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Bandera County Courier is published weekly by Gail S. Joiner, 1210 Hackberry St., Bandera, TX 78003. Subscription price $26 per year in Bandera County, TX; $36 per year for other Texas counties; $40 per year out of Texas. POSTMASTER: send address changes to Bandera County Courier, P.O. Box 1704, Bandera, TX 78003. Periodicals Postage pending in Bandera, Texas.

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Medina Mikie's columns from 2007 in the on-line edition of the Courier:

Current Medina Mikie columns
Cup of Joe	Published Oct. 11, 2007
Random Thoughts	Published Oct. 4, 2007
No column Sept. 27
The First Geezers Club	Published Sept. 20, 2007
Pistol Packin' Martha	Published Sept. 13, 2007
Six Forty Nine and Twenty Two Seconds	Published Sept. 6, 2007
The Naughty Tree	Published Aug. 30, 2007
Ode to the Pigskin	Published Aug. 23, 2007
Tales from the Road	Published Aug. 16, 2007
The Name Game	Published Aug. 9, 2007
Hat Trick	Published Aug. 2, 2007
Go Ahead, Grill Me	Published July 26, 2007
Dearly Demented Mom	Published July 19, 2007
Over the hill dating	Published July 12, 2007
Trashy Texas Women	Published June 28, 2007
Chili Today, Hot Tamale	Published June 21, 2007
The Battle of the Big, Loud City	Published June 14, 2007
Summertime Blues	Published June 7, 2007
Odd Job Mom	Published May 31, 2007
Over Technology Hill	Published May 24, 2007
A Band of Gypsies	Published May 17, 2007
Going Once, Going Twice, Sold!	Published May 10, 2007
The End Is Near Again	Published May 3, 2007
Shall We Dance?	Published April 26, 2007
Pass the Bedlam Please	Published April 19, 2007
The War Inside Me	Published April 12, 2007
Don't Rain on My Parade	Published April 5, 2007
High Hopes	Published March 29, 2007
This is Your Life	Published March 22, 2007
My Girlfriend	Published March 15, 2007
We're Having a Barn Raising	Published March 1, 2007
Medina For Me	Published March 1, 2007
All About Austin	Published March 1, 2007
Paying It Forward	Published Feb. 22, 2007
It's a Wrap	Published Dec. 21, 2006

News from the headwaters in Medina Cup of Joe by Mikie Baker Published Oct. 11, 2007    I tried drinking coffee exactly twice in my life.     Both times I found it tasted like dirt. Even with milk.     The problem was I needed some way to get the old motor cranking in the morning. Long ago, I opted for diet Dr. Pepper as my weapon of choice.     Everything ran smoothly for years. People would offer coffee, I would say, "No thanks, I don't drink coffee. It tastes like dirt.     Have you got a diet Dr. Pepper?"     Then the bottom dropped out. Starbucks hit every corner in North America. Overnight, a simple 25 cent cup of Joe became a complicated, foreign language-driven nightmare that cost $4.50 a pop. You coffee drinkers happily embraced the idea of paying big bucks for your caffeine and, suddenly, not drinking coffee became a badge of shame.     Now Very Best Friend loves coffee. She even has her own classic percolator at home, like mom and dad did. Of course, she is lost in the 1940s, but that's a different story. Anyway, she likes plain old coffee with some milk in it.     About half and half I believe.     Since I rarely enter a Starbucks, she's kept me apprised of what's what in the land of expensive coffee.     And boy, is it weird. You need to speak a foreign language just to get a cup of Joe. Guess it's so they can justify selling something that is outrageously fattening and costs big bucks. It sounds fancy.     Very Best Friend, being the non-conformist free thinker that she is, refuses to speak Starbuckeese. She claims the only reason she ever goes into a Starbucks is because they have really good coffee. Here's a recent conversation of hers with a Brain Washed Starbuckite.     VBF: "I'd like a medium coffee in a large cup."     BWS: "Excuse me?"     VBF: "I'd like a medium coffee in a large cup."     BWS: "Bold or breakfast blend?"     VBF: "I guess I should ask exactly how bold? I mean, will I still be flying around the office at noon?"     BWS: "Why not try a half-bold and half-caf grande in a venti cup? Would you like a double pump with that?"     VBF: "Stop it. You're confusing me. I don't care what you call it; just give me a medium coffee in a large cup."     Suddenly, she's sounding like a foreigner in her own country.     I did have occasion to go into a Starbucks in Kansas City once. Dan the Man, one of my clients, demanded that we stop in for a cup of Joe. Being a savvy business owner, I knew I had to do what the client said, though I wasn't going to drink a cup of dirt for anybody.     This was how my experience went:     ME: "Do you have diet Dr. Pepper?"     BWS: "Absolutely not. Nor do we have any other type of carbonated beverage."     ME: "Okay, well I don't drink coffee, so what do you suggest?"     Dead silence.     ME: "Are you okay?"     BWS: "Seriously, you don't drink coffee?"     ME: "Serious as a heart attack."     BWS: "What about an Iced Chai Tea Latte?"     ME: "Oh, tea. Sure I drink tea. I'll take that.     Say, is that just a fancy way of saying sweet tea?" It turns out my Iced Chai Tea Latte was some kind of spicy tea, mixed with lots of sugar, milk and ice. It tasted like drinking pumpkin pie and kept me flying around the office until noon. And I gained five pounds.     As an education service for you people who've never ventured into a Starbucks, this is my take on what the Starbuckeese means. I took French in school (that was totally useless), so I think I've got most of these terms figured out.     Café Latte ­ a cup of Joe with milk.     Quad Espresso ­ a cup of Joe that makes you go four times as fast.     Double Pump ­ a cup of Joe that builds muscles.     No Whip ­ a cup of Joe shaken, not stirred.     Mocha ­ a cup of Joe that tastes like dirt laced with hot chocolate.     Organic ­ a cup of Joe with justification.     Tall ­ a cup of Joe that's small (you figure it out).     The other day, Very Best Friend offered to pick up coffee for one of her employees. She had to read it from a piece of paper, but she managed to get the order right. We're still talking about what "a venti, organic, two-pump, mocha, no whip" could possibly mean.     So here's your hope for the week. I hope you're not dumb enough to pay $4.50 for a cup of Joe. If you are, I hope you'll call me and explain the attraction.     And here's hoping, if you really must have it, they don't short you on your double pump. As for me, hopefully diet Dr. Pepper will be around for another 100 years.

