Minute Maid Park

And the winner of this week’s Mihoba is… What? I’m not finished writing Series Previews? Ah shit.

Friday September 25, 7:05 pm
Saturday September 26, 6:05 pm
Sunday September 27 1:05 pm

Pitching Matchups From Astros.com
Friday

Matt Maloney (1-4, 5.35) v. Brian Moehler (8-10, 4.86)

A lovable movie star of the 80’s pitted against our lovable 5th starter.

Maloney is a rookie who has been up and down a few times this year for the Reds. He’s started a grand total of 6 games, and never pitched against the Astros. We all know what that means.

As a team, the Reds hit Moehler to the tune of .286 in 56 at bats. Only two current Reds have hit homers off him: Scott Rolen and… You guessed it, Willy Taveres. Brandon Phillips (4-14) and Scott Rolen (3-6) are the only two that have done signifigant damage against him.

My Prediction: Mahoney pitches a perfect game, then celebrates with Hightower and Whatever Michael Winslow’s name was in Police Academy.

Saturday

Justin Lehr (4-2, 5.30) v. Felipe Paulino (2-10, 6.06)

Okay, so figure this one out. Justin Lehr’s real name is Charles Larry Lehr. I refuse to put any effort in to this preview, so I’m not going to look up why the hell he goes by Justin when he’s got two perfectly redneck sounding names already, but if you want to find out, be my guest. In 28 at bats, the Good Guys are hitting a robust .429 off Charles Larry Doc Cousin Earl BillyJoeBob Lehr, which goes along nicely with the 5 homers he’s given up. Jeff Keppinger (3-3, 2 homers) had better be in the lineup, along with Michael Bourn (2-3) and Kaz (1-2 with a homer). Kabong and Coach Blum have the other two deep flies, but they’re not above .500 against Larry Wayne II, so screw ’em.

Man, I just don’t get how Paulino’s numbers are so terrible. I know He Who Shall Never Be Named Again jerked him around after a decent start, but man, an ERA over 6? Woof. Good news though! The Reds hit Felipe to the tune of .245 with 3 home runs in 53 at bats. Just keep Jay Bruce (3-6, 2 homers) and Laynce Nix (4-8 2b and a 3b) away from him, and things should be fine.

My prediction: Fireworks. LOTS of fireworks.

Sunday

Johnny Cueto (10-10, 4.39) v. Wandy Rodriguez (13-11, 2.97)

Cueto missed a turn in the rotation after a bout with the flu, but went 5 innings in his only start then while notching a win to even his record. Johnny 5 hasn’t had much success against Astros hitters, sporting a .344 average in 96 at bats. Twinkie (5-10, 2 homers), Bourn (4-10), Kaz (5-9, homer), Miggy (6-17), and Kabong (3-10, homer) all batter him pretty good.

Wandy is putting the bow on a pretty nice season as the Astros at least co-ace, if not actual ace. The record doesn’t indicate nearly how great he was this year. I count 8 times that he gave up 2 or less earned runs and took a ND or a loss. Ouch. The Redlegs hit a meager .212 against Wandy in 132 at bats. Joey Vatto (6-19), Jonny Gomes (3-8), and Darnell McDonald (2-5) are the only guys with any real success against the Lil’ Lefty.

Combined Injury Report

Reds

Bill Bray – Tommy John surgery in May, out of the season.

Wilkin Castillo – Torn Labia, out of the season.

Aaron Haranutang – Appendix removed, out for season.

Mike Lincoln – Bulging disc in neck, out for the season.

Danny Richar – hangnail, out for the season.

Edinson Volquez – Elbow inflammation, out for season and part of next season.

Charles Dickerson – Severely sprained ankle/Writer’s Block, out for the season. Twas the best of sprains, Twas the worst of sprains.

Astros

Mike Hampton – Rotator cuff tear, both knees, hip replacement, being rebuilt in to a cyborg.

Alberto Arias – Strained Hammy. Ready to come off the DL so Mike Hampton will stop trying to point and at him while calling him a pussy and re-aggrivating his throwing arm.

