Kay Buena's Blog

     Most educated people remember Robert Burns’ poems, who amongst many memorable verses and lyrics, wrote “Auld Lang Syne”, which is sung at midnight on New Years Eve in so many places around the world, having become a ritualized part of many a country’s culture, transcending it’s lyrics and verse into a classical verbal tradition.  Yeah, it was along time ago, and the dude was Scottish and talked (and wrote) in a weirder than all hell version of English, or even in what might have passed as Old English…but he was a prolific poet and indeed needs to be included as part of American and certainly, all English speaking countries’ education, as he was a significant writer, indeed. (check out: http://www.robertburns.org/works/97.shtml for the source whence cometh this particular one of my usual snide and idiotic comments and/or critiques, this time having the nerve to do so of his very famous poem: “To A Louse:On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church” (1786).  Heck, I was just a kid back then.  But I remember my Dad quoting the last verse of this poem, as his mother often did to children as an illustration that sometimes a person’s appearance, does not that person make; or maybe, no matter how refined a person seems, he or she has unfortunate problems like we all do; or given the span of this work, perhaps when we get too proud of ourselves, for what ever reason, we are not always viewed by others in this same fine and positive way.  Here’s the last verse:

     O wad some Power the giftie gie us

     To see oursels as ithers see us!

      It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

     An’ foolish notion:

     What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e  us,

     An’ ev’n devotion!

     When I raised my daughter, if and when I used that verse, it was simply a very entertaining way of reminding the little idiot not to trade hats with the other little buggers at elementary school, as there was the possibility of one, if not many of her friends traveling with  these lousey tiny parasites that tended to hop from one head to the other, if only for variety’s sake.  Besides, as all parents of little rug-rats know, there will come a day, when as you comb out your beautiful princess’ hair (in my case this was so long ago as to seem an abstraction, however lice are always a popular subject in our local newspaper to remind me of their reality) one day you will go completely bonkers at the sight of one or many of these tiny terrorist head lice; in order to rid one’s family of these interlopers, they must be ‘treated’ immediately or the whole family will travel with a tribe of tiny parasitic hitch-hikers upon all heads.  Also, and perhaps the most fun part of this situation, is that all bedding, clothes, and the beds themselves must be washed with hot water and strong detergent, and/or sprayed down with something particularly toxically specific to kill head lice. All this must be done (along with the rather nasty application of a foul but innocuous (for children) shampoo, and the ever popular nit picking (always a favorite) fine-combing the hair free of the lice in their larve  or egg stage) or the little jerks (your kids) just get reinfected;  so getting rid of these nefarious parasites it is a hassle indeed… 

      I am a great believer in the encouragement of early-onset microbe-phobia, to say nothing of  the promotion of fear of all nature’s disgusting or revolting realities, regardless of their particular ‘color, creed and codes’ and their consequences. These must all be openly and repeatedly brought to the attention  of all, when raising said rug-rats, er…kids.–Who says this instills fear and or neurosis?  Too bad. Those GD things are real, and so are other horrible germs, bacteria,  and some of those other little friends can be extremely dangerous too, in some way. Take it from me, I used to be one, many years ago and in a far away land.   And as for “creeds and codes“: this is a big “No No” or you could end up with a house full of computer geeks coding like crazy–this must be stopped as well. (just kidding about that, there is no safe haven for that problem.)Yowsa.        

      For example the first time I heard the TV Character”Monk”ask his assistant for a wipe, after shaking hands or having handled something or someone of a dubious and questionable nature, I didn’t get the humour implied.  It seemed a perfectly reasonable request,( and although I have no assistant, with the exception of my imaginary friend, Mrs. Tiesdale) and a perfectly acceptable act, indeed. Not that most wipes would save you from all gross stuff, bacteria, and/or lice for instance, but it’s a good start.