News from the headwaters in Medina Random Thoughts by Mikie Baker Published Oct. 4, 2007    Because it's been all quiet here on the Western front, I find myself at a loss for column subject material this week. Understanding that you loyal readers out there are hanging on my every word, I know that I cannot let you down. I usually jot down funny things or ideas for columns, so this week I'm going let you in on those little bits and pieces that are swimming around in my brain.     Be prepared, my brain is pretty scary stuff­ Here are some of my random thoughts.     If I ever write a book, I'm going to call it "Dementia, Menopause and Testosterone: Just a Typical Hill Country Family."     Do your shopping at Super S before the bikers hit town. I still don't understand how they can buy so much food. Where do you put five bags of groceries on a Harley?     Just the opposite from spanking your trees to make them grow, if you shake your tomato plants everyday for 30 days it will stunt their growth and make them more compact. This is also known as Shaken Tomato Syndrome.     If you wear a beer bottle opener around your neck, you're probably a geezer.     When I get Dearly Demented Mom up every morning by cranking the lift to transfer her from the bed to the wheelchair she sings, "Off we go into the wild blue yonder."     At the Lakehills Cajun Fest, five food and drink tickets will buy you a hug and a kiss.     I have an acquaintance who's like that comedian who never gets the words quite right. The other day she told me, "It takes two to tangle." My cats would agree.     Mom always said I'd get paid back tenfold when I raised children.     I've learned from rearing the Teenage Football Machine that I really must have been a monster brat child.     People in the Hill Country either drive 20 miles under or 20 miles over the speed limit.     If you have a crocheted beer koozie, you're probably a geezer.     Now I've been deemed an official longtime Hill Country resident because I have an old cowboy boot hung up on the porch.     Going native means you don't have to mow the grass as often.     If you build a garage, the junk will come.     When I help Mom turn over on her side to change her diaper, she always says, "Roll over Beethoven." The Beatles must have really made an impression on her. Hill Country Geezer's RV has officially been named "The Geezermobile."     If you were a Fishbone fan last year and a Bobcat fan this year, you're allowed to yell "Go Catfish!" at the football games.     My hair is so thick that my ponytail is considered a deadly weapon.     If you spend more than 10 minutes driving around looking for a parking spot right up front, you're probably a geezer.     My friend that never gets the words quite right also says, "I'm just sittin' here tooteling my thumbs." Lucky her. I never have that much spare time.     I am one of only three people in the world who knows the secret ingredient to KCWM AM 1460's Radioactive Chili. If I suddenly turn up missing, start the search there. All other radio stations are suspect. I should be easy to find with my radioactive glow.     When Hill Country Martha says, "It's really easy to do," you can bet that means it's almost impossible. Just the other day she dismantled an entire barn ­ board by board - for the wood. I figure she's going to build herself a chuck wagon and head out on the open trail.     Remember, wherever you go, there you are. When I wake Dearly Demented Mom in the morning, I always ask her if she slept well. She usually says yes and then tells me about her dreams. Most of them sound like LSD flashbacks.     This was this conversation the other morning:     ME: "So, mom what did you dream about last night?"     DDM: "Well, I wasn't dreaming. I was remembering."     ME: "So, what did you remember?"     DDM: "Well, do you remember when one of your friends showed up at the old house in Dallas on their horse?"     ME: "Gosh mom, I had forgotten that, but you're right. I can't remember who that was. What it a girl or a boy?"     DDM: "How would I know? I can't tell the sex of a horse."     Somehow, that's not quite what I meant. So here's your hope for the week. I hope your brain is working better than mine. Hopefully, you won't give up on me and will still read my weekly outbursts. And I'm hoping that something really funny happens around here real soon.

News from the headwaters in Medina The First Geezers Club by Mikie Baker Published Sept. 20, 2007    Our media gives way too much attention to all the maladies that can befall a woman in her fifties. As they tell it, after we go through "the change," we basically dry up and our bones break at any given moment. We also grow beards and wrestle with graying hair. No attention is given to men of the same age, other than to announce that they're all aging gracefully.     I beg to differ.     I've done a quick scan of my Band of Bandera Misfits and all the men are, well, turning into geezers. Before we go any further, let me give you the Bill Gates online dictionary definition of geezer. "A senior citizen, especially a man, who is eccentric or irritable." And then - you've gotta love this - it says the word means "same as man." Exactly my point, though I'm not sure about the senior citizen part. It really starts when they're in their 50s.     Becoming a geezer is easy. You do one "geezerly" thing and you can't ever come back to the other side. Doesn't matter how you try. And unlike women, there's no magic aging pill or potion to keep you men from becoming geezers.     Take my group of friends, for example. It all started one hot summer evening when Cowboy Donny showed up to grill his steak. Now, this man is an actual cowboy. He has a ranch, trains and boards horses, and gives riding lessons. I've never seen him in anything but jeans, a blue jean shirt, boots and a well-worn cowboy hat.     Until this particular evening. He showed up in a pair of khaki walking shorts, a Hawaiian print short sleeved shirt and sandals that were set off by some mighty white socks. To top it all off, he was wearing a baseball cap that said something like "Big Bubba's Diner - You Kill 'Em, We Grill 'Em." We named him Old Kerrville Geezer on the spot.     Seems Hawaiian prints are a dead giveaway that you've become a geezer. Hill King Ray showed up one day to float in the river sporting cut offs, a ripped t-shirt and a Hawaiian print baseball cap. You got it. Geezer.     But the biggest bit of geezer excitement we've had around here lately is that of Big Ash Atwood.     He's been seen cruising town in his brand new purchase, a slightly used but highly practical RV.     He's already handwashed it several times, added silver silhouetted naked women mud flaps and has been known to go inside the parked RV just to take a nap. I'm officially renaming him Hill Country Geezer, because he's really upstaged the rest of the group.     So ladies, listen up. In keeping with Jeff Foxworthy's "You Might Be a Redneck If," I've come up with a list of tell-tale signs that you've got a geezer in your life. Here goes. If you're the first one If your beer koozie is If you have laminated If you haven't If you meet your buds If you play with the If you sleep donning If you can't decide If you answer the door     in line at Super S to get the best bargain on marked down meat, you're probably a geezer. shaped like a woman's body, you're probably a geezer. business cards that announce you're "retired," you're probably a geezer. trimmed your beard in seven months, you guessed it, geezer. for breakfast every morning at the same time and always order the same breakfast, you're probably a geezer. boy toys in your garage more than you play with your wife, you're probably a geezer. ear plugs and a sleep mask, you're probably a geezer. what color speckled enamel ware to buy for your cabin, you're probably a geezer. proudly in nothing but your underwear, you're probably a geezer and the geezer police should just arrest you and send you to geezer jail. I could go on and on, but frankly, I need to go take my Fosamax, dye my hair and pluck my mustache. So, here's your hope for the week. I hope you take a geezer to breakfast tomorrow and make him order something different off the menu. Hopefully, you won't have to stop by Super S with him to check out the "reduced for quick sale" bin. And I'm hoping that we all band together and buy these geezers some real nice, fancy pajamas.

News from the headwaters in Medina Pistol Packin' Martha by Mikie Baker Published Sept. 13, 2007 HCM's two-foot long coral snake shot by her husband Wild hog shot by Hill Country Martha, who may soon be known as Pistol Packin' Martha.    If you remember, last week I was forced to rename the Teenage Eating Machine the Teenage Football Machine, due to his newfound obsession with the pigskin. Well, now we've got a crisis brewing with Hill Country Martha. I'm afraid a name change may be in order for her, too. I'll let you be the judge.     But first, a little background on HCM. She's of German descent. And not that "far back" kind of lineage where some long ago ancestors came to America on a boat. No, it's more like her mother has a thick German accent and HCM spent the first 10 years of her life growing up in Germany.     Now I don't know about you, but when I went to school, I was taught that those pesky Germans tried to take over the world. They're a strong, stubborn group, kind of like us Texans, only their windows are always clean.     Hill Country Martha is the perfect example of a tough German. She's resourceful, productive, knows how to pinch pennies and her baseboards always sparkle. I swear I'd never even noticed whether a baseboard was clean or dirty until she became my friend. Thank the Lord she's never looked under my beds because the dust bunnies might send her over the edge.     Anyway, back to the crisis brewing. HCM has started packing heat.     Me: "So, what are you cleaning today?"     HCM: "Oh, I thought I'd reorganize my medicine cabinet by pulling out its contents, disinfecting all surfaces, throwing away any outdated medication and then alphabetize the remaining products by generic brand name. What are you going to do?"     Me: "I think I'll brush the dog and use the hair to weave a rug."     HCM: "Real funny. Hey, let me call you right back -- I've gotta grab the gun."     Suddenly there was dead silence at the other end of the line. I'd never had one of my friends hang up on me before because they were about to shoot something.     Crazy thoughts raced through this city girl's mind. Have the Crips or the Bloods just bashed in her front door? Has she just come face to face with a large grizzly bear? Is she really, really mad at her husband?     Luckily for Big Ash Atwood, he was out of town on a trip -- which made me even more nervous, because there was this poor defenseless woman on 42 acres left to fend for herself. Yeah, right. This is Hill Country Martha we're talking about.     I did the only thing I could do. I sat by the phone and worried, hoping I didn't get a call saying she'd just shot herself in the foot and should I call 911. Within a few minutes the phone rang again.     Me: "What happened? Are you all right?"     HCM: "Sure, I'm fine. But there's a wild hog out there that's not. He was at the deer feeder and I just took him out. That target practice BAA gave me last week really paid off. I've gotta call you back again 'cause now I'm going to get on the tractor and put him in the front end loader."     Poor HCM. Just another mess to clean up.     I'm pretty sure that if she had been born in the era of the great frontier, HCM would have been the type of woman that circled the chuck wagons, cooked dinner with her left hand, shot Indians with her right and chewed tobacco while squatting to give birth.     To top it all off, HCM's a pretty good photographer, too. Not only did she load that pig up and dump him in the burn pit, she was kind enough to take a picture of him and email it to me. She hit him dead center. And the week before that, she emailed a photo of the coral snake that her husband took out with two shots. Seems the snake was still wiggling, so he chopped him in half with a hoe. After all the motion stopped, HCM grabbed her camera and a ruler, reconnected the two pieces and shot a photo of the snake with the ruler to prove that he was, in fact, over two feet long. Most of my other friends email vacation photos or chain letters.     So I'm thinking Hill Country Martha might need a new name. I'll let you decide. Try these on for size: Pistol Packin' Martha, Annie Oakley Atwood, Gun Totin' Grace, Dead Eye Martha, Sharp Shot Atwood, The Pig Slayer or Martha -- Heavy Equipment Operator. You be the judge. Feel free to email or call with your suggestions.     If I don't hear a peep out of any of you, I'll assume we'll just leave Hill Country Martha alone.     So here's your hope for the week. I hope your baseboards are clean. I'm hoping I never need to shoot a gun. Hopefully, HCM will take out all critters on their way to my house. And I'm very hopeful that she'll never change and always stays the epitome of a true Texas Hill Country woman.