Roy Oswalt – Going in for some truck-battery treatment after getting a second opinion from his Cousin Merle.

Billy Sadler – Right Shoulder Scapular Dyskinesis. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds terrifying.

Our Interesting Things To Look For

And remember, you can always read all about it in the GameZone!

Strosrays’ observations about hunting and the connection to nature struck a nerve with me, because I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’ve never hunted ducks though, because shit, I grew up in Lubbock. The only ducks there are in the city parks on shitty playa lakes. About the only things to hunt around Lubbock are dove, and I did plenty of that.

My earliest dove hunting memories are from when I was 7 years old, when my job was to play retriever, which often meant chasing down wounded birds and pulling their heads off. When I was 9 my dad bought me a single-shot .410, which I still have. I can’t remember if I needed a license back then, but when I did start getting hunting licenses, what it really meant was that my dad’s bag-limit was doubled. Not legally of course, but that’s how it worked.

The game wardens always staked out the fields where we hunted, at least on Opening Day. My dad and I would sit about 100 feet apart, and we had a pre-arranged signal so I would know when he was getting near his limit of birds, which was usually pretty quick. He was the best dove shooter I ever saw, and it didn’t take long before his beat-up old vest was bulging with birds. He’d give me the signal and I’d start walking over, and as soon as the game wardens saw me heading toward my dad, they’d barrel down the road in our direction. I would get in front of my dad and kneel down in the tall cotton so no one could see me, and he’d stuff dead birds into the back of my vest. By the time the game wardens got to us, our guns were unloaded and we were plucking birds. I’m sure they knew what was going on, but we never got busted. Still, my dad was a stickler for the total bag limit, and once we both had 10 dove in our vests, we went home. He always said we’d only take our share of the birds and leave the rest for next year.

I think I was 16 or 17 the last time we hunted dove together, though we did bag a few pheasant one winter while I was home from college. But after college I went my own way; I didn’t hunt for several years, and in the early ’90s my dad passed away. I was living in the ass-end of eastern Montana at the time, and I went back to Lubbock to collect some of his old hunting gear, and his pickup.

I went hunting again that year, because believe it or not there is a dove hunting season in Montana. Not that anyone does it. Up there, mourning doves are called “turtle doves” and most people don’t even know, or care, that you can hunt them. I tried to get a couple of guys to go with me and they just laughed. They were used to hunting big-ass pheasant and sage grouse, and mourning dove seemed pointless to them.

This part of Montana has some of the most desolate, lonely country you can imagine, and that September I had it all to myself. I located a harvested wheat field high on a bluff, overlooking the Yellowstone River about half a mile away; the dove would feed in the wheat field and then fly down to the river at dusk. I took my dad’s pickup, put on his old vest that had bloodstains from decades of dead birds, and loaded up his old Browning.

Not only was the wheat field full of dove, it was full of dove that hadn’t been spooked by other hunters. I filled up my dad’s vest in about an hour, and for good measure went and shot a couple sage grouse too. Shit, that barely seemed fair. After learning to shoot lightning-fast mourning doves with a .410, blasting a huge, slow-ass grouse with a 12-gauge was almost too easy.

After I put away the shotgun, I sat on the tailgate of my dad’s old truck and looked out over the Yellowstone River sunset. The cottonwoods along the river were already changing color, the ancient badlands were eerie and ominous in the evening shadows, and there wasn’t another soul for miles around. The air was so crisp and clear, it seemed I could see to the end of the earth. I sat there until dark, thinking about my dad and wishing he’d been there to share the day’s great hunt. Then I drove home under a brilliant orange harvest moon.

**********

Anyway, speaking of shooting birds ….

Cardinals at Astros

Well if the dog days were in August, then September has been the dog’s ugly old wrinkled balls. Holy crap, what a shitty month for the Astros. They’re on a seven-game losing streak against such stellar competition as the Sausages, Dickities, and Pirates.

The Jakes could clinch the division in this series, depending upon what the dumbshit Cubs do. Keep that in mind if you’re going to any games in this series, so you can leave early if a sickening celebration looks likely.

