To Our Familiar Friends & Friendly Family:

A year cannot help but look frantic in retrospect, dozens of important events and scores of only somewhat less vital ones all clamoring for mention in the space of a few hundred words. Contrary to last year’s message, we kicked off the year in Plano instead of Austin, the first of many changes-of-plan.

The primary object of our discretionary time and treasure has been the new dependent we took under our wing last spring, the recently christened Stonebench, aka 1905 Rainy Meadows Dr. Spring Break brought the first Big Project . Master-izing the guest bath didn’t sound so hard, but the plans went from walling off the second door, to replacing all the doors in the hall, to remodeling the hall completely. We made it over the finish line just in time to rest before work the next day. Other such endeavors saw the creation of a built-in book case, re-garage-ification, and the rehabilitation of the deck. Currently, we’re finishing the job the dry summer and Russell’s “water conservation” began, and are replacing our grass with hardscape, replete with limestone and river rock.

We didn’t spend all our time at home, though. We hit the road to east Texas twice, exploring a new city each time. In June, Christina’s sorors joined us in a van piloted by Russell to the energy hub of Beaumont for their Regional Executive Board Meeting. We, being the Regional Zeta Male Network Coordinator and a Male in said Network, took the other fellows about town for a morning. They both seemed to enjoy themselves, but we wound up organizing an outing to see The Hulk that afternoon with a Male Network of one. On the other end of summer, we changed plans several times, but ultimately ended up heading to Galveston for a weekend, exploring the island by foot, car, train, and retired DUKW assault vehicle. As always when we visit a new town, we not only see sights, but also eat bites. We’d heartily recommend the delights of Benno’s crab cakes and new potatoes, as well as Leon’s smoked meats and stepped-up rice. That is, if they’re to be found following the widespread obliteration wrought by Hurricane Ike, which hit the lovely barrier isle a week after we did.

Not only did we visit, we but hosted as well. As July turned to August, the Allen side of Christina’s family came to town - enjoying local flavors and sights including a personal tour of the state capitol given by Russell, testing how well he paid attention during the many iterations he heard on school field trips. The clan reached the southernmost extent of their road trip in Russell’s parents’ home, conversing and enjoying his father’s grilling skills.

The New Year will bring with it many wonders, among them Christina’s first coursework toward her master’s degree in Library Information Science, Russell’s continuing adventures with tools and various kinds of goo intended for Home Improvement, and everyone trying to pronounce the years twentyXX instead of two-thousandXX. Wherever you are and whatever you have planned this holiday season, we wish you safety, health, and happiness.

And of course,
a Very Merry Christmas,

and a Happy New Year!

Before our failed attempt at sneaking out undetected

We were not quite fast enough to avoid being spotted by one of her students, who later noted that I had shut my cape in the door. Quite embarrassing, but, then, my garments generally hew much closer to my form than that. The Zeta Game Night consisted primarily of Bingo, Chips and Dip. I was much better at the Chips & Dip than I was at Bingo. Being both the youngest and male-est present, though, I wasn’t exactly pining for the prizes, which I knew to consist primarily of spa sets compiled from Target’s Dollar Spot. Our costumes went into hiding until Friday, when we finished up distributing candy to the youths who braved our punkin-lit path, and headed out to a party with less bingo and better snacks.

After the fete

Christina, I believe, is generally used to the feeling of being the most dressed-up person in any given situation, be it the Post Office or High Tea, just as I’ve become comfortable knowing and relaying more information than is expected in most circumstances. However, excesses like mine are invisible until I open my mouth; hers are hard to hide. So it was at both our All Hallow’s Week celebrations, I got a rare taste of being overdressed, being one of few in costume, and one of only two in something so elaborate. I’m not sure how she manages the burden of self-consciousness that comes with it, but m’lady looks great doing it.