News from the headwaters in Medina Six Forty Nine and Twenty Two Seconds by Mikie Baker Published Sept. 6, 2007    It’s time for an update on the Teenage Eating Machine, and this one is serious. I need your attention, please.     I don’t know whether I’m getting used to how much TEM eats, or if he’s actually slowed down a bit. He only managed to grow a measly inch and a half this summer and he’s just consuming a small afternoon snack – two bowls of cereal, a handful of cookies and half a bag of chips. Suddenly his main source of sustenance is football. (Here comes the part where you pay attention.) From now until December, I am officially renaming TEM the TFM – the Teenage Football Machine.     It all started on Visit the Teachers night at the school. The preseason to the preseason of football. That night wasn’t for meeting teachers or checking out the girls for him. It was all about (gasp) talking to the coaches. Standing tall, chest puffed out, really deep-voiced talking to athletic men.     He’s never come down from the high. TFM constantly talks football. Monday he was all a flitter because Tuesday morning he was getting his official team workout shorts and T-shirt. Tuesday he was extremely excited because Wednesday morning he was getting fitted for his helmet. And boy, was he really ecstatic when he found out his head had grown. Seems this tall, gawky seventh grader has the smallest head in the county and was reduced to wearing a “small” helmet last year. But, Lord be praised, this year he’s graduated to a medium. (Whew – glad that crisis is over.)     And then there was Thursday. That was the day the coaches ran the boys through their paces and decided which positions they would play. There is nothing more important in this world than finding out what gridiron job you will land. His involves running and catching the ball, hence the chance to put points on the scoreboard and become the Teenage Scoring Machine. Something TFM wants desperately. Let’s just hope the scoring part stays on the field, if you know what I mean.     Not only did he gain a great spot on the team, he also became the Teenage Coaching Machine Thursday afternoon. The infamous Medina Fighting Fishbones are back for year two on their quest to snag another YMCA Super Bowl trophy. The Teenage Football Machine, being too old to play for the Fishbones this year, has opted for coaching. So he spent the entire afternoon with the Fishbones. All in all, he played football for over four hours yesterday. I was really hoping we’d have a quiet evening after all that exercise because, frankly, I was worn out.     Boy was I wrong. TFM had to give me a blow by blow of each and every new move he’d learned, how he coached would-be kickers and even how, if you got in trouble with one of the coaching gods, you would have to do wall push-ups. These involve standing on your head, leaning against a wall, groaning and defying gravity. Bet he won’t get in trouble.     I got exhausted just watching him go through the drills. Finally, he dropped to the couch in a heap and began barking orders at me.     TFM: “Hey, I need to get up at 6:30 in the morning because I need to be at the school no later than seven.”     (This from a kid that won’t get up before noon during the summer unless I wedge a lit stick of dynamite between his toes...)     Me: “Why do you need to be there so early? I thought school didn’t start until eight-thirty.” (I can’t believe he actually wants to get to school an hour ahead of the bell…)     TFM: “We’re getting shoulder pads tomorrow and I heard that you have to get there really early to get the good ones.” (Smart coach…)     Me: “Okay, no problem.” (Thank you God, I don’t have to scream for ten minutes to get him out of bed…)     TFM: “Say, now that I think about it, make it between 6:49 and 6:50 that you get me there. I wanna be first.”     Boy, that’s an understatement. Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to survive tonight. I’m sure he’ll find out today that he actually gets two jerseys, one for home and one for away games. It may just push the Teenage Football Machine over the edge.     So, here’s your hope for the week. I hope you have something you’re as excited about as TFM. I’m hoping he’ll have a great season and learn what it means to be a productive part of a team. I’m hopeful I’ll survive the sight of that first hit from a 220-pound eighth grader that knocks him for a loop. Hopefully, it’ll knock a little sense into his teenaged, football schedule-driven head.

News from the headwaters in Medina The Naughty Tree by Mikie Baker Published Aug. 30, 2007    As I’ve lamented before, gardening in the Hill Country is not for the faint of heart. We grow rocks down here and we all wield pickaxes to dig holes. We’re a tough group. But it seems we’re not being tough enough when it comes to our trees.     Right before school kicks back in, there’s always a flurry of sleepovers with the kids. We’ve been through the “move ‘em in, move ‘em out” cycle with the Teenage Eating Machine’s nightly sleepovers. The other day when it was time for Best Bandera Buddy to go home, I happily shuttled him back to his grandmother’s house.     She was just finishing up a major re-landscaping of her yard. Fresh beds and new plants are a lovely sight for a gardener to behold. While the teenagers stomped off to parts unknown, I spent time walking the front and back yards with her admiring all the hard work and delicate new foliage.     At one point we happened upon a rather large Chinese pistache tree. I had to stop and marvel. You see, I planted this variety about two years ago near my house because the tag made that infamous claim that sends delight through every Texas gardener’s soul: “A fast growing shade tree.” Well, mine’s still a stick that gives off about as much shade as a baseball cap, so I was very interested in how her Chinese pistache had grown so large. Large as in 15 feet tall with a 6-inch trunk.     This Hill Country Gardener patiently explained her gardening trick for making trees grow faster. I felt it my duty to pass this one on to all you loyal readers out there.     ME: “Wow! This tree is huge! How old is it?”     HCG: “It’s rather young, but it started growing really fast after the big flood. When we got flooded out, our storage shed washed over here and smashed into this tree, which was still pretty much stick size. See the scars?”     ME: “I sure do, but what’s that got to do with it?”     HCG: “Well, I figure the hit from the shed was like a really hard spanking. Haven’t you ever heard about spanking your trees to make them grow?”     ME: “Excuse me?”     HCG: “You need to spank your trees to make them grow. Some guy even wrote a book on it. Frankly, I prefer using a baseball bat to a garden hose. I think it works faster.”     Now, maybe I’m the last person in Texas to have heard this gardening tip, but somehow I don’t think so. Spank your trees to make them grow. If that theory holds true, I must have spanked the Teenage Eating Machine a little too often because he keeps growing like a weed. Excuse me, tree.     I decided this matter needed further investigation. I immediately went to my source of knowledge, Hill Country Martha, who knows everything. She was as befuddled as I about tree spanking. So I turned to source number two, Google, and found – lo and behold – that a man named Jerry Baker has written on the subject of spanking your trees to make them grow. He’s also published another 49 books on a variety of gardening tips, so I guess he must know his stuff.     Being from the “hug a tree” generation, I just couldn’t image wielding a baseball bat at all the young, defenseless trees in my yard. It actually took me a few days to work up the courage to try. Finally, I snuck up on my first victim, the Chinese pistache. I felt it necessary to tell my tree that he had been naughty by not providing any shade for me, so he needed to be spanked. Armed with my right flip flop, I gave him four or five good lashes on the old bark. He took it like a man. He never even whimpered.     It got a little easier with each successive spanking. By the time I’d worked my way around to the sixth tree, I was no longer asking permission. I just slapped away. By the by, it’s a bit tricky to spank a tree that’s surrounded by a deer cage, but if you stand on your tip toes and angle your flip flop just the right way, you can get in a few really good licks.     Since it’s only been a few days, I can’t be sure, but I think those trunks are looking a bit bigger. And most of the bruising has gone away. I’ll tell you this much. The next time I’m cutting a switch for the Teenage Eating Machine, I’m going to turn around and smack the tree too, just for good measure.     So here’s your hope for the week. I hope I don’t get kicked out of the Garden Club for tree abuse. I’m hoping Tree Protective Services doesn’t show up at my door with a court order to remove all trees on my property. And I’m hopeful that by next year, suddenly, I’ll have some real shade around this place. Hopefully by then, my trees will have gotten out of the naughty stage they’re growing through right now.

