Did someone say winter?

I like to say I much prefer winter over summer; sweaters and corduroys instead of shorts and Hawaiian shirts; jackets and mukluks in place of T-shirts and sandals. I usually say this at least once a year, typically in the middle of a long, sweltering summer because, “You know, you can always put on more clothing, but there’s only so much you can take off.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you say that many times,” she said to me, bundled up in three pairs of sweatpants, two sweaters and a very heavy robe. She was wearing the cozy pair of fluffy house shoes I gave her for Christmas. “Yep. Many, many times. But what about now?”

I looked out the living room window to see if, hopefully, anything had changed. It hadn’t. The central heater was barely keeping up with the falling temperature, and the dog was refusing to go outside to “take care of business,” not that I blamed her.

I buried my hands deep inside my hoodie’s pockets and asked, “How long did the weatherman say this was going to last?”

“A day? A week? Forever? I don’t remember,” she said. “But what does it matter? You PREFER winter.”

It just dawned on me that I preferred snow DAYS and hot chocolate and not getting frostbite while sitting on your own couch. Of course, I kept that thought to myself. 

“You know how I’m always laughing at folk up north for complaining about 90-degree summer weather?” 

“Are you about to have an epiphany, dear?” she said, sarcastically.

“It’s because they’re not used to having hot weather like we are,” I said.

“And?”

I rubbed my hands to keep them warm and said, “They’re probably laughing at us right now.”

“Bingo! And we have a winner.”

Of course I have a romantic view of winter. Other than being born during a freak Texas ice storm back in the 60s, I’ve never actually experienced the kind of lengthy cold that you might find in Fargo, North Dakota, or Trondheim, Norway. There are no week-long snow showers in Fort Worth, you will never be able to ice skate on San Antonio’s River Walk, and the only blizzard you’ll find in East Texas is at the local Dairy Queen.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep the coffee brewing all day long. The caffeine will probably keep you awake all night, but at least your tummy will be warm.”

To all my northern friends: You are made of hardier stuff than I. You build ice castles and snow hotels, and all I want is a warm heating pad. You go sledding at the drop of a hat. I never want to take my hat off. If it didn’t look stupid, I’d wear two. You dive into frigid lakes just because they’re there. I watch you doing it through your InstaTube accounts and think you’re bonkers.

To all my Texas friends: As I sit here writing this, I have a cup of coffee sitting nearby to warm up my hands, the faucets are dripping enough to double my water bill, and I have no idea how miserable the next few days are going to get. 

As you’re sitting there reading this, you know exactly how all this ended. You’re probably wearing a T-shirt and shorts by now, sipping on a sweet iced tea, the faucets are turned off, the pipes are repaired, and the heater hasn’t turned on all day. Oh, how lucky you are, and how lucky we all will be when we meet again. 

Friendly neighborhood Fox

The Fox don't come around every day, but when they do, we know it. 

Message in a bottle

Dear Friend: 

I was in the mood to write a letter, and thought you might enjoy receiving one. Nothing long, nothing fancy. Just an old-fashioned letter between friends who miss the quaintness of addressing an envelope, attaching a stamp, putting it in a mailbox and then waiting for the reply. One week? Two weeks? I hope the letter gets there. Maybe I should go ahead and write you another.

There was a time when letter writing was the sole form of communication across distances. During the 1800s in Victorian London, postal carriers on their normal route would pass by your house up to 12 times a day. If you jotted down a quick message to someone across town, you’d more than likely get a return message by the end of the day, and be perturbed that you didn’t get it any faster.

And then in America, there was the Pony Express for sending a letter to your Aunt Edna out west. No need to worry. Don’t get distressed. That letter should get there in 10 days, at best.

We still romanticize The Pony Express, even though the service lasted only 18 months. The telegraph killed the Pony Express star, which morphed into the telephone, which made the fax machine possible, which eventually led to email and texting which have been cheaper ways of keeping friends and family updated on your comings and goings.

