hero?

Donna

Road Trip Interrupted

It's Sunday afternoon and I've been busy at the aviation museum in Fort Worth and not writing a new post. I'm behind on everything else I do at home also--the laundry, the housekeeping, the grocery shopping, and the de-cluttering. The mail is piled up on the countertop and the Sunday paper is still spread over the coffee table.

Fortunately, my friend Melissa, (a fifth generation Texan and niece of Davy Crockett), sent this video link that she thought we'd enjoy. It's a great slide show set to the Gary P. Nunn song: What I Like About Texas. Yes it's a country-western song, but smooth jazz or hip hop just wouldn't work as well. It highlights some of the legends and icons, old and current, of the state, and will have to be my "Road Trip" for now.



Shameless Self-Promoting.

I will get back on the road, but at present I'm working at setting up a gift shop in the Fort Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park museum. Our doors will open to the public on July 18th, so please come by if you're in the area. We're located on the north side of the city, not far from the historic Stockyards district.

The address is 3300 Ross Avenue, about two blocks west of Main Street, at the south end of Meacham Airport.

Donna

PS: We're right down the street from the famous Joe T. Garcia's Mexican restaurant!

What am I doing next? Eating! Last week I was looking for things to put in my salad—things that don’t cause heartburn, that is. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions make a perfect summer salad for most, but not for me anymore. Additionally, making salads is my least favorite part of meal prep, so something quick and easy was my second priority.

My local Tom Thumb supermarket had watermelon on special, (it is summer after all), so I started with that. I found packages of ready-to-eat red and romaine lettuce leaves and baby spinach. I picked up a couple of navel oranges and some ranch-style seasoned, sliced almonds and headed for the salad dressing aisle. There it was; the salad dressing of my dreams: Briannas Blush Wine Vinaigrette—tall and slender, and kissed with a summer glow. I'm referring to the bottle, of course. A perfectly ripened avocado waited at home in my refrigerator, and there’s always a container of strawberries in there because I make a fruit smoothie every morning for my breakfast.

It might sound like a strange combination of things, but you’ve got to try it to see how good it is.

Here are the ingredients:

Mixed greens (baby spinach, red or bronze lettuce, romaine lettuce, or your favorite).

Strawberries, orange sections, watermelon, avocado in equal portions. Make sure the watermelon and orange sections are not drippy. Pat dry if necessary.

Ranch-style seasoned, sliced almonds.

Briannas Blush Wine Vinaigrette Dressing. Don’t overdo it. There’s a lot of moisture in the fruit.

You can probably use cantaloupe instead of watermelon and substitute or add any berry you like. I’m thinking about trying blueberries also. Add sliced red onions or parmigiano-reggiano shavings if you like. Just make sure you use the Briannas salad dressing mentioned above. Yes, you can make your own blush wine vinaigrette, but I was going for easy as well as delicious.

And no, I promise I'm not on Briannas payroll. I just want to share this wonderful, possibly healthy salad recipe. Let me know if you try it and what you think.

Donna

On the Road: The Hen Party

When last I wrote, we had just left Centerville, Texas, at around 3:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, June 5th, heading for Austin. We said our goodbyes to the Mercedes Benz gang, put on our baseball caps and rumbled out of the parking lot, convertible top down, (you gotta try to look cool), and the air-conditioner on (gotta try to get cool). Jim was falling asleep at the wheel in the hot sun, so we stopped, put up the top, and traded places. I managed to get behind every dawdling farmer or rancher with a pickup truck for the next hundred miles, turning a two-hour drive into three.

On Sunday, Robert and his girlfriend, Sarah, drove with us to Dripping Springs, a town about 25 miles southwest of Austin. That area of Texas Hill Country is home to several wineries, and we were headed to the Driftwood Winery tasting room. I had read that the owner, Gary Elliott, had been hired to fly for Continental Airlines some years back, and Jim was hoping to talk with him. He found Mr. Elliott hard at work installing a fan in his new pavilion. According to Elliott: “If you’re thinking of throwing everything away to go into the wine business—don’t.”

After sampling half-a-dozen wines in the tasting room, we each bought a glass of our favorite and then wandered out to a ledge overlooking the vineyards and a field of sheep grazing far below. There we found tables and chairs scattered under the trees where we could sit in the shade for a while, sip our wines, and enjoy the pastoral view.

The Anniversary Party.

Next it was a dash back to Austin so I could check off Number Four on the Texas Monthly "Bucket List: Play Chicken Shit Bingo at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon." Ginny’s was NOT one of those trendy, downtown Austin Sixth Street destinations. It wasn’t even downtown. The building looked rather like a little old country church plopped down in the middle of an industrial strip of Burnet Road on Austin’s north side.