News from the headwaters in Medina Ode to the Pigskin by Mikie Baker Published Aug. 23, 2007    My dad, Joe the Pro, loved his only little girl. But, like most men, he had secret hopes of raising a boy. Faced with no males in the family, he did what any normal red-blooded American dad would do – he dragged me to every single Dallas Cowboy home game throughout my formative years. Yes, Joe the Pro made me what I am today, a well-versed football fanatic.     It started for me at the age of six. That was the original Dallas Cowboys year, after Clint Murchison took the unsuccessful Dallas Texans to Kansas City where they were renamed the Kansas City Chiefs. Because the “Pokes” were a brand-spanking-new team, the goal was to get as many people to come to the games as possible. The marketing genius of Tex Schram began with the simple idea of making end zone seats really cheap and letting those frustrated football fathers bring all the kids they wanted with them for only a buck. That’s right – my dad could bring me and all my friends for a buck. None of my girlfriends were takers, but I had a gaggle of little boys standing in line to go to the games with me and my dad (guess Dad was trying to teach me how to date at the same time).     Now, some of you people out there are football snobs; 50-yard-line or nothing. Not me. Give me the good old end zone any day. The people there are all nuts. They don’t sit through a game. They stand up and yell. Frenzied, crazed yelling. “Throw it to Bobby” (Bullet Bob Hayes – fastest man on earth) yelling. I was raised to believe that your team will never win unless you personally yell at them as loud as you can and shout out what the next play should be. And never, never, never give the refs a break. You must always take the zebras to task.     By the way, my favorite penalty was always “piling on.” Somehow, piling on disappeared during the NFL commissioners’ years of no more late hits. Piling on was literally what it sounded like – your running back had the ball, got tackled and then about eight of the ten guys on the other team would jump on top of him in a large pile. It would take forever for the players to untangle themselves which would give us ample time to scream, “Piling On! Fifteen Yards!”     I understand that a lot of you football fans, in your twisted little minds, don’t care for the Dallas Cowboys. Doesn’t matter to me, because I know the real facts – they are America’s team, Thanksgiving Day wouldn’t be the same without them and the reason there’s a hole in the top of Texas Stadium is so God can watch his 'Boys. It’s okay if you prefer another team. At least you still love the game.     Hill Country Martha claims that football is “mindless entertainment for the masses.” There’s nothing mindless about it. In both good and bad years, my team can literally drive me out of my mind.     Unfortunately for my dad, he was already gone before the Teenage Eating Machine was born. No worry, Daddy; I’ve already got this one hooked on playing football. And it takes me back to my end zone years. I can scream as loud as I want, confident that TEM hears every word I’m saying from the sidelines. And being a true fanatic, I never ever bring a cowbell to the game. That tacky business should be left at the college level.     The other day, when we were purchasing football cleats for this year’s battle of the pigskin (size 11 for a 13 year old boy, thank you), I spied a T-shirt that I just had to buy for myself. It says it all: “Football is Everything.” It ‘tis the reason for the season and time to pull out the old Dallas Cowboys crock pot and start up some football watching parties. Plus, with Junior High Varsity on the horizon, I’ll have ample opportunity to voice my opinions to all refs within ear shot.     So here’s your hope for the week. There’s really no hope for you if you don’t love football. Here’s hoping you’ll venture out and find a game to watch. Hopefully, you’ll get a little carried away and do some yelling of your own. Personally, I’m hopeful the Teenage Eating Machine is beginning a career that will culminate as a Dallas Cowboy so he can take me to Disneyland.

News from the headwaters in Medina Tales from the Road by Mikie Baker Published Aug. 16, 2007    My Band of Bandera Misfits gathered at Hill Country Martha’s the other day for a river float. As we lounged in the beautiful Medina River, armed with our individual beverages of choice, talk turned to vacations. Seems most of the group had just come back from some sort of traveling adventure.     Before I delve into the war stories, I’d like to give you my take on vacations. After way too many years of being a worn and weary business traveler, I vowed that my vacations would consist of simple, easy road trips within our great state’s borders. Gone for me are the days of completely undressing in order to board an airplane. I’ll take a Texas highway, a passel of Randy Foster CDs and a car full of junk food over an airplane ride any day. Not so with my friends.     The King of the Hillers (our friends named King who live on top of a Hill Country hill) had just returned from a ten-day jaunt through South Dakota and Wyoming. Seems this long-planned trip coincided with the worst heat wave that part of the country has seen in a century. They left the coolest and wettest Texas summer in recent memory to visit a spot that has no use for air conditioning and where the temperature was averaging 108 degrees in the shade.     Me, “So how was the trip to the real cowboy mountains?”     KOH, “It wasn’t too bad. We spent most of the time driving in an air-conditioned car from shopping spot to shopping spot. ‘Course when the heat wave broke, it was 40 degrees at night and we almost froze to death in our shorts. We figure our colds will be gone in a couple of days.”     Me, “Gee, sounds like big fun.”     Then there was Hill Country Martha’s brother, Big City Plumber. He opted for salmon fishing in the wiles of northern Alaska.     Me, “So how was the trip to the tundra?     BCP, “It wasn’t too bad. We lost the boat motor about 17 minutes into our three-day, 70-mile rafting adventure. When we camped out at night under the stars, we had to sleep with large shotguns and six-shooters, just in case the bears came calling. And unfortunately, we forgot the ice chest, so we had to throw back all the salmon we caught. It’s also kind of interesting to see how bad you can actually smell after three days without a shower.”     Me, “Gee, sounds like big fun.”     Of course, Hill Country Martha and Formerly From Minnesota had a vacation adventure of their own, in China.     Me, “So how was the trip to the great wall?”     HCM, “It wasn’t too bad. It was a 13-hour flight from Los Angeles and we missed our connection in Shanghai, so when we got there, they threw us on a bus and took us straight to see the Great Wall. I hadn’t had any sleep in 50 hours, it was 104 degrees with 100 percent humidity and we shared the view with a couple of million other tourists. Just about the time we got adjusted to the time change, we came back – so I keep falling asleep around 1 am and wake up at 4:30. I’ve never been so tired in my life.”     Me, “Gee, sounds like big fun.”     Though housebound with Dearly Demented Mom, I still managed to have a vacation too. And I think mine was the best of all. The Teenage Eating Machine has been gone, to various spots here and yon, for the last seven weeks. That’s right, I’ve had a nearly two-month break from constant feeding, taxi service and a messy house. He’ll be back in my face this week because all good things must come to an end. Frankly, I think my vacation was the most fun of all.     As we sat there in the perfectly clear and cool Medina River, I pondered why any of them would want to leave this spot for adventures unknown. Most of my big city friends would give their right arm for a vacation float on the Medina in the Texas Hill Country. I guess people go on vacations just for the war stories.     So here’s your hope for the week. Here’s hoping your vacation travels were memory making. Hopefully, you’ve got all that big fun out of your system.     Personally, I hope the Teenage Eating Machine didn’t discover triple meat cheeseburgers during his vacation travels. And I’m hopeful I can survive the next couple of weeks until, gloriously, school begins once again.