Minute Maid Park

Monday, September 21,  7:05 p.m. CDT – FSH-HD
Tuesday, September 22,  7:05 p.m. CDT – FSH-HD
Wednesday, September 23, 7:05 p.m. CDT – FSH-HD

Not so notable giveaways

Monday – Bud Light Astros Cap

Tuesday – Price Matters/Double Play Tuesday

Wednesday – Continental Latin Night

I realize they mean something else for Latin Night, but just for the hell of it I tried to translate “Fuck the Red Birds” from English to Latin and here’s a close approximation:

futuo rutilus aves

Now we’ve all learned something. I know it’s probably wrong, but hey, that’s the best I can do with free online translators. It’s a motto; it just says itself.

Projected Matchups from Astros.com

Monday
Kyle Lohse (5-8, 4.83) v. Wandy Rodriguez (13-10, 2.77)

Lohse is coming off a forearm injury from jacking it too hard. Carlos Lee has blistered him in the past, collecting six doubles, five homers, and a .357 average. Berkman also has two homers off Lohse and Pence has hit him pretty well. Michael Bourn is only 1-for-14 against him.

Wandy is the Astros’ best chance to end this losing streak, but you’ve heard that before. He’s held the Jakes to a .174 average in 24 innings this season. Matt Holliday has two homers off him and DeRosa has one. PooHoles is only 4-for-28 (.143) against Wandy.

Tuesday
Joel Pineiro (14-11, 3.31) v. Yorman Bazardo (0-1, 8.50)

Pineiro is 3-3 against the Astros in his career, but 2-0 this season. Carlos Lee (13-for-29, two homers) and Lance Berkman (7-for-17, two homers) hit him hard, while most everyone else is pretty average. Jason Michaels has trouble against Pineiro.

This will be Bazardo’s fourth start for the Astros. He’s faced one Redbird in his career – Julio Lugo – who is 0-for-1.

Wednesday
TBA v. Bud Norris (5-3, 5.07)

The Co-ards haven’t listed a starter for this game but I’m guessing it will be John Smoltz. He has 36 appearances against the Astros and a 16-13 record. Most of the current Astros have hit Smoltz well, with Matsui having the most AB’s. Blum, Boone, and Coste have homers off him. Believe it or not, Lance Berkman only has eight regular-season at-bats (and five hits) against Smoltz.

Norris will be making his 10th start for the Astros and his second against the Jakes. In early August he went seven innings against them and gave up only two hits. The only Shitbird position player with a hit off Norris is Yadda-Yadda-Yadda Molina.

Injury Report

St. Louis – Troy Glaus is probably out for the season.

Houston – Oswalt, Hampton, and Sadler are out for the season, and Arias might be too.

Changing of the Seasons

I still have the old pickup. In fact, I’ll be taking it down to my deer camp today or tomorrow to get ready for whitetail season. My dad never taught me deer hunting, though he had done it when he was younger. I think it bothered him to kill deer, and to tell the truth, I always feel guilty after I shoot one too. But I only take one deer each season; it’s more than enough venison to last a year, and I only want to take my share.

Every September, I still feel the old pull to go hunting. I tried dove hunting around here but it’s not the same. I like going out in the woods, sitting and listening to the sounds, and getting back in tune with nature. I have some anti-hunting friends who ask if I couldn’t just enjoy the woods without taking a gun. I tell them that I can and do enjoy nature when it’s not hunting season, but somehow it’s different in the autumn. When the cool air hits me, there’s some kind of primal instinct that stirs and I start getting ready to hunt. I can’t really explain it, but it’s there. Next week I’ll get out my deer rifle – a Browning that looks remarkably like my dad’s old shotgun – and head to the range for some practice. I’m still a hell of a shot, by the way; after all, my dad taught me to shoot mourning dove with a .410.

So baseball season is ending, but another Opening Day is just around the corner.

Until next season, good hunting.