     I am in digression yet again, however, I recently read the currently discussed whole poem and pondered it’s real meaning to me, and how I could relate to this predicament in these days and times; I discovered that even though, the ‘fine Lady’ in the poem, who had seemingly gone to such trouble with her visual appearance was not aware that Burns viewed the louse on her bonnet; and his seeing these unlikely compatriots in tandem, his comparison between them, was unquestionably with out a likely trait. It is totally obvious that he was grossed out by their relationship; and quite  disturbed, as she, although oblivious to the lice, was obviously feeling about her self and her appearence in a positive way.  And then Burns set’s off on a strange and delightful dis”ing of the louse for homesteading on this fine lady, and not some gutter snipe, of whom he deems a more fitting and likely candidate.

     However, now I can say from inside my own experiences, that a lady could look reasonably presented, nicely groomed, or even richly turned out in designer threads and such, but have a mind full or horrible thoughts and experiences eating themselves out from the inside of her head.  Such thoughts  tend to come out at unfortunate times,  such as when writing a blog about what was supposed to be an amusing take on this poem.  I remember being questioned by the checker at the local grocery, asking me ‘what was wrong and could he be of service?’ ?  I must have had a horribly bothersome and revealing expression on my face at the time, one indicating worry or dissatisfaction, as I was actually at that time in an internal debate with the ideas of Nietzsche as opposed by Kant, both German philosophers and both developmental in existentialism.  I was trying to remember which one of these ner’do well German dudes came up with the idea of ‘ that which harms us makes us stronger.’ This being, and always was, to my mind, a quadruple thunk up load of shit from the first time I heard it till today, some 50 years later.

     But how was I to gather these ideas and opinions together in a way to answer the grocery checker’s question of ‘how I might be helped?’  I was speechless, until the idea came to me that someone waiting in line at a grocery store with this sort of  internalized mind-daemons in action, was obviously over-educated to far beyond the level of her native intelligence and in the first place has (1.) too much time on her hands, (2.) needs to review her philosophy notes and books before hitting the grocery store, (3.) needs to be made aware of the need for a serene untroubled facial continence, (4.) or learn to think quick and come up with a relevant question, such as:” Where is the salt?” or “Do you have any paper bags,” under these circumstances.

      Admittedly, I went over the top with that, but the point being: what can be worse than lice outside the head, is to be in the act of destructive and unanswerable thoughts of such a powerful negative nature as mine were, at such a time, when innocently facing the grocery clerk.  One is better to live in the present and the now, (by the way, where was the salt?) than to be thinking of such no-matter, snowballing, unanswerable, irrelevant and unseemly questionable philosophy’s in the first place.  As for example, though Carl Marx, another acclaimed ,though long deceased, philosopher managed the writing of” The Communist Manifesto”, and gained world wide fame, never having experienced a job in his entire life.  What the hell gave him the nerve to think on this scale, with so little life experience?  And why have I lost that kind of nerve, myself?  ‘Having been kicked to my knees so many times by life’s boot, that one of those knees had to be replaced by a prosthesis.  To my mind, the grocery clerk was probably the smarter person and certainly the more responsible, doing good honest needed work.  Carl Marx was a blow-hard that probably spent time in internal debate in line at the grocery (actually a far too mundane thing for him to have done…)

     I answered the grocery clerk’s question by reconfiguring my facial expression to a sheepish smile and shook my head, indicating no.  Hopefully, during that non-verbal answer, no head lice were detected or spread by my gesture, and these mind deamons are not contagious, unless expressed to others. He was a lucky guy. 