It’s not hard to see the future of letter writing coming to an end. Just look at Denmark as an example. PostNord, the Danish postal system, recently stopped delivering letters because hardly anyone was mailing them. Four hundred years of tradition usurped by the digital crusades of King Email and his evil sidekick Sir Text-A-Lot. The Danes will still be able to post letters through a private company, but it’s rotten I tell you. Plain rotten.

But all is not lost. Remember when we thought vinyl records were dead and buried, but then enthusiasts started buying them again? Now, some of the young folk out there are giving vintage technology (retro tech) a try, trading digital cameras for analogue and taking flip phones for a spin around the block, leaving their smartphones at home to wonder what they did wrong. Could a revival of letter writing be written in the stars? I don’t see why not.

Letter writing is a more tactile form of communication — the paper, a pen in your hand, a little smudge of wet ink on your shirt sleeve. And the best part is: once a letter is received, you can open it without two-step verification and it’s in your hands for real. It’s not sitting on some cloud somewhere. And your future kids and grandkids will be thankful for a treasure trove of your history that would have been lost for all time because they couldn’t find your digital password.

I know. I’m preaching to the choir. 

Well, I guess that’s all I’ve got to say about that. Kids are fine. Pets are fine. The weather’s fine. We’re just kinda boring over here. Oh, yes! I made another fruitcake this year, but I won’t bore you with the details. Just tell everyone we said hello, and I’ll write again soon. Your friend, always. Tracy Farr.

P.S. Feel free to write back. I wouldn’t mind hearing from you. You know, a simple letter, postcard from Hawaii, a belated Christmas card, a haiku (I’ve always loved your poetry), or maybe a funny story about your dog or cat. My address is still: Tracy Farr, P.O. Box 310, Mt. Pleasant, TX 75456-0310. I look forward to hearing from you. TF.

Never count your scissors

I want to shake the hand of the person who only has one pair of scissors in their house. That’s a person who believes that four of anything other than tires on your car is unhealthy. That’s a person who figured out that if you can’t juggle three scissors at the same time, you best stick with one and invest the money you save on bandaids in buying useful stuff like three-ring hole punches and stapler guns.

I, on the other hand, went looking for a pair of scissors the other day and found 23 of them. And that was just in our “office supply” drawer in the kitchen. There’s no telling how many others are lost between the couch cushions or in the glovebox. Wait a minute. I just found two more lurking on the countertop. Kitchen shears. That makes 25, ain’t no lie.

I blame it all on Robert Hinchliffe, who lived in Sheffield, England, way back in 1761. He didn’t invent the scissors, but he is the person credited for mass producing them. Of course, that made them less expensive to buy. Which is probably why — are you kidding me? — I’m up to 31 pairs.

(I just finished brushing my teeth. I counted six more pairs of scissors in the bathroom, sitting there in plain sight, daring me to count them. I pretended I hadn’t. They looked really sharp.)

The origin of scissors can be traced back to the very beginnings of arts and crafts. At least to 4,000 BC in Mesopotamia. The Middle East. The “Cradle of Civilization.” They didn’t look like modern-day scissors, but they were just as useful. The ancient Egyptians had them. So did the Romans and Chinese. And then along came Hinchliffe and disposable income. Thanks, Bob.

You know how when you’re interested in a subject, like the history of scissors, and you start doing a bit of research and come across essays available on the Internet written by folk who appear to be trying to pass a Rock-Paper-Scissors 101 class? Well, I found one and this is the sentence that really stabbed me in the pinky: 

“Nowadays, I’m sure at least one pair of scissors can be found in every home across the country.”

Just one? Really? Was this essay written in 1807? Okay, it said AT LEAST one. But how many homes across the country can boast of a few more than just one? That’s what I wondered. And since I didn’t know, I asked.

According to a recent survey I conducted with my FaceBook friends (a survey which probably made me look like a total lunatic to the 77 people who kindly responded), I learned that the average household can proudly claim to have 7.7 pairs of scissors in it, plus or minus two pairs. If we round that number up to eight, that seems like a good number of scissors to own. Eight. Not 42 of them.