News from the headwaters in Medina The Name Game by Mikie Baker Published Aug. 9, 2007    This female’s given name is Michal. No, not Michael. That’s the boy’s spelling. The girl’s spelling comes from the Bible. Michal was King David’s (you know, David and Goliath) wife. If you remember your Old Testament, and who does, Michal was Saul’s daughter. Because David was so good in battle, Saul fixed him up with her. They got hitched, but when power started going to David’s head, he dumped Michal for Bathsheba. I’m pretty sure I know why. He thought Michal was a really silly name for a girl.     So, how did I become Michal?     It’s my mom’s fault. She was from Boston. Her family goes so far back that they single-handedly swam from England to Boston, long before Columbus conned the Queen of Spain into three boats. My Texas dad was a fifth generation Dallasite. It’s rumored that his ancestors had played poker with John Neely Bryant in the first log cabin built in Big D.     When dad met mom, he swept her off her feet and they eloped to Rockwall, Texas. That was the closest place you could get married without a blood test. Back then, Rockwall was 25 miles east of Dallas. Now it’s a suburb.     As their story goes, Mom got pregnant within a week and I was born nine months and one week later (Yeah, right). Whatever the case, a name was in order and I believe this is how the scenario went.     Mom, “If it’s a boy, I want the name Bradley. If it’s a girl, I want the name Michal.”     Dad, “Michal – that’s a boy’s name.”     Mom, “No it’s not. It’s from the bible and I like it.”     Dad, “Well, I’ve come up with my own name for a girl. My name is Joe and yours is Dorothy, so I think we should call her Dottie Joe.”     Mom, “Over my dead body are you giving my baby the name of a Country & Western singer.” Of course, mom won out because she was much more proper, being from a very long line of Yankees. And I really have no regrets that I wasn’t a country and western singer. What I do regret is what she named me. I think she did too, because she really didn’t know what to call me other than “baby." Luckily, my babysitter, Lillie May Betty Lou, came up with the nickname of Mikie.     By the young age of three, my name has already changed from Michal, to Baby, to Mikie. I was confused enough, but not nearly as confused as my first grade teacher on the first day of school during roll call.     FGT, “Michal Baker.”     Me, “Here.”     FGT, “Oh, it must be Michelle.”     Me, “No, it’s Michal, but my nickname is Mikie.”     FGT, “Okay, Mickey.”     Me, “No, it’s Mikie. You know, like 'my-key'.”     At this point, the entire class was rolling with laughter, the teacher was befuddled and I was the color of a shiny new red barn. And so it went, year after year, until all the kids knew me so well, they took on the job of explaining my name to the latest new teacher.     Suddenly, I’d become cool in school because my name was unique. Okay, weird. I passed kids in the hall that I didn’t even know who said, “Hi Mikie!” I knew they were talking to me, because there was just no other girl named Mikie in the state, much less the school. Finally, I started to like this weird name from Mom.     Then one day, out of nowhere, it hit. The Life cereal commercial. Now, for those of you too old or too young to remember the Life Cereal commercial, there are three little boys sitting around the breakfast table with three empty bowls and a giant box of Life Cereal in front of them. (I know this was a typical TV-made fantasy moment between boys because they weren’t beating each other over the head with spoons or spewing milk out of their nostrils.) Here’s the dialogue I know by heart - spoken by Cute Boy One and Cute Boy Two as they gazed at the Life Cereal box and their empty bowls.     CBO, “I’m not going to try it. You try it”     CBT, “I’m not going to try it. You try it.”     CBO, “I know, let’s get Mikie to try it. He hates everything!”     Mikie eats the cereal and they say in unison, “He likes it. Mikie likes it!”     Then they all crunch Life cereal happily ever after.     For me, the bottom fell out. There I was, happily living in secret anonymity with a unique nickname, and now I was suddenly thrust into the limelight. Somehow the translation from everyone I met turned into “Give it to Mikie. She eats everything!” I’m pretty sure that was the year I gained the extra ten pounds which losing still eludes me to this day.     So here’s your hope for the week. I hope, when you decide to name a baby, you’ll make it something simple like Suzy or Tammy – anything but Mikie. And here’s hoping that if you do see me around town, you’ll remember to call me Mikie, not Mickey, though I’ll answer to almost anything. And hopefully, as all you teachers out there get ready for opening day, you’ll breeze through a roll call filled with a bushel of simple country & western names.

News from the headwaters in Medina Hat Trick by Mikie Baker Published Aug. 2, 2007    I was born with a hat head. By that, I mean I’ve always looked good in hats. Not baseball caps or rain bonnets, mind you, but hats; most any kind of hat – fedora, Panama, beret, chef or cowboy hat. Truth is, I’m particularly beautiful with a crown on my head…     I come by my hat head through genetics, I suppose. My dad was a “manufacturer’s rep” for Adam Hat Company and Texas Miller Brothers. Granted, these were men’s hats – still, I’ve lived around hats most of my life. "Joe the Pro" traveled a five-state area in a lanky Lincoln Continental Mark IV adorned with the personalized license plate “Hat Man”. He called on a long-gone industry, the town’s local haberdashery. Unfortunately, most of those town square hat shops have been replaced by Wal-Marts.     In my family’s hat-income-driven home, JFK was considered to be the enemy because he was the man who killed the hat. Kennedy was the first president to appear topless, meaning he didn’t wear un chapeaux. I’m sure this had something to do with his beautiful thick hair, but it spelled the beginning of the end for my dad’s career.     I googled the history of hats and found that man has been wearing them in some form or fashion since Adam and Eve. Adam’s fig leaf was, in fact, strategically placed over the bald spot on his head. Plenty of famous people have finished their look with a hat; Napoleon, Humphrey Bogart, Scarlett O’Hara, the Pope – even Elmer Fudd.     Seems the art of wearing hats has survived, though its popularity has waned since JFK. Hats today seem to finish off a “look." The military still uses them, as do construction workers. Rabid sports fans are always armed with cheese heads on their noggins. Most men have stooped to wearing logo-bearing baseball caps, though a cap does not a hat make. In this world of hats, I consider myself a “hat trick,” as I was born on Halloween and look good in a hat.     Recently, I was told in very certain terms by my Band of Bandera Misfits that I didn't look like a local; and if I was hoping to snag a man (remember, I am on the hunt), then I should “cowboy up” with boots, jeans and cowboy hat.     I’m pretty much a shorts and sandals kind of gal, but that hat part got my attention. Hmm, back to a hat – a cowboy hat at that. Why the heck not? Already own the boots and the jeans, so I headed over to Bandera Nan’s (who, by the way, is the kind of woman that always has something in her closet that fits you and you can borrow) to see if she had an extra cowboy hat I could use.     Me, “Okay, I’m trying to 'cowboy up'. But I need a hat and I’ve got a really big head.”     BN, “No problem. I wear a 7. How about this wide-brimmed, Montana block, palm straw?”     Me, “Cool. How does it look?”     BN, “Honey, if you can’t snag a man in that, then you’re gonna have to buy a horse.”     Putting on that hat turned me into a different person. Somehow, I’m bullet-proof covered by the state of Montana. And frankly, I think this cowboy hat thing has gone to my head, if you’ll excuse the expression. When I dare to get close to the hat rack, my hat jumps right onto my head whether I’ve got my boots on or not.     I got a sign from God the other day that wearing a cowboy hat was right for me. Seems a bird flew by and had his way with me, if you will, leaving a rather large splat on the brim of my hat. I’ve always heard that “birdly” act was good luck.     Bandera Nan agreed, saying, “Yeah, that’s lucky. It’s lucky you had a hat on or that would have landed in your hair.”     So, if you see me around town, donning one of my several new cowboy hats, I hope you’ll give me a tip of yours. And maybe, if you haven’t worn a hat in awhile, you’ll mosey on out and pick up a straw today. Here’s hoping that when you do, you’ll remember that all bets are off after Labor Day. That’s when we hat addicts are switching to felt.