SEASONS IN HELL, VOL. I, NO. 8

You’ve got to pick up every stitch
The rabbit’s running in the ditch
Beatniks are out to make it rich

September 18-20, 2009

Astros (70-76) vs. Brewers (71-75)

Drafty Leaky Collapsing Crane Park
999 Old Indian Burial Ground Rd.
Fat White People Scarfing Sausages, WI 13666

**********

Blue, blue, electric blue
That’s the color of the room
Where I will live

SOUND AND VISION.  I was maybe 10 or 11 years old, riding my bike home down our street one evening. It was late in the fall, not quite winter yet. The air was crisp, and the wind was making my nose run as I rode along. I had been at a friend’s house a couple of streets over, playing after school, and I was supposed to be home by dinner, which was usually around 6:15 or so. I wasn’t late yet, but it was going to be close. Thinking of that, I sped up my pedaling a bit.

Even though it was early evening, it was already dark out. I could see the light coming out of neighbors’ windows as I went down the street. They were probably already sitting down to eat, some of them. I sped up a bit more. Most of the houses had porch lights on already, and they twinkled in my eyes. The same wind that had caused my nose to run was making my eyes water a little bit, as well. “I wonder what’s for dinner?” I thought. “Am I late?”

As I leaned in and pedaled through the big curve around the Gibson’s house, three houses down from my own, I suddenly, instantly knew. Dinner was halupki, and yes, I was late. Dammit!

My mom only made halupki every once in awhile; but when she did, you could smell it halfway down the street. Halupki is cabbage rolls, basically. Pigs in a Blanket. My mother would brown ground pork and beef and onions and seasoning in bacon drippings in a heavy skillet, and steam a head of cabbage in tomato juice in a large stock pot; and then stuff the cabbage leaves with the meat mixture and put a couple dozen of the rolls back into the pot with more bacon drippings and onions and tomatoes, and a bunch of sauerkraut, and then let it all cook together for awhile. My mother’s mother, my maternal grandmother, was born in Austria-Hungary but was Czech, and my modern-ish 1960s mom would occasionally revert back to her ethnic roots and cook this Eastern European soul food for us for dinner, almost always in the fall and wintertime, which is when I suspect she got most nostalgic for the home of her youth (western Pennsylvania.)

I’m not a big fan of cabbage or it’s derivatives (broccoli, cauliflower, etc.) In fact, if you need proof that the sense of taste trumps smell, maybe for some argument you find yourself in, I think the fact humans enthusiastically consume cabbage-based dishes is as good an example as any. It is basically eating something that smells like garbage, at least going in.

Yet, given all that, I liked halupki all right. I don’t know how it evolved, but in our family it was the custom to scoop a couple of those cabbage rolls out of the big aluminum pot with a ladle, along with some tomato-cabbage juice and a clump of sauerkraut, and then dump it all on top of a mound of mashed potatoes you’d arranged on your plate previously. Mmmmmm. . . Czech comfort food. “Gut bombs”, my father called them.

It was a good idea to not have much on one’s agenda for the rest of the evening after a dinner like that. One wasn’t going to be very ambulatory. About the most one could manage would be a trip or two to the bathroom. Otherwise. . . about as ambitious as I normally got was sprawling out on the shag carpet in the den, in front of the console television set. I would get an hour or two of recovery time there before having to go take a bath and go to bed and to sleep, sometimes to horrendous dreams. . .

**********

PITCHING MATCHUPS

Friday September 18, 2009
Game Time: 7:05 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: Man, if you think the Astros game day promotions are chintzy, the Brewers give their fans coupons (pronounced kew puns). Tonight they get a sports authority coupon(?) and a Maytag gift card.
Matchup: Houston – Bud Norris (5-3, 5.44)  I’ve known two people in my life named Bud. One was one of my 9th grade football coaches and a physical science teacher, a white-belt-and-shoes-with-leisure-suit festooned, half-refined redneck of the type one ran into fairly often back in those days. He and I didn’t see eye to eye on very many things, let’s say. The other was a true wild man from south Louisiana who was my boss for a short while back in the late 1980s. They put a suit on him, too, but they couldn’t cover up the coon-ass, and the only thing that kept me from killing him at least once a week was. . . well, I don’t know what it was, but I am glad for it now, I guess. At any rate, neither one of those guys were my cup of tea, and I believe they have given me a strong prejudice against people who apparently don’t mind going around being called Bud. Of course, like most prejudices, mine is stupid and groundless, and I am sure there are some really terrific Buds out there. And I shouldn’t hold it against Norris, either. But I probably will. Milwaukee– Chris Narveson (1-0, 4.67) Narveson is a journeyman lefty, getting a few starts while Manny Parra is on the DL. The Astros last saw him in ’06, as a Co-ardinal.