The great shame, though, is that while they are to be lit from within by the latest in flickery LED technology, they will also be lit from without by the latest in motion-sensing, mood-killing, bright-ass floodlights from not one, but at least FOUR sources that I can think of. Safety factor: eleventy-bajillion; Spooky quotient: zero. It does make me a bit sad for the kiddoes who won’t know the tinge of terror from walking up a long, dark drive, with only the hint of a lit pumpkin or two to suggest that there might be candy to be had at the door, and no guarantee that older kids wouldn’t frighten the hell out of you before you got there. Okay, that never happened to me because mom & dad escorted us around the block every year, but the fact is it could have, and that’s what’s important, right?

Anyhow, we’ve almost got our costumes together, and many photos of our coordinated getups shall follow. Well, as many as Christina will allow me to take.

Rather than tie the knot locally, Galveston was the destination wedding’s destination. We’d never been to the island, and so planned to make a weekend of it, staying an extra night to see the sights, and taking advantage of a deal from Southwest Airlines that made spending the time and gas money it’d take to drive there seem like sheer folly.

As the date neared, complications arose. The wedding was canceled, for one. A glance at Christina told me that this was not sufficient reason to also cancel our trip. We kept our reservation at Avenue O Bed & Breakfast for a few more weeks. We blinked, though, at the point when Hurricane Gustav had a probability cone that included Galveston Isle and the deadline for a full refund on our lodgings coincided.

After Gustav took it out on Louisiana instead, we made new plans, getting a room at Grace Manor, just off The Strand. With plans set and now unavoidable, I discovered the joy of online check-in before we headed to the remote lot at the airport. Once shuttled to the terminal, it was smooth sailing from there to Houston Hobby, to the rental lot, all the way to the island.

Grace Manor is an imposing structure, even among its imposing neighbors. The long red front stair leads to a grand front door, secured by what Barbara, the helpful and enthusiastic (but not cloying) owner tells me is a lock and bolt in the Huguenot style; that is, it turns backwards. It sits at the southwestern corner of Postoffice and 17th behind a green iron fence and lush tropical gardens. Our home base for the weekend was the Bird of Paradise, with beautiful blinds and copious amounts of room to move about.

The first night, we located some toothpaste, as TSA regulations had left us dentifrice-less, then dined at Benno’s on the Beach, enjoying immense crab cakes, spicy shrimp, and the most awesome potatoes of all time. Planning to hit the beach at some point, we strolled down Seawall until we found a surf shop. We didn’t go far though, as there was one practically next door to Benno’s. We left shortly thereafter with a tiny sunscreen and two beach towels. The rest of the night was spent exploring the Strand…what little of it was open, anyhow. We strolled and perused tourist traps, casually gathering ideas about what we wanted to see the next day. We wound up at MOD, where we had a cookie and took unfair advantage of their awesome premium iced teas (with free refills, hewing to standards of southern hospitality even in the midst of massive hipness).

We woke early, even without an alarm. The only criticism I could level at our B& B experience is the late hour of breakfast. Not that we were starving, but we were quite ready to start our day, trying desperately to make the best of the opportunity to sleep in, but instead tossing restlessly like kids told to go back to bed on Christmas morning. The French toast was awesome, though, and to have a selection of desserts for breakfast is truly an indication that one is on vacation.

We worked our way southward along the Strand, popping into whichever shop caught our fancy. I was in the market for a hat to shade my shorn pate, while Christina was looking, as ever, for an elusive pair of shoes to fit her specifications. We both had struck out by the time we reached the far end of the district, finishing the browsing spree in a great antique shop that featured very pricey antique Texan cartography. It was a little past noon when we entered the Galveston Railroad Museum, a destination I had discovered only days before.

Many, many, locomotives and passenger cars awaited our inspection. But first, we had a train to catch. There is a brief ride available on Saturdays aboard a Missouri Pacific caboose coupled to a diesel loco, down a siding along the port and back again. We got a good look at the grain loading system for ships, as well as scores of flying insects busily propagating their infernal species while in mid-air. Get a room, already! A lucky young lad (who, I might observe, arrived AFTER we did) got to ride in the cab of the engine and work the train’s horn. I did my best not to shoot any dirty looks his way.