      Though I can close my eyes and remember how Fall looked and seemed to me in New England, and other foreign spots north of the Rio Grande, here in Austin, Fall looks pretty much like Summer, but with the school-aged kids rounded up like they’re supposed to be, unseen nor heard, for the better part of the day.  It gets a lot cooler though, sometimes in the low nineties, so that’s a treat.  But we’ve really only two seasons around here: Summer; and what I call “Gray Slop”.  Gray Slop is really sort of like Winter, and for the most part, it’s usually cold ( a relative issue for sure(but rarely below freezing)) and gloomier than an art critic with his or her mouth duct-taped shut. Gray Slop doesn’t start up until mid November, and is usually over before you can get used to it, mostly by February.  Of course, this varies as some days are sunny in Gray Slop here, in spite of my pessimistic outlook today. But every once in a very long while Austin gets some ice and snow, for which no one is ever prepared.  The few times this has happened, it’s treated like a natural disaster here, where there is never enough sand and/or salt for the roads, and the bridges or overpasses become ‘slip and slides’ for the gleefully surprised commuters as they incounter one of these rare and celebrated snow storms.  Most native Austinites (that would be me, though ‘can’t cop this plea ) have no experience driving in icy conditions; ergo, every one hits the road ’cause it’s so white and purty and all fallin’ down like white rice at a wedding. So what we have here becomes more like a bumper car ride, than the”over the river and through the snow to grandmothers house we go”road trips that are experienced up north.  Must be because this is so rare and we’re all so curious here, that we just can’t help ourselves from the temptation to go for a ride to become one with the very unusual snow. That or we all want to think “Physics” is somewhere in east Texas, and has nothing to do with us .

      I guess the older you are, the years, the months, the days all blur, and merge or become stagnant as they pile up, as so many of any will tend to do. That could lean toward disenchantment, if not an extreme case of bad attitude. But this was not always the case, and I was not always this old, or this scarred by what horrific, but uniquely personal damage the exposure to all those accumulating yesterdays has done to me, the ever popular but lonely recluse that I am.   Time has a way of shuffling the cards and always handing me the joker, which though a constant occurrence can be a useful entity to expect, as life goes on for me: but it’s getting kind’a old and losing that humorous quality that this sort of  consistency might have for a much younger person.  Luck has ‘done left the building’ around here for quite some time; but this seems to be just the way it goes for me.   While others contend with how they deal with their ever changing and complex ‘hand’, here I sit with the usual smirk.  Time does, with no exception for any of us, have the tendency to slip right on by, as we struggle to live with our past as well as what possible future that is dealt to us, come Hell or high water, rain or snow.

     When I was in my mid-twenties (back in the McKinley administration), I had the finest 1969 Mustang any one ever dreamed about owning.  It was the fast back model, and painted a wonderfully flashy – but at the same time irregular dark green – that did not mock the trees -but was unto it’s own unique presence.   My parents gave me this as a surprise for the unbelievable occurrence of my having graduating from college (hard to believe, but it happened.) It  had a stick shift with a way too powerful of a motor for a car that size, and for a stupid idiot like I was back in those days. But my “Stang” had a sound that was a deep rumble, with a given authority and possible power that could not be ignored.  By it’s very nature, being a relatively small car with an enormous engine, ’twas trouble for one such as I, in any circumstances. I loved it for it’s “pick up” as I easily joined into my place among speeding cars; as it’s ability to enter the highway with an unbelievable take off speed was, as I expertly popped that clutch into gears with an experienced manner, very unlike your average young woman in those days of my memory’s finest.   Back when I had that car, the early 1970’s, the highway from Austin to Houston (where my folks lived) was flat and rarely traveled, unlike today where the population has exploded along with this idyllic dream of an empty road and a car that could easily do 100 miles an hour in fourth gear with an easy grace.  But as it had rear wheeled drive, with that disproportionate weight of the engine up front, it was a true hazard to drive in ice and snow in the high country for sure.

       My former husband and some friends and I were heading for Santa Fe from Austin, Texas one winter back then,  for some unknown reason (the early 1970’s did little for most of my generation’s long term memory, as is shown here)in my beloved “Stang”.  By the time we got to north Texas (say 800 miles away from Austin) it started snowing, which we Austinites took to be a bonus indeed.  I remember dancing in the falling white wonder of snow in front of some little road stop restaurant, sort of like I was the sugar plum fairy’s evil twin from the “Nutcracker Ballet”. Yes, that was unusual behavior, but not for me in those days.  Everything seemed all gloriously white and unnaturally glossy with it’s coat of ice and carpet of snow. The cold icy scenery was so very wonderfully different for us, as we marveled at the snow storm on the flat highway there in North Texas that day. Even the strange scrunching sounds we made as we walked and the feeling of the snow falling on our upturned faces was ever so exotic to us Central Texans and made the day seem completely magic. 