Saturday September 19, 2009
Game Time: 6:05 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: Switching gears tonight, the teams hands out 2K sports coupons(?) to loyal fans. Oh yeah, it is Milwaukee Museum night (?), too.
Matchup: Houston– Brian Moehler (8-10, 5.01)  Moehler pitched well last time out, against Pittsburgh, but he has not had a very good second half, overall. He hasn’t pitched well against the Brewers, ever. Milwaukee– Jeff Suppan (6-10, 4.87)  Suppan has been a pretty good road pitcher this season, when not injured, but he sucks at home The Leaking Dump (2-7, 6.26 in 13 starts).

Sunday September 20, 2009
Game Time: 1:05 p.m. CDT
Television: FSSW-HD
Promotion: Today, the Brewers promotions department kicks out all the jams and gives away tens of thousands of bobble-head dolls. Of their general manager. Some guy named Doug.
Matchup: Houston– Felipé Paulino (2-9, 6.06) Paulino has been pitching really well lately, albeit with no run support. He hasn’t had much chance to go deep into games, either; Cecil Cooper seems intent on having all 15 guys in his bullpen end up with 70+ appearances this season, and the starters get pulled on a whim. Milwaukee – To Be Announced (0-0, 0.00) It is Gallardo’s turn, but the Brewers aren’t sure if they are going to shut him down for the season, or what. Ken Macha apparently knows less the fuck about what he is doing than Cecil Cooper, if that is possible. I’ve been thinking about that. Macha is on the hot seat in Milwaukee, and since Selig loves Cooper so much, maybe. . . well, I don’t want to jinx anything by saying any more about it.

**********

SOMETHING IN THE AIR TONIGHT. Naturally enough, most of us go through life using sight, sound and touch as our primary stimulatory senses. But I don’t discount smell and taste. Smell is especially, for me, quite evocative.  Especially off memories.

Believe it or not, 30-40 years ago even the upper Texas Gulf Coast had relatively distinct changes of seasons. Nothing as dramatic as further north, but by now there would have been a “cool snap”, a day or two where the high temperature had dropped into the 60s, just the very tip of some Canadian front that had dipped down into the area, just a hint that fall was around the corner.

In my neighborhood, as a kid, we only had two seasons – baseball and football. Once that first cool snap hit, we would put away the bats and gloves and get out the football. Our baseball season was suddenly, unceremoniously over. I remember having a bit of ambivalence, when I got that first whiff of fall in the air. I loved football back then, maybe even more than baseball, and I was always ready to play. But I guess I was a little sad, too, that I wouldn’t be playing baseball again ‘til spring; which at that point seemed really far off. I would carefully saturate the pocket of my glove with neatsfoot oil, put an old ball in there, and then tie it tightly closed with one of my mom’s dust rags. Then I’d put it under my bed, and not think about it again until the first “warm snap”, in February or early March, which would cause us all to shelve our football stuff and dig out the baseball gear again.

When I get a whiff of a cool snap now (maybe not until November), wow, it takes me right back to those days as a kid, stepping out the front door one Saturday morning and realizing, hey, baseball season just ended. Or, a little later in the fall, riding around the neighborhood on my bicycle to the smell of dried leaves burning in the front yards. Maybe the most evocative smell of all.

You know, the air has actually been a little cooler around here the last couple of days, mostly because it has been so rainy. But it has me thinking of ancient cool snaps, and of the end of the baseball season, just ahead.

I am actually even feeling a little ambivalent now, too. Strictly speaking, this has not been a season for the ages, Astros-wise. Still, on balance, I believe I have had more fun than not, following my team. Hell, I know I have. I wouldn’t trade this season, any season, for anything.