We lunched on gyros at a Mediterranean cafe, followed by heaping cones from the ice cream parlor across the street, which we licked as we walked back to the room. The next tour was Christina’s suggestion, a multimodal exploration without leaving the tour bus, or, in this case, tour DUKW. We caught the Duck Tour of Galveston on Seawall, and enjoyed an hour long loop of the city, including an excursion on Offatt’s Bayou, where the tour guide let it be known that the replica steamboat Colonel is in fact just a gussied-up diesel barge.

On Barbara’s recommendation, we tried a Tex-Mex place around the corner from the Manor, The Original. The enchiladas we had were nothing to write home about, but the salsa was extremely tasty; modestly spicy with a strong cilantro flavor.

We retired for a nap before the night’s activities started. When we left the house, we crossed paths with another couple just coming in. We took little heed of their warning that the island’s mosquito population was out in force. After all, we had sprayed down with OFF that morning…surely that application was still effective, right? Not really, no; as the still-healing bumps on my leg even now will attest. We pulled into Moody Gardens just after sundown, and got directions from a young lady bored to the point of doodling behind the counter at the Information Center. She drew us a path on a map, a line showing us how to get to the star party I was eager to attend. By the time we arrived, though, my dear wife was almost at wit’s end from being bitten. A few minutes and nary a skyward glance later, that end had been passed, and we beat a hasty retreat, calling it an early evening.

I realized that between packing and driving back to Houston, that we would have no time on the beach. Ever the romantic, often to the point of schmaltziness, I suggested we visit the shore in the cool, uncroweded morning. Ever the nerd, often to the point of insufferability, I consulted the US Naval Observatory’s table of sunrise times for the continental US, which listed a sunrise time of 7:00 am for Galveston. Sure enough, we were up by 6:30, out the door by 6:50, in the cool predawn gray, flying down 19th St toward Seawall. There was just enough time to park and make it down to the sand before the solar disk broke the horizon.

We walked along the beach, watched seagulls, sandpipers and pelicans, as well as intrepid surf fishermen, until the sun was warming up, and it was time to head back for breakfast. Mmm, quiche and mimosas! After a very long and rambling chat with the other couples, in which I let Christina talk while I enjoyed breakfast dessert, we packed up and headed out.

We returned to Moody Gardens, this time for an indoor attraction: the aquarium. We trekked from ocean to ocean, up ramps and down, watching aquatic critters of all sorts swim about. One chinstrap penguin in particular caught our attention, swimming ungracefully at the surface of the water near the glass, as if attempting to put on a show for us. And a memorable show we had, as he demonstrated in vivid yellow and white chunks the manner in which the denizens of the antarctic answer the call of nature, thereafter performing a flip and swimming back through the dissipating cloud of penguin poo. It may have been this encounter with avian cheekiness that prevented us from ordering the Yard Bird from the menu at Leon’s World’s Finest BBQ. The brisket was great, but turned out to be the least impressive offering we sampled; the spare ribs, downtown link, and homemade link du jour were all extraordinary. I’d also suggest any visitor with room to spare try Leon’s Stepped-Up Rice, full of jalapeno-y goodness and the individual-sized sweet potato pie.

On the way back to Houston Hobby, we took a detour to Johnson Space Center, as Christina had never visited. It has changed a bit since my last visit in high school; the Saturn V is now enclosed in a big steel shed, and spiffied up a bit as well. There’s a playscape in the visitor center, as well as a large food court. They even have a new control room, the old one abandoned and restored to its moon-landing era appearance shortly after I last saw it. We endured the numerous kiddoes on the tram tour and perused the artifacts before we continued on our way to the airport.