     Until we got into that serious High Mountain Country in New Mexico.  By this time, we were inside of a blizzard, with some of the roads so iced over or packed with a questionable amount of snow, that the big trucks where parked along side ‘the truck-stops for the duration-showing a professional experienced reaction to the weather’s reality.  Trying to haul an 18 wheeler up and down those enormous montañas in those conditions, wasn’t gonna happen with out major destruction.  But we kept seeing other regular cars bravely hauling as if there was no problem at hand.  At some sections of this horrendous highway, there were New Mexico’s Finest at several locations with blinking lights flashing, so we slowed down and were told we could probably make it through since we had big traction tires on that “Stang”… the trooper must have thought we looked like we were “experienced snow drivers”, or heres a bunch to prove Darwins theory. 

      Needless to say, we weren’t all THAT experienced with driving that dang “Stang” up and over those humongous icy mountains, in which our front end was so heavy and the back end (you know where the wheels were going on) was so light in the loafers, it was sort of like being on a long sled with a couple of other squirming kids in back of a big fat kid in the front — hauling sideways and out of control. If and when we made it upside of one of those big mountains, we then had to contend with sliding on down in that manner, free falling, sometimes sideways.  At one section of the highway, the troopers at a rest stop were giving instructions and advice that was so unbelievably frightening  and confusing to me, that I did not notice my now ex-husband had gone to get coffee and wasn’t with us, as my mind was fearfully concentrating on the “how to’s”as I was at that time doing the driving. The highway beyond continued to glisten with ice and snow in the night’s strange light (the highway at that point was down to one travel-able lane) with several heavily dressed cops stationed at intervals, attired with the frigid weather in mind, with walky-talkys and thick white gloves, signaling traffic in an authoritative style, so there would be no unfortunate head-on/slide-into collisions. At that point, I locked eyes with the trooper in charge who was motioning for me to head forward-which I did, staying in 2nd gear most of the time and holding my breath or nervously laughing, ’cause what else could you do when you were fixing to die?

      As I bravely continued my perilous journey, suddenly from behind me in the white thick mist of the blizzard I noticed the flashing lights of a cop car in the dim mist of  the heavy snow, as we both attempted to hit the bottom of one of those sleigh rides and haul over to the side at the bottom. Out of the dim white mist I noticed a couple of guys getting out of that  police car and heading my way. The snow was coming down so thickly, you could barely make out who or what they were.  But, as they came closer up to my drivers side window, I saw them to be: one very highly amused trooper, along with my terrified, semi-frozen husband who was dressed for Winter in Central Texas, not for a Blizzard.   Which just goes to show, who needs him?

      We got to Santa Fe, where I stayed with a good friend of mine, while husband #1 continued to drive to California and pick up his blankidy-blanking fiber-glassed hull of the sail boat he was building, intending to sail the ocean all by himself, which was always his plan. There was a real clue with that divisional life goal, but I missed it until later.  I stayed a few days in Santa Fe experiencing Winter for nearly a week, then caught a ride back to Austin with another fine friend of mine with a 4 wheel drive truck. I got back to Austin, more or less no worse for wear, which could not be said for the state of my Mustang. That was a Hell of a car any way you look at it and I wish I still had it in A-! condition, but wasn’t meant for hauling sailboats ‘cross country.  Never had such a fine car been so misused and abused as that one: if it’d been a horse, I’d a had to shoot him.  So here I sit typing this tale of reckless frolicking in a snow storm, on second thought, looking forward to this year’s Gray Slop. 

     So happy October, yawl’s; it’s probably only gonna hit 92 to the south of our house, overlooking the Rio Grande way down in the valley, beyond which a gaggle of golfers continue their evil game.