That’s right. When my wife came home and joined the search party, she found 11 more scissors scattered all willy-nilly throughout the house, upping our Grand Total to 42. Six per room, including bathrooms. And to be honest, she had so much fun in tracking down the little buggers, I didn’t have the heart to be embarrassed by it all.

According to Dr. Regina Lark, a board-certified professional organizer, the average American household has 300,000 items in it. And if that’s true, then our scissor horde only takes up 0.014 percent of our total accumulated 40-years-of-marriage household collection. A mere blip compared to our coffee mugs and non-working flashlight mounds. So I apologize. I shouldn’t have gotten so snippy about the scissors.

Let's get it right this time

I should have given the man the $10. I had it in my pocket. It’s not like my family would’ve starved without it. But he asked me in the middle of a grocery store. On Christmas Eve. And it caught me off guard. I was looking for egg nog, and the next thing I knew, someone in need was asking for help. And I balked.

I could say he didn’t look homeless, that he seemed to be in good heath, that he was wearing clothes not much different than what I was wearing, and more than likely that he was probably looking for cash to support some kind of habit — and that’s why I didn’t give him any money. But I didn’t really know his story. Maybe he was sleeping in his car and living on grocery store samples. But really, who cares what he would spend the money on? ’Twas the season to help. And I Scrooged it all up.

I need to do better in 2026. Maybe smile more. Maybe be more helpful. Maybe take in another stray cat. I mean, the man in the grocery store was somebody’s son. He could have been my son. And if my son was living in his car in some grocery store parking lot and needed money — to buy lunchmeat or vape juice (it doesn’t matter) — I hope there would be somebody there to see his need and help him along his way.

“But,” I hear you say, “he was probably a flimflam man looking for a sucker, and you fit the bill perfectly.” 

Yes. You’re right. I offered to buy him whatever he needed, but he wasn’t interested. He wanted the cash. And when it didn’t look forthcoming, he mumbled something and walked away. Later, I saw him in the produce section, hitting up someone else for the $10. But that didn’t matter. I should’ve gifted him the money. He was somebody’s son. He could’ve been mine.

If my children or grandchildren become desperate one day for assistance, and I’m not in a position to help them because I’m long dead and buried, will you see them as bums on the street trying to swindle “good, honest-working folk out of a few bucks. Shoot, I betcha they live in a mansion and drive a Corvette. So no. I’m not giving them a stinking dime.” Or will you help them out of the kindness of your heart, because they’re no different than you are? Tell me. I’ve got to know before I leave them at your mercy.

My horror is that we, as inhabitants of one of the most prosperous countries in the world, have become so unforgiving of “the others,” the ones who don’t look like us, the ones who “don’t belong,” the ones who don’t believe exactly what we believe in — so unforgiving and intolerant that we’ve forgotten that we’re all just living on a little rock that’s zooming through a practically infinite universe, and all we’ve got is each other to lean on.

“Mankind was my business,” the ghost of Jacob Marley said to Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. “The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business.”

Look. Right after midnight, all over the world, we all get a fresh start at a new year — a chance to get it right this time; a chance to see ourselves in those who are different; a chance to lend a helping hand. It may be the only chance we have left. Let’s try not to blow it.

First-Time ChocoFlan fan!

I didn't know ChocoFlan existed until recently. A student brought one to class and shared the recipe. So I made one. I thought it came out fine. I tried again a week later, and it wasn't so photogenic. But we ate it. Boy, did we eat it.

We should all be thankful

There was a tree. Pecan. A friendly giant. Older than all the other nearby trees. Older than my grandparents. Older than the house they lived in. Older than the train tracks that ran nearby. We grandchildren would rush down the hill to the back pasture and pick up the pecans it dropped on the ground. Cracked the shells. Ate the meat. Saved the rest in brown paper sacks to snack on later or to be made some day into pecan pies.

Thanksgiving and pecan pies go hand in hand. Tradition. You might could have one without the other — Thanksgiving without pecan pie, or a pecan pie in the middle of July — but I won’t. Thanksgiving, turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, pecan pie with a dollop of whipped cream on top. Or not. Depends on how I feel.