Just inside the door was an empty chicken-wire cage sitting on a platform; the floor of the coop was covered in numbered squares. The place was packed. At the front of the bar a band played loud country western music, and judging by the bobbing heads a couple feet from the band, it appeared that people were dancing. Jim estimated that there were easily 200 people inside the tiny bar. We ordered some Lone Stars and huddled at the back of the place, a few feet from the cage.

The Texas Monthly “Bucket List” article had suggested that the place gets busy, so get there early to play bingo. Who knew that Sunday, June 6, 2010 was the 10-year anniversary of the Chicken Shit Bingo tradition?

How They “Doo” It.

When it’s time to start, everyone who wants to play lines up, pays $2.00, and gets a ticket with one of the numbers that’s printed on the floor of the chicken coop. Sissy, the hen, is delivered to the coop and fed a combination of chicken feed and dried bread. When Sissy stops and drops on a square, the ticket holder with that number wins the $114 purse. Because it was the 10th anniversary, the purse was doubled—and so was the crowd.

The Honky-Tonk Sauna.

The band welcomed everyone to their little “honky-tonk sauna” and announced the game would start at five o’clock. The place was stifling hot, there was hardly any room to move, and people were still coming in. At last we were told to line up if we wanted to play bingo, and a chicken appeared in the coop. There were so many people by then that I didn’t even see the owner arrive with the hen just a few feet away from us. Robert got in line for me, and I sat down in a suddenly empty chair next to a pretty blonde lady at a nearby table. I told her about my blog and that I was working my way through the bucket list from Texas Monthly.

“Oh,” she shouted over the noisy crowd. “You’re working on a bucket list?”

“Yes,” I shouted back. A few moments later, Robert returned with my two dollars.

“The tickets are all sold out,” he said, handing me my money. “Sorry, Mom!”

People are good.

The blond lady’s husband returned to the table with their two tickets, waving them proudly, and I gave him back his chair. A moment later, she was holding her tickets up before me shouting, “Pick one!” When I questioned why, she repeated that I should pick one and her husband agreed. I rationalized that I couldn’t check off number four on the bucket list if I didn’t play, so I said thanks and picked the ticket with number thirty-one on it. People were gathered around the coop, yelling and cheering, and cameras were flashing. Sissy, the hen, was on the move.

The couple was so nice to me. They made sure I could see the chicken and told me where she was strutting and what number she was pausing over. They even offered me one of their chairs. Suddenly it occurred to me: “They think I’m dying! They think I’m working on my own bucket list.” I kept wondering what would happen if number thirty-one was the winner.

When the hen finally dropped the doody, (on someone else’s number), I asked the nice couple if I could keep the ticket.

“Of course!” they both answered. About then they ordered another round of beers and I pressed a twenty into the woman’s hand.

“This is for your beers; enjoy!” I said. I thanked them for their kindness, and Robert, Sarah, Jim and I hurried back out into the sunlight and headed off for dinner.

Faith in our fellow humans can be confirmed in the most unusual places!

Donna

On the Road: The Centerville Rally

A few months ago Jim bought a pretty little previously-owned Mercedes Benz. It’s a fun car, but I need to fold up like a jackknife to climb in, and I look like a giraffe being born when climbing out. Well, it seems there’s a club for owners of that automobile brand, and the Austin, DFW, Houston and San Antonio branches held their 5th annual rally last weekend in Centerville, Texas. Centerville, a town with 900 plus people and twenty-eight churches, is at the junction of Interstate 45 and Texas Highway 7, halfway between Houston and Dallas.

According to the club’s website, Fort Worth area “BenzNuts” were to rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. at Starbuck’s in Waxahachie, about 30 miles south of Dallas. A half-hour later we were to caravan to Centerville, where we would meet for lunch at Woody’s Smokehouse and then head out to Fort Boggy State Park for the rally.

Jim and I arrived at Starbuck’s right on time. We were surprised that we were the first ones there, and a little nervous when, a half-hour later, we were still the only Mercedes Benz there. We left Waxahachie at ten o’clock sharp and cruised on down to Centerville—apparently the lone ambassadors for all the Fort Worth, Texas BenzNuts.

Centerville is about a hundred miles south of Waxahachie and is one of those “wide spot in the road” kind of towns. There was Woody’s Shell station, Woody’s convenience store and Woody’s Smokehouse. There was a stately old courthouse and a few other businesses in what might be called a downtown, but it doesn’t take much commerce to support a population of less than a thousand people. Woody’s was definitely the gem in their crown and the main attraction of the little burg. Billed as the "Jerky Capital of the World," Woody’s was an oasis in the middle of nowhere.