As a kid, I appreciated baseball on a very basic level. A tactile level. I loved the game because I loved to play it. Now, I am more visceral about it, I look at it more logically and with a bit more detachment, as my playing days are long behind me. I love baseball now because of the pleasure of just watching it. That is about as eloquent as I can be about it. If you get it, you know. If you don’t, there is no way I can adequately explain.

But still, even as I move more and more rapidly away from the pure joy of childhood play, I cannot quite let go of it. I am older now, yes; but I still love the idea of playing. If I can no longer go by all my friends’ houses and tell them to meet up in the schoolyard at 1:00, I can call or text message or e-mail them and tell them to meet up at 6:00 at my house, BYOB. Game starts at 7:00. Then we sit around the television set and, just like the old days, we gravitate into teams, factions; and we get loud and argumentative, and we laugh, and occasionally we marvel at what we see. And we while away the evening, playing at watching the Astros play.

When it is done, when the last empty cans are thrown away and the half-eaten bags of snacks are put up, I walk my last departing friend, who stuck around to help me clean up, to the front door. We step outside onto the front porch in the darkness, and we notice immediately how clear the night is. Stars everywhere. Low humidity. And just a bit of a nip in the air. “Fall is just around the corner,” I say to him.

Damn.

**********

INJURIES

Houston
•Pitchers Cooper fucked up

•Pitchers Cooper didn’t fuck up, but probably would have, given the chance

•Lance Berkman, who is day-to-day. (Guess what? We are all day-to-day.)

Milwaukee
•Bunch of panty-waists

**********

Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me,
How good, how good does it feel to be free?
And I answer them most mysteriously,
Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?

THE WATER LAND. One thing fall means in this area is the arrival of hunting season, and I hunt. Or rather, I used to hunt. Ducks, to be specific. Though, in this case, “hunt” is a rather misleading term, in the strictest sense. What I really did was hide myself in a bunch of tall reeds, or in a heavily camouflaged blind, in an area where I thought the ducks might be hanging out anyway, and then I waited for some to fly by.

The upper Texas Gulf Coast used to be on a branch of the main southern flyway for ducks traveling from Canada to Mexico and beyond for the winter. We’d see all kinds of waterfowl flying through here in the fall – from mallards to spoonbills, gadwalls to widgeons, “black” mallards to all manner of teal. Even canvasbacks, and more. Geese, too; mostly Canadas and snows and especially speckled-bellies. We almost always “limited out”, and usually quickly, so I rarely remember staying out in the marsh past about 10:00 a.m. or so most hunts.

I eventually grew out of duck hunting. Which is to say, as I got into my later teens, my increasingly demanding social life dimmed my desire to get up at 3:00 a.m. on a weekend morning and go sit out in a windy, freezing marsh, waiting for some birds to start flying around. Also, the flyway moved east, for various reasons I am not qualified to describe in any detail. It meant less ducks in this area, overall. The hunting experience is diminished somehow when one goes hours without seeing what one is out hunting for to begin with. Not that I was ever only out there for the shooting, mind you, but that is another story.

Like a bird on a wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried, in my way, to be free

I don’t think the virulent anti-hunting crowd quite gets it. They say hunting is inhumane, forgetting that humans, too, have their place in the food chain; and that for 99% of our existence, they way we ate dinner was to go out and kill it first. Hunting, like violence, is a useful part of our makeup, even if what we mostly are out hunting now is a good deal on brisket at H.E.B. But if everything blew up tomorrow, well. . . while the anti-hunters dithered around wondering what to do without a supermarket, there would be hundreds of thousands of people who would know exactly what to do – they’d pick up the shotgun and go out looking for something edible to shoot and bring home for dinner.

I am not one to argue the hunter’s cause, though. I’m a non-hunter nowadays, as I said, and in truth I have little sympathy for the real morons out there, who shoot and kill mostly for the thrill of it. The thrill hunters. These are the guys who make it onto TV and radio with their “outdoor” shows. They are the worst representatives for hunting one could imagine, and it is no wonder they drive anti-hunters crazy.