Once in the care of the rental agency, the gears turned smoothly to return us home. Shuttle to terminal, terminal to plane, plane to terminal, terminal to shuttle. I had planned the trip to maximize our time to explore, so we returned home with only an hour or so before we had to hit the sack to be rested for Monday. After a busy summer and the stresses of a new school year, we were happy to have turned what seemed like a lemon into one last refreshing round of lemonade.

A week later, this past Monday, m’lady and I met with Dr Stovall to compare and contrast the new with the old. It seems that in the intervening year, my meningiomic mind mite has been busy. Although I’ve experienced no change in symptoms (yay, carbamzapine!), I’m carrying around even more non-brain material in my head. It’s now approaching a size that raises concern, having grown along all axes. It would seem that now is the time to act, or at least, to plan.

The preferred treatment is surgical removal. While it may seem that having open-brain surgery seems a touch extreme as a first choice, the high probability of a positive outcome seems to merit an aggressive approach. Meningiomas, the literature tells me, tend not to attach themselves to the brain, but rather their source tissue, the meninges.

As you can see, that leaves it a few layers above the actual cortex, although, since it takes up space, and none of the tissues below are what you’d call “rigid” compared with the skull, it exerts pressure on the brain. They are, however, ugly bastards:

from woodcreeper’s flickr set on his own meningioma adventure

Naturally, I find this development is terrifying nonetheless. Lumpy and problematic though it is, I fancy my head, and in fact all my constituent body parts, to be as incision-free as possible. Of course, I equally wish them to be free of dangerous, ever-expanding blobs of doom. So, you can see my dilemma.

Where there is a first choice, though, there is often a second. In this case, the second-line treatment option is radiation. This path would grant me superhuman powers, perhaps permitting me to expel the bugger by force of will alone. Additionally, it will fracture the DNA in the tumor cells, killing them when they attempt to divide. Since it grows at a fairly leisurely pace, divisions clearly don’t happen all the time; therefore, it would take a while before it dies off completely. Of course, it would still be pressing on the parts it presses on now, and may still resume expansion later. There’s also some very, very small chance that it might give rise to other abnormal cellular behavior, likely not the sort that would require great responsibility on my part.

Next week, I’ll be subject to another MRI to see where my brain’s oxygen concentrates, better defining the edges of the tumor. That information will be added to the stack of facts and probabilities that I already have, and over the course of the next several weeks, work its way through several stages of Bloom’s Taxonomy en route to a decision. Watch this space!

The promotional literature for Toastmasters generally presents a litany of reasons for joining up: there’s the appeal to the shy, that they might become more confident; the paean to enhanced leadership skills; and always the promise of camaraderie and bonhomie. While worthy reasons to explore our bold, competent and amicable group, they don’t capture the opportunity Toastmasters offers that caught my eye. I’ve not been shy in front of an audience in decades, being an officer lacks appeal, and being gregarious has never been a personal goal. What I was seeking, although I didn’t realize it, was a place to give a speech. Backing up a bit: I was a competitive debater and speaker back in my school days. Adult life, though, doesn’t have much to offer in terms of opportunities to exercise rhetoric and oratory. At Wavemakers meetings, though, there is an engaged audience and a critical ear every week, focused on making you a better speaker. Not only does it indulge my love of spoken reason and clever phrasing, it also allows for competition. Although I don’t always throw my hat in, twice a year, a speaking event starts on the club level and progresses well beyond. If you want to break out of a shell, learn to lead or just make friends, please come visit; if you already love to speak, I’ll see you there.