Inside Woody’s there was a cavernous private room set up for us and a barrier chain with a sign that warned, “Mercedes Benz club members only.” There wasn’t a soul in there. I asked Jim, “Did you actually join this club?” He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, but assured me it was OK to scoot around the barrier. Fearing that we might be the only two to show up for lunch also, we decided to shop a while first and see if anyone else wandered in. I didn’t want to look pathetic—or pretentious—sitting alone at one of a dozen or more picnic tables in a private banquet room.

Woody’s was a supermarket of cookin’ and eatin,’ and it was packed with diners and shoppers. The meat counter held stacks of gorgeous fresh meats, sausages, cheeses and jerky. There was a wall of cold drinks stretching the length of the store and a small bakery area displaying pies and cookies next to the checkout. Here and there were a few souvenir hats and T-shirts, greeting cards and a smattering of collectibles. By far the most interesting area was the sprawling “jarred” section, where it seemed everything that grows in dirt was preserved, jellied, canned, or bottled.

After looking around the store for a while, we noticed four people seated at one of the picnic tables in the Mercedes Benz room, so we strolled over to the lunch line. Woody’s offered standard barbeque cafeteria-style service, but with a salty old guy giving orders as well as taking them. “You gotta tell me if it’s take out; I don’t read minds,” he smilingly growled at a woman in line ahead of me.

Jim and I both ordered the brisket, but he decided to play heartburn roulette and sample the sausage—he lost. The server behind the counter slapped our meat orders on some butcher paper directly on our trays and ordered us to “Take some beans and sauce, ‘cuz their free.” There were little cups of jalapeños and sliced onions to accompany our meat, but I got heartburn just looking at them. The brisket was delicious and possibly the best I’ve ever had. The banquet room eventually filled up with more club members, and the growling meat server brought all of us Woody’s baseball caps and koozies and samples of jerky. I tried the buffalo jerky, and I must say it just tasted like dried beef to me.

Following lunch, we caravanned out to Fort Boggy State Park for the rally. There the Mercedes owners voted for the best cars in four categories, depending on the age of the vehicle. I guess for some Mercedes Benz owners, it’s not enough to just own one. While Jim joined the voting—we didn't win—I found a shady spot at a picnic table and sat down. Everyone we met seemed friendly and sincere, and if it hadn't been 98 degrees outside, we would have called it a real nice day. We left Fort Boggy around 3:30 and set out for Austin and "chicken shit bingo" on Texas Highway 79—a road that could only have been designed by John Deere himself.

Donna

Next: Austin and Number Four on the Bucket List.

Memorial Day 2010

It was at the funeral of my dear Aunt Beth several years ago that I learned of the value of older Americans. Of course, having grown up in the 1950’s and early 1960’s, I was taught to show respect toward my elders. Like many childhood lessons back then, rules didn’t come with explanations—other than the commonly heard “because I said so!”

My dad’s cousin came to Michigan for Aunt Beth’s funeral, and I had an opportunity to chat with him for a little while. He had retired many years earlier, but was busier than ever—volunteering with the American Red Cross. He talked about the importance of volunteering, and his words that day were branded upon my memory: “If it weren’t for retired folks, there wouldn't be enough people to work in all the volunteer organizations. Many of the services we take for granted would be shut down.”

There are many ways and opportunities to volunteer our services; we all know about the Red Cross, Salvation Army, United Way, and other mammoth organizations that have widespread media recognition. But there are countless smaller groups that serve our nation and our fellow humans in quieter, less public ways.

Today is Memorial Day. My morning newspaper ran an Associated Press article, by Helen O’Neill, about a group of women who volunteer at Arlington National Cemetery. Since the 1940’s, these women, representing the Navy, Air Force, Army and Coast Guard, have been making sure that no serviceman or woman is alone when they are buried.

The Arlington Ladies

This small “band of volunteers,” primarily the wives of retired military officers, attend every funeral in Arlington Cemetery. They are there daily, even in scorching summer heat and bitter winter cold, ensuring that every soldier, sailor, airman, marine, or guardsman is remembered and honored. They are the “Arlington Ladies.” As in the history of all volunteer organizations, their founder saw a need and filled it. For an inspiring Memorial Day message, please check out the full story.

On this Memorial Day and everyday, thank you to all those who have given their all for the rest of us. And thanks, also, to those who volunteer their time and energy to serve our military family.

Donna

According to the United States Department of Veterans Affairs, “The Department of Veterans Affairs’ (VA) National Cemetery Administration maintains 131 national cemeteries in 39 states (and Puerto Rico) as well as 33 soldier’s lots and monument sites.”

Mother's Day

Jim and Robert have always taken me out for Mother’s Day. Most years it’s been for brunch and we’ve been to some wonderful places. And most of the time, the brunches have been beautiful buffets with mimosas and champagne, and a rose or carnation for us moms. But these special brunches get very pricey. I thoroughly relish being pampered and spoiled by my guys, but fifty to seventy-five dollars to serve myself seems a little excessive. And besides, I cannot eat fifty to seventy-five dollars worth of food in one sitting—even when you throw in a couple of mimosas.