As ever,

Kay Buena
 

Sometime between the age of 2 and 4 years old, my parents got me a toy piano.  It was white and shaped like a baby grand, but only had two octaves (from  G below middle C—to G above middle C).  I thought this was the most wonderful thing, although thinking back to how that must have effected the family, it is my guess that I was the only one with that particular thought.  My Dad taught me how to play ” St. Louis Blues” (oddly enough in the key of F#) on that little piano, which was his specialty on the piano, having learned that one from an old black dude who hung around my dad’s family’s General Store in Appomattox, Virginia back in the 1920’s.  This-playing the piano and singing, I saw as  my destiny-a pathway in a miraculous musical direction, as I learned that song and played many other popular songs (by “ear“) over and over, as much as I could get away with.  I’m sure there were times when my parents were ready to toss me and that little piano out on our ears, but they never did.

     As my Dad was in the Air Force, we moved quite allot, and each time we moved we pared down our possessions as much as possible, as we never knew what or how big our ‘quarters’ would be.  However, much to the disapproval of the  rest of the family, that toy piano came along regardless of it’s necessity. But a tiny toy piano can take you only so far.

     When I was twelve my mother found an ad in the local paper (The Orlando Sentinel) for an old upright piano ( a Wurlitzer) for $100, being sold by an old couple who used to play piano professionally back in the days of vaudeville.  Along with this wonder came a stack of unbelievable old great sheet music, some of which I still have, but most of which time and the salt water spray and constant humidity of Cocoa Beach turned into crumbling unusable fragments of the past. We were in Florida for 5 years and to protect the piano from the elements, we were told to install a special light so it wouldn’t warp or get dank, which we did (both put in the lamp and get warped and dank ourselves, by and by.).   Then my family and the Wurlitzer were transferred to Hanscombe Field Air Force Base in Bedford, Massachusetts, where we stayed a little over a year; and then as my Dad switched to NASA we moved to Houston ,Texas, and I finally ended up here, in Austin, to attend The University of Texas.   In a moment of madness, love, and generosity, I gave my old toy piano (that I still had in my early 20’s) to one of my best friend’s baby daughter, hoping it would inspire her as much as it did me. 

     Oddly enough, the man who was to become my Husband offered to get my upright real piano from Houston and bring it to Austin, so I could have it to play, long before we were married.  That probably clinched the deal.   When the first piano tuner we hired here looked that old Vaudevillian Wurlitzer over, he marveled at how incredibly much used and worn down was it’s inside workings, wondering how it still managed to sound as nice as it did.  Of course a piano has it’s own magic, and why he wasn’t on to that is the real question. 

     Then we and my old piano moved to Westchester County, New York, as my husband wanted to return to his job at IBM research there in Yorktown.  We all stayed there 2 and 1/2 years before moving back home, as we couldn’t take the cold and the attitude of the locals there who really had strange and amusing accents (just joking- as we were the strangers in a strange land there-hard core Austinites that we were.)  So, this time our old beloved Wurlitzer and our new edition, a two year old girl  and her new toy piano and my husband and I returned to Austin. 

     Unbeknown-st to me, my husband surprised me one year with a baby grand piano for my birthday, trading in the old Wurlitzer was part of the deal.  I named her “Jazzebelle,” as it was a family tradition to name our pianos ( and cars.) Our daughter took piano lessons from the time she was 6 years old and became quite good at it, until she became a rebellious teenager.  And I renewed by love for the piano and progressed in my playing through out those years.  