News from the headwaters in Medina Go Ahead, Grill Me by Mikie Baker Published July 26, 2007    In the old Wild West, a man was measured by the way he used a six shooter. Today, a man is measured by the way he handles a grill. A seasoned King of the Grill will tell you that grilling is a very personal thing. The heat you use, the techniques, the secret seasonings – there are as many opinions as there are “blinging” belt buckles in Bandera on a Saturday night. Sometimes we good old Texans can even take grilling to extremes. I swear I’ve seen a grown man cry over the perfect smoke ring on a brisket.     I don’t mean to overlook the women out there. Plenty of ladies grill. But to us, it’s just another method of cooking dinner. To a man, well, it’s part of his masculinity. I am man, king of the barbeque grill, hear me roar.     Speaking of barbeque, if you’re a Texan you use the letter “q” in the word rather than “c” like the wimpy barbecue spelling those Northerners use. What do those people know about grilling anyway? They think a good fire means bratwurst. A Texan can grill a rattlesnake that’ll make your mouth water.     Now, I know I’m a woman and I’m treading into dangerous waters here, discussing the techniques of the grill. But I was born and bred in Texas and from my father on down to my husband, there’s never been a man in my life could grill as good as I do. So, for all you people north of the Oklahoma border, listen up to a Texan’s advice.     The great grill debate will always be whether to use gas, charcoal or wood. Best bet, be armed with all three. Gas is the easy way out. Just flip the switch and you’re grilling with a perfectly even heat controlled by a dial. It’s fine, but the flavor’s just not as good as the other methods. I bet most of you gas grillers out there are marinade types. You know – mask the flavor of the meat with some expensive high-falootin’ sauce made in California. That’s not to say that a gas grill is bad. In fact, I know a man that can make a gas grill sing. He uses it as sort of a rotisserie. Tongs in one hand, beer in the other, standing over the grill constantly turning his meat. But abilities like his are rare.     I’m a charcoal girl myself. I like the long grilling process that charcoal gives you. Light the fire and wait. Frankly, it’s all in the waiting. Fire too hot? You’ve just done dried out and burned up a perfectly good steak. The Band of Bandera Misfits I run with usually hit both “Steak Outs” here in town on a weekly basis to grill away the evening. We’ve seen in person what a hot charcoal grill can do to the hair on your arm, much less your steak. But back to charcoal.     Being a purist, I believe it is a sin to use any form of lighter fluid, kerosene or gasoline to start the charcoal. I use a charcoal tower with a couple of pieces of newspaper. That’s why my burgers actually taste like burgers and not diesel fuel. Whatever happened to the old electric charcoal starter anyway?     Finally, there’s smoking. Don’t get me started on smoking. In fact, you can’t get me started on smoking. I don’t know how. This is where the men rule and we women are just left out in the cold. The only two things I know about smoking are, if done wrong, whatever you’re cooking tastes like it’s been in a house fire, and smoking takes all day. That’s why we women don’t do it. We’re too busy inside making all the side dishes to go with whatever comes off the pit. Whichever form your grilling takes, it’s a great Texas pastime. What’s better than throwing back a few cold ones while sitting ‘round the grill telling stories? When you’re just about storied out, your plate will be filled with delicious barbeque.     So here’s your hope for the week. I hope all you "King of the Grill" types will crank it up this weekend. Hopefully, you have lots of friends who are willing to come over, discuss your techniques and marvel at the finished product. And here’s hoping that no northerners show up armed with a fistful of bratwurst expecting a yankee barbecue. If they do, I hope you’ll throw an armadillo on the grill just for them.

News from the headwaters in Medina Dearly Demented Mom by Mikie Baker Published July 19, 2007    Years ago, Mom called me on the phone. She was all excited because she’d just read on article on Alzheimer’s. She explained that the difference between Alzheimer’s and getting old is that getting old means forgetting where your car keys are. Alzheimer’s is when you forget what your car keys are for.     That concept was easy to grasp, so she had me prepared in case Alzheimer’s became her demise. But she didn’t have me prepared for dementia. When the doctor pronounced the diagnosis I said, “No problem. Mom’s had shingles, a cracked sternum, non-lymphoma cancer and gave birth to me, so how hard can this be? Just tell me what dementia means and she and I will deal with it."     And deal with it we have. As the doctor explained, she simply becomes more childlike as she ages. We’ve just finished experiencing the “terrible twos” and seems like we’ve turned a corner back to that 18-month-old baby stage – you know the phase. You think your baby is just darling and your baby thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread. A few blissful months for a child-rearing parent.     Taking care of Mom is like that. New parents gush about the delight in a young child’s development and wonderment in discovering a whole new world. Funny, but nobody ever talks about the delight in an old woman aging to the point of becoming a newborn again. Mom and I have had our moments, but mostly we’ve had our chuckles. Here are some recent highlights of a demented brain.     Mom on beauty     Mom, “You are so pretty.”     Me, “Thank you Mom!”     Mom, “Do you know why you’re so pretty?”     Me, “No, Mom, tell me.”     Mom, “Because you look just like me!”     (Gosh, I really hope I don’t look quite that old…)     Mom on cooking     Me, “Here’s your dinner, Mom.”     Mom, (giggling like a small child) “Wow! Did you make this?”     Me, “Of course, Mom, I made it just for you.”     Mom, “Really? I didn’t even know you could cook!”     (Guess she’ll never forget my first disastrous Thanksgiving dinner…)     Mom on behavior     Mom, “You’re such a good girl.”     Me, “Thanks, Mom – I try.”     Mom, “Well, you don’t ever do what I tell you to, but you’re still a good girl.”     (I’m sure these are her memories of my teenage years…)     Mom on the weather     Me, “Guess what, Mom. It’s raining again.”     Mom, “Again? It can’t be. This is such dry country.”     (This from a woman who lived in Dallas 40 years and actually tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk one hot August day.)     Mom on dating     Me, “Mom, the babysitter is here because I am going out on a date.”     Mom, “Oh boy! Have you got a boyfriend?”     Me, “Well, I really don’t think so, Mom. It’s just a date.”     Mom, “I wish I had a boyfriend.”     Me, “Really? What would with you do with a boyfriend if you had one?”     Mom, “That’s easy! I’d scratch his back!”     (Hmm. Guess that’s how I came to be in this world. Mom was just scratchin’ Daddy’s back…)     So here’s your hope for the week. I hope you’ll take the time to sit and visit with one of your elders today. Hopefully, you’ll leave with a great memory or an endearing story. And here’s hoping that my mom keeps coming up with more great zingers so we can keep laughing her all the way to heaven.

News from the headwaters in Medina Over the hill dating by Mikie Baker Published July 12, 2007    Statistically, they say that a single woman over 50 is more likely to be struck by lightning than she is to find a single man willing to take her out for an evening of two-steppin’. Over The Hill dating is not for the faint of heart.     I have no idea what possessed me to look for a man anyway. Between the Teenage Eating Machine and Dementia-Driven Mom, I’ve got a pretty full plate as it is. Plus, to roll out the door, it costs me ten bucks an hour for a baby-sitter for Mom. Technically, an evening of dinner and dancing can end up costing me $75. Aren’t escort services cheaper than that?     But no matter, I was a woman on a mission – to date. Since I’d decided to stick my toe in the dating waters, I thought it was a good idea to go to the local watering hole in search of information on single men. The female Watering Hole Owner was more than happy to oblige me with a little dating advice.     Me, “So, where are all the rich, single cowboys here in town?”     WHO, “Lady, there’s no such thing as a rich cowboy. That stuff’s only in the movies.”     Me, “Okay, how about rich, single ranchers?”     WWO, “They’re all married. Look, all we’ve got here is a bunch of go-getters.”     Me, “Really? Go-getters?”     WHO, “Yeah. They take her to work in the morning and go get her in the afternoon.”     Now, a smart woman always listens to another woman’s guidance on dating. She was right. I’ve met all seven eligible men in this county. If you lined ‘em all up – combined – they’d have one complete set of teeth and half a brain. With that in mind, I decided to expand my search to other counties.     So I called in my pro from Dover, Very Best Friend. Armed with her trusty rolodex, she flipped through her cards thoughtfully, until she came upon the perfect victim – a single man in an adjoining county. She made a call and, voila, I had a date. In fact, I had three dates in a row. Hmm, this dating thing wasn’t all that hard. My mistake was, I started getting a little smug.     Me, "Hi, Very Best Friend! Wanted to update you on how my Over The Hill dating life is progressing. I’ve invited him over for an 'official dinner date' at the house."     Dead silence.     Me, "Very Best Friend? Are you there?"     VBF, "Yes, I'm here, but I can't believe what you did!"     Me, "Did what?"     VBF, "You said the 'D' word!"     Me, "What 'D' word?"     VBF, "You said 'date'! I can't believe you said 'date'!"     Me, "I thought ‘official dinner date’ was kind of funny. Is there a problem?"     VBF, "Of course there's a problem! You never ever, ever, ever mention the 'D' word to a man until you've actually dated for at least six months. Wow, you really blew it."     Me, "I did? I didn't know the rules..."     VBF, "Well, you'd better learn. You've probably already scared this one off forever!"     Me, "No, I'll see him at least one more time – he has all his teeth and he’s getting a free meal.”     Actually, Very Best Friend was right. As soon as the “D” word came out of my mouth, he took his full set of teeth and ran for the hills. I give up. Maybe Over The Hill dating is just too tough for me.      So here’s your hope for the week. I hope you married women out there appreciate that guy tightly gripping the remote while snoozing on the couch. I’m hopeful that one day, a real go-getter with a full set of teeth will ride up to my door and save me from this bizarre life of Over The Hill dating. And here’s hoping that if you know a nice single guy, you’d be kind enough to send him my way. Actually, I’m quite a catch. I know how to use a pick axe and I’ve got all my teeth.