Jim and Robert are typical guys in that as soon as they finish their last bite of food, they’re ready to throw their napkins on the table and head for the exit. I can forget about long, lingering conversations over another cup of coffee. Oh, they’ll humor me and sit there, but then they might begin playing with the salt and pepper shakers or the straws from their water glasses. This year I suggested they treat me to brunch at home.

After the guys agreed to serve me brunch, I cooked up the idea of inviting my girlfriends, Judy, Gail, Sandy, and Gerry to celebrate Mother’s Day with us. Like me, the girls have all lost their mothers, but the four of them have no family close by. Gerry is Robert’s Godmother, so of course she was invited—we consider her part of our family. I promised to whip up a quiche or something and make it easy for the guys to pull it off.

When Robert and Jim agreed to the expanded brunch idea, I joked, “Would you dress up like butlers?”

Jim’s quick reply was a typical Grumpism: “Don’t press your luck.” Grump was Jim’s military call sign, and he’s still called that by his friends.

Saturday I busied myself doing some prep work for the brunch, and made a ham, mushroom and caramelized onion quiche. I cut up some fresh fruit, cleaned and trimmed some asparagus, and pulled a package of hollandaise sauce mix out of the pantry. I bought a pretty little bouquet of yellow springtime flowers, a couple of packages of mini muffins, and ironed the table linens. I called all the girls and asked each to bring a photo of her mom to place on the sideboard in my dining room.

Jim asked, “Do you think anyone will believe Robert and I did all this?”

“I’m just prepping,” I answered.

When brunch time neared, the guys were nowhere to be found. I had some last minute explanations for them about what I’d prepared and wanted to give them some suggestions for timing things. Yes, I get a little anal when entertaining.

“Where are you guys? I need to talk to you,” I called to an empty room. A few minutes later I started to panic. Knowing Jim, he could have decided to retile the bathroom or go for a thirty-minute run before brunch. I yelled again, “Where are you? You need to be in the kitchen!”

A moment later, I heard Jim call from upstairs, “We’ll be right down.” When they came into the kitchen I doubled over in laughter. They had both dug out their old tuxedo shirts and bow-ties and dressed as waiters. The girls and I loved it! They made and served our mimosas, finished preparing our brunch, and waited on us hand and foot. Of course they ate with us, but after brunch they cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen.

We girls sat at the table for another hour and talked about our mothers. Afterward Sandy took photos of us with our moms’ pictures. It was great to celebrate Mother’s Day with my family, my friends, and best of all, to celebrate our moms again.

Donna

PS: Thanks to Sandy for the great photos.

On the Road: Cowtown

Last Thursday was Flight Attendant Lunch Bunch day here in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex. The Lunch Bunch is the name our “founders” gave us several years ago when a group of retired American Airlines DFW based flight attendants began meeting for lunch every month, in order to stay in touch with each other. Our April luncheon was at the H3 Ranch restaurant, a steakhouse just off the lobby of the Stockyards Hotel (c. 1907) in the Fort Worth Stockyards National Historic District.

As good luck would have it, the restaurant was suggested in the book, 1,000 Places to See in the USA and Canada Before You Die. Perfect! I could get a little “Road Trip” in, catch up with old friends, and have a great lunch. The book, Texas Curiosities, had an interesting story about a Fort Worth museum that sounded fun, and an Internet search revealed the museum offered a senior discount. I talked my brave friend, Gerry Fix, into going to the museum after lunch, and letting me drive. This was to be my Garmin GPS solo—the first time I’d used it without my husband or son supervising. Gerry is “brave” because I’m directionally challenged; even with two maps and a GPS, I still had us lost two, maybe three times in town.

Hell’s Half Acre

The H3 Ranch restaurant was named for the Hunter Brothers, three Scottish immigrants who came to the U.S. in the 1800’s with their parents. These colorful brothers were farmers in Macoupin County, Illinois, until they joined William F. "Buffalo Bill" Cody, hunting and killing bison to feed the railroad workers building the Kansas Pacific Railway. Later, the brothers operated a very successful livestock commission company with officers [sic] in Ft. Worth, East St. Louis and Kansas City. The Ft. Worth operation was located on the site where the Stockyards Hotel stands today. By 1884, their livestock commission company controlled nearly eleven and a half million acres of land and four hundred thousand head of cattle.

The Hunter brothers liked to toss back a refreshing brew or two at the many drinking establishments in the legendary “Hell’s Half Acre,” Fort Worth’s infamous “bar-and-bawdy-house district.” In the late 1800’s, the area, also famous for gambling, brawling, cockfighting, and horse racing, was the first thing the trail drivers saw as they approached the town from the south. Today, The Stockyards are a popular tourist destination where families enjoy staged cattle drives and shop for Western trappings at the numerous tourist traps. It honestly does have a real, Old West feel about it, and it is fun. One can even ride a real live Texas Longhorn steer, (for a small fee).