     15 years ago we moved into our current home on a hillside with a great view of the ‘Hill Country’ and beyond,  I continued to play Jazzebelle until her whole upper register zonked out, when the sound board cracked.  My piano tuner, who has so wonderfully cared for Jazzebelle for so long finally declared her no longer save-able, as only a very good friend could and would do. Her name is Mary Smith and she virtually rebuilt Jazzebelle over the years, and knows her stuff, no question; ergo : we bought a portable, affordable electric piano (we named “The  Imposter”) as when you strike the keys with your finger, what’s really happening is a recorded piano’s sound of that note is made to copy that note as the internal computer is programmed to do.   Which, we all know- given my proclivity for cyberphobia, to say nothing for a few moments of well documented computer rage (see “Camp Carnage” on this site for evidence of this tendency,)-would never really work out.  So my husband, in a moment of rational madness, offered to take me to the Steinway Gallery here in Austin to look for a possible match.  I was so over come by the experience, I was unable to play any of the pianos there (*?) even I didn’t know why then, but the sales personage took me to a room full of Grand pianos, where I went from one to the other sitting down and putting my hands on the keys and closing my eyes at each and every one.   I sensed an almost magnetic connection from one particular one, out of the whole room full of gorgeous grand pianos.    This sounds so regretfully new-aged to say nothing of nuts, I’m the first to admit that;  but I honestly felt this jolt of power, an almost magnetic connection with that one particular Steinway Grand that we bought, being unable to play a single note ( much to my husband’s suspicion, to say nothing of the sales person’s) but trying them  all out for comfort, like one would at a Lazy-boy furniture store or something. I don’t know about you, but the more I think about that, the weirder it seems, no wonder I have monthly appointment with a psychiatrist, and that’s just a blip on the screen, the tip of the iceberg in truth.  Oh well, not to worry, what with Global Warming and all.

     Any Way, this Steinway Grand which is strong, and loud, and guides my hands from time to time, definitely has it’s own soul.  All Steinway are made, each one, from one single tree, so I guess that isn’t all that strange of a thought really, that it has it’s own soul.  It is alive, as it once was as a tree;  and has quite truthfully been my salvation in times of deep depression, trouble, and strife.  Sometimes I think It wills me to keep living and trying to do the best I can do.  Since I’ve had him ( this piano’s name is Ruben,)  I have had some serious and painful surgeries just to be able to continue to walk.  I had a fall that tore some important tendons on my right foot, which had to be fished for and re-connected which was worse than it sounds. Also in that same fall, it’s probable that I broke the head of my femur badly enough that the blood stopped pumping up through the marrow, I ended up with avascular necrosis (the bone done died in der) that spread to my pelvis, so I got to have a complete hip replacement as well.   As when one side of the body’s shot, the other side usually takes over the load, so I ended up with an arthritic left knee so worn out that the cartilage moved out or something enabling the femur to cut in to to the tubular and fibula (lower bones of the leg, south of the knee), making walking agonizing.  In hopes that this would help some, my orthopedic surgeon yet again tried to drain what we thought was excess synovial fluid, as my knee was so swollen and aching and this can help, at least temporarily; however this time what came out was mostly blood (not a good sign).  So once again I got the grand prize of yet another joint replacement, which was not as much fun as it sounds, believe me.  I had to re-learn to walk at least 3 times.  (Think of me as Saint Caroline, the  patron saint of the Lame and Insane, (kidding)).  I am hardly Saint material, but one of the best parts of my life has been playing Ruben, and it is my firm belief that playing the piano is the closest thing to prayer I can think of, or maybe another form of prayer.  I thank God for my life and that little toy piano my parents got me so long ago, as learning to play the piano and playing it well, or at least pretty dang good (regardless of style) can be the most enjoyable thing a person can possibly do. 