News from the headwaters in Medina Trashy Texas Women by Mikie Baker Published June 28, 2007    When this big city girl landed in the Hill Country, I was surprised to learn there were no men who’d drive to my door in a large garbage truck and magically whisk away my trash to that unknown landfill in the sky. No, city girl, down here we all load up our own trash and take it to the dump. Little did I know how fun this could be.     The day I met Gerald, who runs the Medina dump, he told stories of the local dump legend; a woman who sifted through the trash in search of treasures. She’d always make great finds and he’d heard tell she even sold some of these new-found riches at an antique store in town. The woman he was referring to? None other than Hill Country Martha. That’s right. Good old HCM is the Legendary Dump Queen ‘round here. Man, she’s got so many names, even I’m starting to get confused.     Anyway, as Gerald puts it about HCM, “She’s the only person I know that takes more stuff out of the dump than she brings in.”     As you can imagine, she’s my dump idol. And when you’ve got a dump idol, they tend to influence you through their great dump finds. That’s how I’ve become a dumpster diver, too. I’m getting pretty good at it. Gerald even refers to us as the Dumpster Diving Duo.     This strange affliction that we share led us to last weekend. In fact, when we heard the rumor of a free dump day, we started making plans.     ME, “Say, Hill Country Martha, guess what’s coming up in three weeks, two days, seven hours and nine minutes?”     HCM, “Free dump day! Why don’t we get there at 7:45 am and set up?”     ME, “Great! I’ll bring the snacks.”     On “D” day, the Dumpster Diving Duo arrived, work gloves in hand, to take on all the junk Medina had to offer. Here’s our secret to success – first, you have to get Gerald’s approval on your mission and then you must park your empty vehicle exactly where he tells you. Once you’ve got the tailgate down and are settled in with water and fruit, well, it’s all uphill from there.     Now, any good Dumpster Diver knows that there are three distinct items at the dump – trash, scrap metal and junk. HCM and I were there for the junk. We even let “some other woman” take over scrap metal. Of course, Gerald always handles trash.     Things went well. It was a nice, cool cloudy day and lots of friendly folks arrived early with loads of junk. We even had visitors. Poker Face Bob and Bandera Nan stopped by as did the Top of the Hill Kings (friends of ours named King that live in a house way up on top of a Texas hill). King Ray just looked at us, shook his head and said, “I can’t believe you two are dumpster diving.”     Actually Ray, we didn’t even have to dive. Most people were nice enough to just stop at our junk perusing station and show us their junk before they drove up to Gerald. Sort of a pre-screening, if you will. Plus the county employee whose job it was to crush all the junk into smaller piles even helped us carry heavy stuff to our two waiting vehicles.     So what did these Trashy Texas Women end up with?     A metal horse trough (perfect to plant cactus in), an antique – at least Gerald says so – bike with both wheels (yard art), two whiskey barrels (again, more plants), matching set of sorta-antique ash shovels (won’t be long until we’re shoveling fire ashes again), a classic metal funnel (HCM just needed that), baskets (you can never be too thin or have enough baskets), Halloween decorations (being born on Halloween, I can never have enough of those either), an old minnow bucket (HCM says everyone needs an old minnow bucket) and an antique chicken feeder that is already proudly displayed on Hill Country Martha’s porch.     Actually, Hill Country Martha was quite polite about the junk assortment. She let me take first grabs on everything, to the point that when my car got full, I had to put more of my treasures in her truck. Guess that’s what a great friendship is all about – I like you so much I’ll even share my junk with you.     So here’s your hope for the week. Hope all your trash is someone else’s treasure. Hopefully, you’ll bring the Dumpster Diving Duo some really great junk at the next free dump day. And here’s hoping that if you’re also a Trashy Texas Woman, you’ll find a different county dump and dive right in.

News from the headwaters in Medina Chili Today, Hot Tamale by Mikie Baker Published June 21, 2007    Last weekend I attended my first ever official chili cook-off. I know what you’re thinking, “She’s a Texas girl and she’s never been to a chili cook-off? Well, bless her heart!”     Don’t worry. I may have been out of my element, but at least I got to participate. I was lucky enough to be on a team of ultimate chili experts – a half-crazed group of radio professionals from KCWM Radio 1460 AM located in scenic downtown Hondo. Morning Man Extraordinaire Mike Carr even brought the radio station’s official chuck wagon just so we’d appear to be certified specialists.     Of course, every good Texan knows the original chili cook-off was held in Terlingua. It ended in a tie between H. Allen Smith and Wick Fowler. Ironically, H. Allen Smith was a humor columnist and Wick Fowler was a war correspondent. Writers both. Guess I really was in my element after all.     As Morning Man Extraordinaire explained to this lowly novice, “There is only one rule in cooking Texas chili. Under no circumstances must you use beans of any kind. Why? Because you really don’t want to be standing around for three hours with a bunch of people that have consumed lots of well seasoned beans, if you know what I mean.” Obviously Morning Man Extraordinaire is an expert, so for all you wanna be chili cookers out there, here are MME’s list of five critical things you must have to make award winning chili:     The Pot     It can’t be any old ordinary Revere Ware. Your pot has to have character. Slightly burned and dented is good, but if it looks like it’s been through in a fire and thrown from a third story window, so much the better. It has to stand up to many hours of stirring and simmering and must be large. The larger the better, as in, “Gosh, Eunice, look at the size of his pot. I bet he’s making a double batch ‘cause his chili’s so good.”     The Fire     There are two distinct types of fire used at the cook-off, open flame and electric element. Our flame was provided by butane, but I hear tell some teams out there actually cook over wood. Whatever method you choose, if it won’t stay on a steady simmer, you just won’t win. And if it sets your chuck wagon on fire, you won’t win either.     The Meat     Seems that you can use just about any kind of meat you’d like as long as after you cook it, it comes out tender as a mother’s love. It also has to be as seasoned as a sun bather covered in Johnson’s Baby Oil and iodine. But be careful – if you over-salt your meat, you’ll never place better than seventh.     The Confidence     You’ve got to act confident because the judges and the competition are always watching. And any chili cook worth his seasoning knows that beer enhances confidence. Plus, as MME explained to me, when the judge comes around with your official numbered Styrofoam entry cup, it’s important that you don’t do anything with that cup other than put your award winning chili in there. If you lose your cup or stuff it full of trash, you’ll let those judges see you struggle. Under no circumstances, ever let the judges see you sweat. Your job is to make them sweat with your secret seasoning.     The Secret Ingredient     Everybody has a secret ingredient. I strolled around to check out the competition and found lots of secret ingredients including homegrown chili peppers, flat day old beer and even baby formula. I imagine the real secret ingredient in everybody’s chili is that no one measures anything so the chili comes out different every time. Then if you win, you have to sit around for a year discussing what your secret really was, in hopes of some how duplicating it again.     I suspect that a hundred years ago, when the trail boss yelled, “Circle the wagons,” he was just telling the soon-to-be settlers that it was time for a chili cook-off. What better way to pass the time on the Old Indian Trail? Today, Karaoke is used to pass the time. This was an additional plus I had not counted on. I’m pretty sure all Karaoke is bad, but this Karaoke was exceptionally bad – which made it even better, if you know what I mean.     So, here’s your hope for the week. I hope if you’ve never participated in a chili cook-off, you’ll take the time to do so. Hopefully you’ll have as much fun as this group of seventh place finishers did. And here’s hoping Wick Fowler’s ready to pass on that crown, because our team’s going for the title of World Champions – if we can ever figure out what our secret ingredient really was.