From Cowboys to Cowgirls

After lunch, it was off to the Fort Worth Cultural District. The Cultural District boasts five world-renowned museums, including the Kimbell, host to some of the world’s greatest collections traveling through the U.S. However, Gerry and I were going to check out the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame, recommended in both of the above mentioned books.

The Cowgirl Museum, established in 1975, is new to Ft. Worth, having moved here from Hereford, Texas in 1994. Dedicated to the women who worked their ranches, drove their cattle herds, and performed in rodeos and Wild West Shows, the museum also pays tribute to women who demonstrate the Western spirit. Inside the Tex-Deco building, Sandra Day O’Connor, Georgia O’Keefe, Dale Evans, Annie Oakley, and Patsy Cline are just a few of the many women celebrated in art, photographs, and videos.

When you enter the gift shop at the Cowgirl Museum, the first thing you’ll notice is a life-sized replica of a beautiful woman riding a great white horse, as if coming through the ceiling over the cash registers. That’s a re-creation of Mamie Hafley and her horse, Lurlene, diving into a 10-foot pool from a 50-foot platform, the way they did it 640 times in Wild West shows in the early 1900’s. As the story goes, Mamie couldn’t swim, but the horse, Lurlene, loved the stunt.

Back to Grapevine

It was a wonderful day—lunch with friends, and two Texas “Road Trip” items checked off. The truth is, I’ve been to the Fort Worth Stockyards a few times before, though never to the Cowgirl Museum. This time was different. I went with an attitude of exploration and a desire to learn. While checking my resources for this post, I began to realize that the more I learned about Old Fort Worth, the more I wanted to know. I also discovered that descendants of some of the Old West’s worst and meanest characters are actually some of today’s Fort Worth Society. Imagine that! I’m starting to really enjoy this place!

Donna

On the Road: Easter Weekend

Easter weekend found Jim and me on the road to Austin to spend some time with our son, Robert, and to celebrate Jim’s birthday. From Saturday afternoon until Monday night, it was a whir of wheels, meals, and allergy pills. It’s springtime in Texas and it might be helpful if we were to post signs at the borders and the airports asking visitors: “Got Kleenex?”

Shortly after we arrived at Robert’s apartment, we were back in the car and off to Austin’s Oasis restaurant. The Oasis is a three-story, Tuscan-style structure perched atop the cliffs over beautiful Lake Travis. Sprawling decks on the lake side provide diners with a spectacular view; inside there’s hardly a bad table in the place, especially considering the restaurant can seat over 2000 people. The menu is predominantly Tex-Mex, and the service is fast and friendly. The courtyard entrance hosts multiple kiosks, giving it the feel of a mercado, while inside there’s live music and dancing. You don’t need a reservation for dinner, but on Friday or Saturday night during warm weather months, be prepared to wait in line for your table.

Sunday morning we attended Easter Mass at the contemporary, friendly St. Albert the Great Catholic Church on the north side of the city. After the service, we dashed downtown to Congress Ave for Easter brunch at the historic Stephen F. Austin InterContinental hotel. We sat on the balcony where we enjoyed a view of the Capitol building, great food, and gracious service. Right after brunch, it was barely a five minute drive to the east side of I-35 to visit the Texas State Cemetery, number 62 on the Texas Monthly “Bucket List.”

Texas State Cemetery, #62.

Texas Monthly did not overstate the significance of this beautiful 21-acre cemetery. The first grave we visited was that of Stephen F. Austin, with its bronze Coppini statue. We saw the graves of authors J. Frank Dobie and James A. Michener, Governors John Connally and Ann Richards, and U.S. Congresswoman Barbara Jordan, the first black woman from a southern state to serve in the U.S. House of Representatives. Also buried there are two American Revolutionary War veterans, fifteen signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence of 1836, nine Confederate generals, and a host of other Texans whose lives helped shape the state and our nation.

Among the many monuments and memorials dedicated to Texans, one stood out above the rest for me: the September 11, 2001 memorial. An open circle of granite invites you inside where two unaltered steel columns from Ground Zero stand like sentries. Visitors are encouraged to enter the memorial and to touch the steel columns. On the inner walls of the granite ring, engraved plaques remind us of the times and places that each plane went down. The memorial honors all Texans who died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks and in Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan.

Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center, #51.

We left the cemetery, heading west and then south, arriving at the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center, number 51 on the “Bucket List,” about 25 minutes later. By then, poor Robert, who had begun suffering while walking through the tree-lined cemetery, was deep in the throes of an all-out allergy attack.