     Back when I was a kid ( about 26) I had a unique experience with the County Sherrif’s officers that gave me a rather grey look into the black and white letters of the law.  I was a serious Ballet student, and had just come home from my 2 & 1/2 hour morning class.  My husband at that time (an X-husband for 30 years) and I were sitting around the round table in our living/dining/what ever room drinking coffee, when we heard what sounded like a loud speaker, spewing unintelligible talk seemingly coming from our front yard.  As I was up and pacing, hyper-active nut that I always was, I took a look out the front window  and noticed about 6 uniformed men ( in uniforms I did not recognize as lawmen of any kind,  Austin  Cops wore dark blue uniforms and these were khaki-tan (sort of like Air Force Officer Summer Uniforms) pointing high caliber rifles in the direction of our house.  This I took to be a rather unfortunate way to spend such a nice Spring morning;  however, being (as I have bragged about many times here) a Military Brat, when seeing serious looking Uniformed Men in firing stance with high powered rifles pointed your way, while giving directions such as ” come out of the house with your hands up,” it is best not to have a debate with one’s partner or even hesitate in doing what was clearly suggested.  So I opened the front door in my brown leotard and brown long skirt having my hands up in fifth position (kidding) even though I didn’t know who these guys were– and they did not inform us who they were, until after the fact–that they were county sheriff’s officers.  You got to remember that this was back in the stone ages, and not too long after Charles Whitman pulled his famous routine;  so for all I knew this could have been a whole bunch of Eagle Scouts gone terribly wrong.   My (at that time) husband followed me out, after his coffee hit him and reality sunk in.    We were told to lay on the the ground so they could cuff us ( like a couple of Spring Pigs.)…( Oh ,the disrespect of  non-removable grass stains on my off-white tights, to say nothing of the dignity lost with the neighbors, not that we held the esteem of said neighbors even with out that unfortunate display.) 

     At the time we had a serious watch dog, a German Shephard  named “Mule.”   He was infamous among the local hippies, as he would guard the house, or truck, or what ever he was in charge of– as though he were Genghis Khan with more serious teeth.  Well, of course old Mule wasn’t having any intruding Eagle Scouts in his domain, and was barking, growling, and showing those infamous teeth of his in his fiercest stance as he stood point inside of the screen door.   There was some talk among those lawmen of shooting him, until I managed to sit up and request that the let me handle the situation and “my dog” by giving a known command that I figured he would follow, regardless of the presence of these courteous, friendly visitors.  They discussed this and told me to try it, but if he went for one of them, he’d be shot.  I shouted in my loudest most serious voice: “Mule, get in the truck.” And told the cop closest to the door to get behind and open the screen door, which oddly enough he did.  Must have been the volume I could produce back then, those where the days when I sang on the street with no mike, and was young and  in good physical shape.  Lucky for me that I knew how to give and take orders, as in my child hood I remember waking up to  the familiar loudly cadanced ” attention for the orders of the day, detail for tomorrow…”  for about 17 years, when my Dad felt like getting things moving in the morning.

      Mule followed my directions as I followed him with my eyes and then said ” Good Boy”: Mule was no bodies fool ,that’s for sure;  who wouldn’t rather be guarding the truck than sprawled out and ‘hogtied’, at that time cuffed on the ground, and for what reason I had no idea—(-maybe these guys were Dance critics?)

     Actually some prisoner from the county jail escaped on these fine guy’s watch. Unfortunately for us, he had coincidentally parked his company truck in our drive way, then ran for it around the back of our house and down to the woods that lead to Lamar Boulevard, which he could cross and be in an even more dense and remote forest.  Any way, as he was found to not be hiding in our little house, and he was no where in sight, they very officially changed their mode, and un-cuffed us, after which we were told what had gone down.  They gave me Sheriff Frank’s card and told me ” if ever the sheriff could do any thing for you, don’t hesitate to call,” etc.  So they unchambered their rifles and gathered like grackels to talk about what had happened, and what to do now, etc.  I noticed two very young officers among that group were still shaking from the adrenaline rush, or what ever…one of those younger guys had me “covered”, and I’m sure I must have looked pretty ” bad-assed” with my ballet bun, and turned out stance.  I remember ‘reassuring that guy’, and saying some thing like :”Say man, every things cool now, huh?”…to which he just met my eyes and kind of muttered, ‘Yeah, I guess.’  I think they were looking forward to target practice on the weird-os, but I could be wrong.  At least they apologized and didn’t shoot the dog.

      But that was a long time ago, when Austin was a nice smallish “college town”, where you could walk around at night with out pepper spray.  I had some personal dealings with the county lawmen, and the city cops lately, and this new generation of cops are not nearly so open to suggestion, as they were in those days, to say the least.  Must be the age thing, and some where during all these rough shod years I lost the Sheriff’s card along with my nerve.