I make my pecan pie without an ounce of Karo. The old fashioned way. It surprises most people when they give it a try. A good surprise. Especially if they grew up hating pecan pie. Mine usually converts them. 

My mother was always surprised I could talk cooking. I can still hear her say things like, “Well, why didn’t you ever cook while you were living with us?” Probably because I was a kid back then, and she was a good cook. She never taught me to cook. She just set a good example. A subliminal one. And I am thankful.

My father dreamed. Had big ideas. The ones that sounded amazing but never quite panned out. Then another dream would come along. And then another. A weird kind of frustrating hobby. But all the while, he worked long and hard to provide. Set a good example. And I am thankful.

My mother-in-law is a social butterfly. Likes to talk. Sing. Sit out on the front porch and visit with neighbors. She’s not much into cooking, but she has plenty of ice cream in the fridge. Enough to share. She makes every grandchild feel like they are her favorite. She still sets a good example. And I am thankful.

My father-in-law was a putterer. Puttered in the back yard. The garage. Picked up limbs. Kept the cars running. Found a way to keep the house AC working without paying a pro. If anything needed fixing, he’d do it. He’d fix things before they even needed it. Or at least try. Set a good example. And I am thankful.

My wife is patient. After 40 years of marriage, she keeps hoping I’ll change. Learn how to fix stuff. Mow the yard before it needs it. I’m thankful she hasn’t kicked me to the curb. But she’s kind. Knows we all have strong points. Weak points. She can be a social butterfly. Likes to putter in the yard. Read. Play piano. Has big dreams. And is still surprised I can talk a good recipe. Maybe a little sad at me taking over the kitchen, which used to be her domain, but not sad enough to fight me for it. She likes my pecan pie. And I am thankful.

I often think of that little house where my grandparents once lived. The train tracks still there but unused. The house now owned by strangers. Somebody else’s grandchildren running down the hill to the back pasture. Unfortunately, the friendly giant no longer lives there. But at least he set a good example. His offspring are everywhere, growing tall and dropping their own soon-to-be pecan pies to the ground. And I am even more thankful.

Fruitcake 2025

The first year I tried to make a Christmas fruitcake, I started making plans for it in August. By September, I had found three different fruitcake recipes from which to choose. By October, I had decided on which recipe to use, and had bought all the dried fruit and other ingredients I would need for the endeavor. By the first of November, the fruitcake had been baked and the only thing left was to “nurse” it once a week with rum until Christmas Day.

This was back in 2018, and if I remember correctly, everybody took a taste of the fruitcake just to humor the old man, and the resounding opinion was for me to “please, don’t bake anything like that ever again.”

So, naturally, I made another one the very next year. Since I already had the recipe, I didn’t start gathering ingredients together until late September. But then a small hiccup hiccuped on my plans:

ME: “Honey, where’s my fruitcake baking pan?”

HER: “Oh no. Not this again.”

ME: “Funny. No, seriously. Do you know where it is?”

HER: “Just keep looking under things and you’ll probably find it; unless you don’t, which will mean no fruitcake this year, which will make me SO sad because you know how much I was really looking forward…”

ME: “Hey, hey, hey! I found it.”

HER: “Great, dear. Just great.”

If I remember correctly, everybody took a taste of the fruitcake just to humor the old man again, and the resounding opinion was, “Didn’t we tell him to never bake one of these things again? Is this the first sign of dementia?”

I thought the fruitcake wasn’t half bad. So I cut it up into small wedges and froze them, then ate a warmed-up piece once a month with my morning coffee. Still, I had so much left over by Christmas 2020, I didn’t need to make one that year. And nobody missed it.

I don’t know why I didn’t make a fruitcake in 2021 or 22 (PTSD?), but I readily admit that my “Back To Basics” Christmas 2023 attempt was an utter disaster. You see, the original recipe called for “nursing” the fruitcake with brandy, but I had been using rum. Surely, that must’ve been the reason my fruitcakes never lived up to their potential. So, I used brandy. Soaked that fruitcake every week with a shot or two of the stuff. And do you know what happened?