The Wildflower Center was abloom in Texas bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, and a multitude of other native flowers, plants and trees. Large, whimsical sculptures of giant insects are tucked here and there throughout the center; there’s even a sculpture of a Texas Longhorn made entirely of hand tools. The Center, a research unit of the University of Texas, is one of five U.S. groups participating in the Millennium Seed Bank Project.

Robert was such a good sport about indulging me and my “Bucket List” goals. The poor guy held paper towels over his nose and mouth in order to escape the pollen. He had to blow his nose so often he began to sound a little like a Canadian goose. Since his allergy medicine didn’t seem to be working, we hurried through the Wildflower Center and drove back to his apartment where he could shower and dress in some non-pollinated clothing.

Back to Grapevine.

The rest of the weekend was much more relaxed. On Monday Robert met us for lunch, and we presented Jim with his birthday presents in the parking lot outside Dave and Buster’s. Then we hugged Robert goodbye and hit the highway back to Grapevine. We love Austin, so the weekend was a perfect start for my Texas Road Trip. I must admit I hadn’t really expected to be so wowed by the Texas State Cemetery or the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center. And I definitely was not expecting the sudden awareness and understanding of the pride that Texans feel for their state. I was feeling a bit of pride myself.

Donna

Texas Road Trip

Remember The Bucket List, the equal parts hilarious, uplifting, and heartbreaking ’07 film starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson? They play two old men who, while sharing a hospital room, both learn they have terminal illnesses. Freeman’s character begins writing his bucket list—a wish list of things he has dreamed of doing before he “kicks the bucket.” You probably thought about your own bucket lists for days and weeks after seeing the movie, just as I did.

Last month, Texas Monthly magazine came out with its Texas “Bucket List,” an amusing, quirky list of “63 things all Texans should do before they die.” The article didn’t suggest we visit the obvious Texas icons like the Alamo, in San Antonio, or our state Capitol, in Austin, (because we should have already done those). And it didn’t mention “Jerryland,” the colossal new Cowboys Stadium, in Arlington. It did suggest we “Play Chicken Shit Bingo, in Austin,” and “Eat Calf Fries at Riscky’s Steakhouse, in Fort Worth.” I did say “quirky.”

As it turns out, I’ve already done several of the sixty-three ideas listed in the article. I’ve been to the State Fair of Texas, in Dallas; I know how to ride a horse; and I took dance lessons to learn the two-step. Number 50 was too easy: “Attend a Classic High School Football Game.” I went to nearly every Grapevine High School football game for the entire four years that Robert was there. Number 63 is “Appear on the Cover of TEXAS MONTHLY.” Check.

Cruising around Texas to try some of the things in the Texas Monthly article really does call to me. For instance, for the past 22 years, I’ve wanted to check out the Marfa lights, number 30 on the bucket list, and believed by some to be UFO’s. Marfa also seems to consistently have the coldest temperatures in the state. “Where’s Marfa?” you say. That’s what everyone says, even people born here; and I want to find out.

Surely you’ve wondered, too, what it is about places like Abilene, Galveston, and Luckenbach, Texas that would inspire the classic country-western eponymous hits. It’s certainly not because those names are easy to rhyme.

Some things in the Texas Monthly article actually frighten me to think about—things like number 49: “Drive the Freeways at Night in Houston.” Why? That appeals to me like the idea of tubing down the Amazon while spreading chum ahead of me. Speaking of tubing, number 9 is “Float a River.” Does tubing at Six Flags Hurricane Harbor and the Schlitterbahn count? That urban legend about the water skier falling into a nest of cottonmouths in a Texas river has given me nightmares for forty years.

On the other hand, number 19: “Drink a Free Beer at the K. Spoetzl Brewery, in Shiner,” and number 31: “Have a Drink at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, in Dallas,” look real doable. So, where is this leading? I’ve decided to do a road trip—in and around Texas—incorporating the Texas Monthly “Bucket List” and the books, Haunted Texas, Weird Texas, and my personal favorite, The Wine Roads of Texas. I’m going to see as much Texas as I can, and can afford, while I’m still able to enjoy travel—that would be without a wheelchair or a walker.

Many items in the above sources are seasonal, so I plan to do several short trips—not one long one. That way, I can come home and not be out on the road for days or weeks at a time. Besides, I already have other trips and plans for this year, and I don’t like to be away from home that long.

Got any suggestions for places or things that a person must check out before they check out? Please send them to me or add them to the comments below.

Donna
PS: If you can, plan to meet me at Turtle Creek! I’ll let you know when we’re going.

Greenies or Gobs Anyone?

While I usually only dabble in political issues and honestly try not to offend those on either side of the political fence, I can’t let the events of the day pass without a comment. We have little to boast about as a nation, or as human beings, if it is true that our elected leaders are spit on, threatened and have racial, ethnic and sexual slurs hurled upon them in our nation’s Capitol—or anywhere.