I work in a modest office building of four stories, all of which are part of our company or parent company. It’s a great place to work, clean and tidy, and regularly updated to look nice and modern. The cleaning, though, can get out of hand. We have a custodian, a young lady who makes the rounds to the common spaces during the day to prevent small messes from becoming big ones; this is especially true of the restrooms, where things can go seriously awry with disturbing speed. Therefore, she makes several stops a day in each of the four sets of privies. You’ll hear the clank-ka-clank of the cart on the tile outside the door, followed by a polite knock and an inquiry about the occupancy of the room. All the guys respond with some variations of “Just a minute” or “occupied.” This will happen from time to time, and I think nothing of it. Some days, though, it’s like she’s got my number. Some sort of potty synchronicity will arise that has me either rushing to vacate or turned back by her yellow CLOSED sign that bars the door. I’m never sure which way she’ll go, either; men first or women, up a floor or down. I have developed a coping strategy, though. My cube is on the third floor; assuming she’ll proceed one floor at a time, the best bet when I see that sign is to head for the first floor, which is the least likely to be cleaned next. I can do my business in peace.

Plus, it gives me an excuse to raid the receptionist’s candy tray. Win-win!

Months earlier; in fact, the better part of a year before the Southern Region Business Conference, I was drafted. The seasoned Zetas of the Alpha Kappa Zeta (AKZ) chapter of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority (Inc.) decided that it would be great if someone were to rent a large passenger vehicle so that they might avoid the chore of driving the hundreds of miles between the capitol and the eastern corner of the state. It would be fantastic, in fact, if that someone were, for example, me.

The sun was out in force when I pulled up at the house on San Bernard St, the Archival Center for Texas Chapters and the geographical home of AKZ. I was greeted as warmly as the day merited as I loaded the quartet’s luggage into the voluminous cargo area. A few weeks before, I had hit upon the notion that there might be many generic, rented white vans at a large gathering, so I mentioned to my wife that a magnet noting that this van was the one from Austin might help our passengers find it better. She took my minor musing and went to town, designing and ordering a pair of large vehicle magnets bearing the chapter name, hometown and the Zeta crest. Seeing them on the side and rear of the van, the ladies of AKZ were duly impressed. Soon, everyone was seated and the A/C blasted the heat away as we pulled out at 12 o’clock sharp.

The wind gusted as I regained my large vehicle driving skills, sometimes making the experience more like sailing a boat or a kite than driving. My subcompact just doesn’t compare to the Zetafied behemoth I piloted. By the time we departed US 71 for Interstate 10, I had recovered my sea-legs. We had assembled an assortment of CDs for the trip, but they proved largely unneeded as the ladies provided interesting and humorous chatter aplenty. 241 miles and almost 6 hours later, we pulled in having stopped only twice, our tardiness attributable to an afternoon meal and my scrupulous attention to the speed limit.

Late for registration, but not for the show, luggage was stowed and costumes changed for a night of the performing arts. Threatened with the horror of Praise Dancing, we dodged a bullet when a higher power intervened and the precious moppets perpetrating the abomination suffered an irreparable technical glitch. The main act, though, brought the house down with her remarkable vocals and Motown show-woman-ship. Most of the room seemed to be in the aisles by the end, with even the most rarefied of officers shaking their…well, what happens in Beaumont stays in Beaumont.

Friday brought the events we had come for. My wife, the smart and stylish Christina Taylor, is the Zeta Male Network Coordinator for the Southern Region. Now, I’ve only been to one previous event with Zeta Male activities, and she is new to her post, taking over for an ailing soror. Therefore, we had only the vaguest idea of what to do. In line with the program at the previous conference in Fort Worth, she scheduled visits to local museums, of which Beaumont is heavily blessed. However, as there were only three men registered, there was none of the (apparently) usual accouterments, such as a separate hospitality lounge. On the other hand, we did attend the opening ceremony and luncheon, which I’m told is uncommon. We mustered the other men, Dr. Beck and Dr. Smith, whom we had met previously, and headed downtown.