One thing you will almost always hear from hunting apologists, aside from bullshit like they are necessary to “thin the herd”, or they somehow benefit wildlife by pursuing and killing it, is that a large part of the experience is the joy of just being out in nature, truly in nature. And that without hunting, most people would not have this experience at all. That drives anti-hunters nuts, too; but, it is absolutely true. I know this from my own experience.

Shooting ducks was fun enough, but what I really remember vividly from my hunting days, over twenty-five years ago now, is not some great shot I made, but rather a dozen little vignettes of being out in the marsh when nothing was flying, and really experiencing nature like I never could anywhere else.

Shooting time was thirty minutes before sunrise, and to be safe, we would often be out in our blinds, ready to go, long before that. Some of my fondest memories of duck hunting were those times when I found myself all situated and ready for shooting time, with thirty minutes or an hour to kill before getting down to business. I would settle down into my blind, pull the Thermos out of the game bag in my jacket, and pour myself a cup of warm black coffee, maybe fire up a cigarette, and then just pay attention.

The marsh may not look like much from a distance, like nothing is happening there, but that is deceptive. There are a lot of things going on there, at all times. And in the minutes before sunrise, when the first light of dawn strikes, things really begin in earnest. The place suddenly comes alive, birds and bugs and fish (and nutria rats, and alligators) all in the commotion of living. It is literally thrilling to experience all that.

It was in my duck blind that I first realized one early morning that there is a species of water bug that can literally walk on the surface of the water. I don’t know what they are called, but they are small and apparently really light. They skitter across the surface of the water without ever breaking it. That is pretty amazing itself, but what really got me, when I looked closely, was that each step by each leg created a small indentation on the water’s surface. Each step would almost break the surface, but not quite. Those guys were designed to be just the right size and weight to almost fall through, but ultimately not to.

Whatever your belief system is, you can go ahead and praise the overseer for the genius of this design. I would thank God just for being alive and having the opportunity to be out in that marsh on that morning, at the start of another glorious day. And thank Him also for the cool little bugs, walking around on top of the water, just like they say Jesus used to.

Sometimes, after I grew weary of communing with nature, I still had some time left to reflect on my own little existence within it. This was a pretty natural thing to do, it seemed to me, in the peace and quiet just before everyone started blasting away with 12-gauges. I was still pretty young back then, not much more than a schoolboy really, and I usually had some burgeoning romance going on. So, I would sit out in the marsh and think about that, sometimes.

There was this one girl, Diane. At the time I was crazy about her, totally infatuated. I would think about her, and what she was doing at that exact moment (sleeping, probably), and what she would do when she got up, and if she would wonder what I was doing, out in the marsh. Just silliness like that, and it seemed to make the time pass quickly.

The time still passes quickly, I am sorry to say. But to this day, when I see a marsh, the first thing I think about is water bugs, and romance. That is mildy insane, I know, but for me there is no way around it. One of my enduring interior icons is a picture of me 20 years old or so, in my hunting gear, in the blind. My long hair is pushed up under a canvas Duxback hat. I am smoking a cigarette in the almost light, and cradling my 16-gauge Remington, armed to the teeth, and waiting. And, meantime, I am watching little bugs run around on top of the pond, and thinking about my baby.

If you arrive and don’t see me
I’m going to be with my baby
I am free
Flying in her arms, over the sea

**********

Astros are swept in the series, 0-3.

“Look in the mirror and what do I see?
A nine-stone weakling looking back at me”

THE WEATHER

Another fun season of composing Series Previews has come to an end.  I have to say, I think I enjoyed writing them this season more than any previous, possibly because of an increase in contributors, and consequently a lighter workload.  In any case, I want to thank Noe and Zipp for the opportunity and guidance; Craig, for being such a cool editor; and all my fellow contributors, for taking up so much of the slack.

And I would finally like to thank all the readers, and especially those who offered kind comments and/or constructive criticism.  They mean very, very much, and I will never forget.

Later,

‘s-r

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