For several months I’ve thought about weaving a post around the movie Idiocracy. This seems like as good a shot as I’ll get. Please, please, please rent, download, or buy the movie Idiocracy. It’s dystopian, laugh out loud comedy; it’s satire, it's farce, and it “paints an ugly future for our culture.” And while you’re laughing, you may notice that it’s not all that funny or impossible.

Since the beginning of recorded history we’ve known that politicians don’t always agree with each other, and the populace doesn’t always agree with the politicians. Political assassinations and murders have been recorded since the beginning of time. In the U.S., seven presidents since John F. Kennedy have survived more than one assassination attempt. President Obama has reportedly been the target of more than one already. Countless others have been murdered for their beliefs and politics.

We haven’t heard anything about someone being murdered today over the healthcare bill. What we have heard was that elected officials were spit on and called some very unprintable names. What the hell are people thinking when they behave this way? Doesn’t it make you wonder why anyone would run for a political office? Don't get me wrong; I don't think all politicians wear white hats. But I honestly wonder sometimes if there is hope for our species.

Isn’t exercising our right or privilege to vote intended to be our means of expressing our discontent or agreement with our politicians? Perhaps because our lives are so fast-paced now, a few greenies or gobs, skillfully-launched, are more efficient and expedient than waiting for the next election.

Do watch Idiocracy.
Donna

The Tale of Mr. Snock

When I was but a wisp of a girl in my twenties—single, silly, and skinny—I was a stewardess. That was back when being a stewardess was actually a glamorous job. We were “sky goddesses” and everyone loved us. Well. . . men loved us, and young women wanted to be us. In the late 1960’s and early 70’s, in order to attract customers, the majority of whom were men, the airlines exploited us to the max with ads like: “We move our tails for you!” and “Fly Me.” My all-time favorite was American’s “Think of her as your mother,” with a smoldering-eyed brunette curled up in an office chair. In the 80’s, Joan Rivers honed her career relentlessly bashing and trashing us. Our Florence Nightingale image was gone forever and replaced by one that more closely resembled Xaviera Hollander, “The Happy Hooker.”

The majority of us were just regular girls; many growing up in big families from small town America, and generally fitting the psychological profile of “nurturer.” It really was an exciting time for us girls and we had a lot of fun. While catching a play in Manhattan or sitting by the pool in Los Angeles, we could often be heard to say, “Can you believe we get paid for this?” Of course, we often found ourselves sitting by the pool at a second rate hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or swiping at a cockroach at a deli in Newark, New Jersey.

Like that long ago television series, Naked City, I’ve got a bunch of stories. The majority are filed away at the back of my brain somewhere, and I no longer think about most of them. Now and then one creeps into the front of my brain, and I think you might enjoy it. This is one of those tales.

Sometime back in the 70's.

Long before computer-generated passenger lists, we were required to ask every passenger their name and call them by it. I was first stewardess on a 727 trip, working alone in the first-class cabin. A white-haired gentleman in the second row aisle seat whispered his name to me. I asked him to repeat it, which he did, but I still couldn’t understand him. He was visibly frustrated when I asked him to spell it for me. I wrote on my seating chart what I thought he had spelled—S N O C K—and politely called him Mr. Snock throughout the meal service.

When the meal service was over, another passenger entered the galley where I was hiding, probably sneaking a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

“Young woman, do you know who that man in the second row is?”

Proudly pointing to the little square on my seating chart where I had printed his name, I announced, “Sure! That’s Mr. Snock.”

“Young woman, that’s Dr. Spock,” he groaned. “He just got out of jail and he’s trying to avoid attention.”

“Well, I thought Snock was an unusual name,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“I'm not a pacifist. I was very much for the war against Hitler. . .” Benjamin Spock

Benjamin Spock died March 15, 1998, twelve years ago this past Monday. He was 94 years old. He was both celebrated and castigated during his long and remarkable life. In 1924, as a member of the Yale rowing team, he was an Olympic gold medalist. He achieved the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy Reserve Medical Corps during World War II, and he ran for President of the United States in 1972. Dr. Benjamin Spock was considered the ultimate authority on childcare and upbringing, and later blamed “for all the lack of patriotism, lack of responsibility, and lack of discipline of the young people who opposed the war.”

His left-wing politics constantly brought him into conflict with more conservative politicians. He campaigned for Medicare and against nuclear bomb tests in the Earth’s atmosphere. As a determined crusader against the war in Vietnam, he was tried and convicted as a conspirator against the United States for encouraging young men to avoid the draft. That conviction was set aside on appeal; however he was arrested more than once for his participation in anti-war protests. He was the author of numerous books, and at the height of Dr. Spock’s popularity, his Baby and Child Care manual outsold every book but The Bible.