If I remember correctly, everybody took a whiff of the fruitcake and immediately claimed to be designated drivers. “You can’t ALL be designated drivers,” I said. “Oh, yes we can,” was their response.

When everybody was gone, I threw that fruitcake in the trash. I would’ve thrown it out in the woods, but who wants a drunk raccoon on the porch looking for a nightcap?

Christmas 2024 was my breakout year in fruitcake making. Maybe it was because I hadn’t tried so hard; maybe it was because practice makes perfect; maybe it was because somebody felt sorry for the old man. But I heard someone say, “Hmmmm. It’s not too bad.” Just one person. But that was enough. And then someone had seconds, which was a first. And when everybody had returned to their own homes, I saw there was hardly any fruitcake left for me to freeze and eat warmed up with my coffee throughout the new year.

Now that the temperature has changed, I’ve started thinking about fruitcakes again. Fruitcakes, hot chocolate, egg nog, and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Who knows, maybe I’ll knock another fruitcake out of the park again this year, which is a whole lot better than having someone throw it out of the park. Yes? 

The Northern Lights in Texas

My wife insists that you could see the Northern Lights last week up in the sky. I took this photo looking over the roof of our house. Why don't I see any of it? Is it because I'm colorblind?  

Another day in the life

Here’s how the system works around here: Technically, I’m retired, but I go to work for half the day then spend the other half trying to figure out what to cook for dinner. It’s not like I don’t have a plan, I’m just not sure if I have all the ingredients.

Just to be safe, I usually make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. Get this or that. Avocados. Bottled water. Coffee. A new rice maker.

Out of all the kitchen appliances I use, the rice maker gets the most wear and tear. So much so that it recently went kaput. It was a good rice maker. It worked faithfully for 12 years — which is 87 in human years. We gave it a good soldier’s burial, right underneath an old oak tree. No telling what the future owners of our house will think if they ever dig it up.

(Just kidding. We gave it a Viking’s funeral. Placed it in the middle of a wooden canoe, surrounded it with bags of rice, and burned it right in the middle of Lake Bob Sandlin.)

(Just kidding, again. We threw it out with the rest of the non-working appliances.)

My wife works at a local bank. When she gets home, she walks the dog around the block. I fix the supper. When she’s finished, we sit down to eat. Maybe read a book. Maybe watch a TV show. Maybe talk about this or that.

One time we talked about the different cars we owned. Another time we talked about the history of the spoon. Last night we talked about septic tanks and haunted houses. There’s no telling what we’ll talk about tonight. Or maybe we’ll just sit in silence and see who’ll be the first one to break it.

(She can go hours and hours without saying a single word. I have a feeling she wished I had the same talent.)

“Have you noticed we never talk about socks anymore?” I say.

She looks up from what she’s reading and says, “Hold that thought.”

Thirty minutes later: “OK. What were you saying?”

And I say, “Hmmmm. I have no idea. You did that on purpose, didn’t you.”

“Socks.”

“Right. Cavemen wore socks. They were mostly just leaves and grass. A few thousand years later, the Greeks wore matted animal hair under their sandals. And then later on, the Romans came up with fitted socks made out of strips of leather or fabric. Somewhere around 400 AD, the ancient Egyptians made the first knitted socks. Everybody was wearing socks by the Middle Ages. And then at some point in history they became fashionable, expensive, and the poor working-class started knitting their own, which beget the French Revolution, The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf, and now cheap socks abound in packages of four or eight, they last about a month, they’re too small, too thin, they make my feet itch, and all I want is a pair of quality socks — polka dot, striped, it doesn’t matter — that will be comfortable and last forever. So, I’ve decided I’m going to knit my own socks.”

My wife is now sound asleep.

Three days ago, I made a plan to bake some salmon filets for supper. Salmon, a batch of greens, and maybe some brown rice and lentils. I put everything on my shopping list, went to the store, bought avocados, grapes, cookies, cat food, a bag of gluten-free tortillas, and a new rice cooker. I completely forgot about the salmon and greens. So, I’m heading back to the store when I finish this paragraph. Like I said, that’s really how the system works around here.