Downtown Beaumont has a great deal more character than the outskirts. When a Beaumontian invited the crowd at the luncheon to enjoy the city’s many fine restaurants, then proceeded to rattle off the names of a few different national chains, I wasn’t entirely certain it was a joke; no-one else laughed aloud, anyhow. The central city is a mile or so off I-10, atop a small hill (presumably the mont that is so beau). Architecture in Romantic and NeoClassical styles predominate; while many storefronts show neglect, it is clear that there is a great deal of effort being put into revitalization of the early 20th century buildings. The Texas Energy Museum is on the northeastern edge of the grid of streets, many of which are named for Texian revolutionaries, a stone’s throw from the Neches River.

The museum is a modern one, with neither dust nor must to be found, except where intended to convey atmosphere. Exhibits are sponsored by energy firms (that is to say, oil companies). A thorough treatment of the process of petroleum formation was given via the many interesting geologic displays. The transformation of crude into refined products was explained in a disco-esque refinery model and spectacularly disorienting first-person trip through the stages of distillation. Narratives about early explorations were given by blank-faced dummies onto which video of an actor’s face was projected, producing a convincing, albeit eerie, effect. With time running out before the luncheon back at the hotel, we took group photos in front of the museum and headed back.

Of the three registered men, I was the only one present without an official capacity. The rest of the Network begged off of the planned afternoon excursion to the Texas Firefighter’s Museum, as they had other roles to fill. With the present Zeta Male Network reduced to myself, and the organizer being my wife, alternative plans were made. Incidentally, Ed Norton is great as Bruce Banner, and when at Suga’s, try the grouper.

Saturday had us up early and breakfasting before packing and taking one last swing by the vendor tables. We brunched with AKZ, and then I went to get the van. The warm, humid morning air gave way to rain just as I stepped out the door. I sat in line for a bit, as the only dry place to load luggage was now the portico, with ZZ Top turned up levels unbecoming a plain white van. The magnetic signs did their job, as the ladies found the van easily, directing the porter with the luggage right to it. Quickly we loaded, and quickly we left. Several miles west of town, the rain intensified. A few miles more, and the rice paddies blurred into invisibility, as did the truck ahead. For ten minutes or so, the only proof that we weren’t alone on the soaking coastal plain were the emergency flashers of the cars around us. Undeterred, and in what I’ll take as an indication of both their faith in my driving and their love of conversation, the chapter continued talking unabated through the storm.

The downpour halted, and the skies cleared, and we drove on. We encountered a blocked bridge, tasty truckstop treats, a Houstonian detour, and even some other traveling Zetas. Coastal plain gave way to prairie, ZZ Top yielded to James Brown; prairie rolled into hill country, the GFoS handed off to King & Clapton. We slipped back into Austin as the afternoon approached evening, depositing each of Christina’s sorors at their homes, a veritable tour of the eastern neighborhoods of Our Fair City. The sun became more and more burnt orange out the window of La Morada as I folded tacos al pastor with my favorite regional officer.

Actually, that understates the oddness of this journey a bit: she’s in charge of organizing activities for the husbands/boyfriends/”it’s complicated”-s of her sorority sisters while they have Very Important Meetings. If there weren’t any guys in attendance, she wouldn’t be going; and if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t, but since we are, I get to be in on the fun (and, in fact, did much of the research for said “fun”). Since she’s going, though, and it’s a well-known fact that I happily accompany her hither and yon, her chapter, composed in large part of wily retirees, volunteered me to drive. So Thursday, think of me, as I will be piloting Christina and myself, along with a quartet of chatty grandmotherly types the several hours out to the petrobayous of far east Texas in a very large van.

That sojourn will not end summer, though, not by a longshot. We’ve plans to see and hear WC Clark at Central Market, renovate our backyard deck, and host a leg of my mother-in-law’s family reunion. There’ll also be more movies (and more visits to our beloved Alamo Drafthouse), music (the freer the better), a Very Important Test, some time in a noisy tube, and some more birthdays. Not quite enough to make Christina long for the lazy days of the school year, but an active season. I’ll keep y’all posted.