Love him or hate him, agree or disagree with his politics, he was a powerful influence in our lives and the lives of our children and their children. And I, Twit, called him Mr. Snock for the two hours of my life that I was in his company. It makes me shudder.

Donna

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall; Who's the Fairest?

Early yesterday I met two friends for breakfast at our local IHOP. I won’t mention their names because I wouldn’t embarrass them for the world. However, one of them looked especially pretty; her hair was washed and styled and her make-up was perfect. And she’d just had a colonoscopy minutes before. I’m not kidding. She’d been up all night, flushing her insides down the toilet, thanks to the bottles of laxative she’d been made to drink. She had probably wiped her bottom raw, but she looked fabulous! Why do we women do that?

We wouldn’t dream of heading to the gynecologist without first shaving our legs and armpits, getting a pedicure, and slathering a moisturizer from head to toe for an all-over radiant glow. Is that glow supposed to create a more pleasant working environment for the doctor? Then, of course, we do our best to present an attractive outer appearance with perfect make-up, hair and wardrobe. I’ve probably spent more time getting ready for the OB-GYN doc than I did for some dates when I was young and single.

When you consider what it takes to prep for a colonoscopy, shouldn’t we make the gastroenterologist suffer some also? We’ve had nothing to eat except clear broth, plain Jell-O, and water for twenty-four hours. Our bottoms have a permanent toilet-ring-shaped crease from the hours we spent sitting “on the throne” the night before. If we’re lucky and smart, we scheduled the appointment for first thing in the morning. Regardless of the time, we’re exhausted because we really didn’t sleep a wink all night. So why go to the trouble of making ourselves beautiful?

It’s my theory that we don’t want the gastroenterologist or the gynecologist to remember us just from the waist down. There’s nothing attractive, feminine or ladylike about the exam at the doctor for feminine and ladylike issues. And we certainly don’t want to be remembered as the polyp or hemorrhoid from last Tuesday. So we, just like women do, try to pretty things up.

My friend had threatened to draw a smiley face or the word “hi” on her bottom right before her exam, to put the doctor in a good mood. In the end. . .she decided to leave well enough alone.

Donna

Our Olympic Beauties

Has anyone else noticed how attractive the 2010 Winter Olympic athletes are? Skiers Julia Mancuso and Lindsey Vonn, along with speedskaters Katherine Reutter and Chad Hedrick, are just a few of the best-looking Olympians I’ve ever seen. And Apolo Anton Ohno and Shaun White are about as cute as it gets. When the US team entered the arena during the opening ceremony in Vancouver, I couldn’t help but say right out loud, “Look at them! They’re beautiful!

Hopefully these young people will behave as beautifully as they appear physically. Let’s have no more Mike Modano’s. You may recall after the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin, Italy, he verbally trashed his US hockey team and the USA Hockey organization. And worse—in the 1998 Nagano, Japan Winter Olympics, he and some of his teammates trashed their rooms in the Olympic Village. They embarrassed our entire nation in front of the whole world. Modano was already a highly-paid professional hockey player in 1998 when he behaved like an out-of-control teenager.

Athletes work their tails off to get on a US Olympic team, and no doubt their successes and disappointments are greater than any I ever experienced in one of my high school girls’ basketball tournaments. So I can understand a downhill racer pounding the snow with her ski poles after landing in a heap at the bottom of the mountain. And I can understand an athlete blowing off a little steam at a bar or party.

Well, 2010 Team USA has had at least one embarrassing moment. US snowboarder and Olympic bronze medalist, 22 year-old Scotty Lago left Vancouver early after “suggestive” photos of a young woman kissing his medal surfaced. So what’s wrong with kissing a medal, you ask? In at least one photo, the lady was kissing the medal as it hung over his groin. Scotty? What were you thinking?

We all can guess what he was probably thinking: “This medal is babe bait!” I’m not saying what he did was OK; timing-wise, it was pretty foolish. No one would care about those “suggestive” photos if Lago hadn’t just won that bronze medal in the winter Olympics. That’s the old “price of glory” pickle. But compared to Mike Modano’s behavior, Lago’s falls more into the “boys will be boys” category.

Since 1984, the US Olympic Committee has paid prize money to its winning Olympians. Gold medal winners receive $25,000, silver medalists receive $15,000, and winners take home $10,000 for a bronze. A few very lucky individuals receive large bonuses from sponsors and have big endorsement contracts. The prize money from the USOC probably doesn’t begin to cover the cost of getting there because nobody gets to the Olympics without great sacrifice. And that sacrifice is shared by whole families: wives, husbands, kids, moms, and dads.

I love the whole, “thanks, Mom” theme of this year’s Olympic advertisers, and I can’t help but wonder how Scotty Lago’s mom feels. But then I tend to think like a mom.

Donna