News from the headwaters in Medina The Battle of the Big, Loud City by Mikie Baker Published June 14, 2007    A couple of weeks ago, Hill Country Martha and I decided we needed to make a run to the big city. There are only two reasons to clean out the pick up truck, throw in a couple of empty ice chests and head there: buying in bulk and bargains. None of us formerly big city people ever really want to go back to the big city, but it is our inalienable shopping right to buy in bulk and find bargains. And we all know the only place you can do that is in the big city.     So we girded our loins and set off for a day of power shopping. Everything thing was going great until Foreign Language Daughter called from Spain.     FLD: “Hey mom heard you were shopping in the big city today. Could you stop by and get me a couple of pairs of jeans? The ones here in Spain are expensive and make me look like a street walker.”     HCM: “No problem. Any specific kind?”     FLD: “Yes, I want the stove top, bell bottom, button down, double stitched, stone washed low rise kind in size zero.”     HCM: “Right. Just stay by the phone – you might have to tell the sales girl whatever it is you just told me.”     I don’t know about you, but I think anyone that wears a size zero should be arrested and sent to the nearest Twinkie farm for a few days of snacking. At least they’d end up a size two.     Anyway, Hill Country Martha and I blew into the large chain store specified by Foreign Language Daughter for some fancy size zero jeans. We stood there discussing the 25 varieties when suddenly we realized that we were screaming at each other. Not that we were mad mind you, but the music was so loud in the store we had to yell to be heard.     Now I used to be a disc jockey and I’m pretty well accustomed to loud music. But this music was as loud as sitting in the front row of a NASCAR race without a set of earplugs. With a pounding head and unable to find the specific jeans, Hill Country Martha motioned to Oblivious Sales Girl in charge, who wandered over and stood there staring at us like we were bothering her.     HCM: “I need a pair of stove top, bell bottom, button down, double stitched, stone washed low rise jeans in size zero.”     OSG: “Those jeans were discontinued by corporate ten minutes before you got here. All we’ve got are the zipper fly now.     HCM: “What? I can’t hear you! Your music is way too loud! Could you turn it down?”     OSG: “No, that’s the volume level required by the corporate office.”     HCM: “Yes, but I can’t hear you and I’m getting a splitting headache! Don’t you want my business?”     OSG: “Well, actually, no. You really don’t look like you’d fit into a size zero anyway.”     HCM: “That’s it! I want the number to your corporate office right now!”     So Oblivious Sales Girl wandered to the back counter to grab a card while our collective heads split open. As soon as the card was in hand, HCM and I make a mad dash out the door for some blessed silence. Hill Country Martha found herself a quiet spot and whipped out her cell phone like a six shooter. She proceeded to call the corporate office complaint hot line which was answered by Oblivious Complaint Girl.     HCM: “I’d like to register a complaint. I was just in one of your stores and I couldn’t hear anything because the music was so loud. I asked the sales girl to turn it down and she said it was company policy that the music be that loud.”     OCG: “Yeah, we have specific rules on music volumes in our stores.”     HCM: “Well, you’re making people deaf.”     OCG: “No we’re not. Our music levels are set on the loud side of acceptable OSHA standards.”     HCM: “OSHA standards of what? Hearing aid factories?”     It never got better from there. Oblivious Complaint Girl finally decided to register HCM’s complaint. But then she put her on terminal hold, so HCM’s only recourse was to call back to another Oblivious Complaint Girl and complain about the first Oblivious Complaint Girl.     Later I was informed by a friendly sales girl in another store that really loud music was this chain store’s “thing” and they do it with the intent of luring in unsuspecting young teens to trick them into buying jeans that cost $95 a pair. Problem is the adult in charge with the credit card doesn’t want to go deaf making a jeans transaction. Guess they make the music so loud that you don’t care what the jeans cost as long as you can buy them and get out of there.     So here’s your hope for the week. I hope your next round of big city shopping is easier than the battle of the Alamo. Hopefully you’ll find bargains galore and not run into any Oblivious Sales Girls. And here’s hoping you’ll come home with ears that can still enjoy a little peace and quiet in the Texas hills.

News from the headwaters in Medina Summertime Blues by Mikie Baker Published June 7, 2007    Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a young maiden who took her only begotten son to his first day of school. They clasped hands on that long walk to meet his new teacher. As she slowly exited the building, this woman broke down and sobbed because she had lost her baby forever.     Years later, in another distant land, this fair maid broke down and cried again. This was the day she had to pick up that same child from school and she feared what was upon her– three long months of feeding and entertaining a young teen.     For those that don't know, parents refer to the early teenage years of 13 and 14 as the "you were really bad to your mother and now you are getting paid back ten-fold" child raising years. There's really nothing you can say or do that will make a gawky teenager happy. Never mind the fact that your once-darling baby has grown into a teen who hates your guts simply because you're alive.     In a perfect world, I would have enough money to send said teenager to a wonderful summer camp that lasts three months. This is not a perfect world. So I am left with a summer scramble of finding ways to entertain him. And feed him.     Besides the fact that I've just been reassigned to non-stop pick-up-the-house duty, I now shudder every time I hear the phrase that should be officially stricken from the English language– "I'm bored." This actually means "If you don't feed me or entertain me right this minute, I'm going to wander aimlessly around town until I do something stupid." When I hear "I'm bored", I go on high alert.     We've hit the summer doldrums around here already. This is how a typical morning for us goes: At 10:38 am the Teenage Eating Machine crawls out of his cave and into my face.     TEM: "I'm hungry and I'm bored."     ME: "Check the pantry. I just stocked it with over $300 of your favorite junk food."     TEM: "There's nothing here I want to eat. Take me out to breakfast."     ME: "You mean lunch don't you?"     TEM: "Very funny. Let's go. I'm starving and I'm bored."     ME: "I cannot afford to take you out to breakfast five days a week."     TEM: "Fine. I'll just wander aimlessly around town until I do something stupid."     ME: "I'll get my purse."     Very Best Friend is on the downhill side of her teenage-rearing years. Her daughter is 17, has her own car and a summer job. How wonderful. That girl is going to be a ghost all summer long. The only way Very Best Friend will know that her daughter is alive will be to check her empty bed and see if the sheets are still warm. Barring a flat tire or a boyfriend break-up, Very Best Friend is home free. If only I could be so lucky.     Unfortunately, there is some ridiculous American law that says no child can have a full time job until the age of 16. I'm seriously considering summertime relocation to China where the Teenage Eating Machine can work in a nice sweat shop manufacturing flip-flops for rich Americans.     So here's your hope for the week. I hope that you'll be very nice to our band of half- crazed mothers that are desperately seeking ways to keep young teens fed, entertained and not performing stupid teen tricks all over town. Hopefully, when you see that glazed look in our eyes, you will stop and give us a hug to help us through the summertime blues. And my personal hope? I hope you teachers are enjoying your summer. Before you know it, you'll be back to being the adult in charge. Then things can get back to normal around here.

News from the headwaters in Medina Odd Job Mom by Mikie Baker Published May 31, 2007    A friend of mine emailed me a list of job offerings from her company in hopes that I knew someone that could fill one of the positions. Most of the jobs had obscure titles which made no sense to me. This got me to thinking: what are the weirdest jobs out there? Armed with my computer and Google, I found the answer to my question.     I came across the official list of the 60 strangest jobs in America. Some of them can’t be reprinted in a family paper, but most made me laugh out loud. I picked out a handful I believe I would qualify for because I’m a mother. And a mother’s job requires one to be multi-tasking 24/7. Following is a list of my favorites and my unique qualifications, as well as the real descriptions.     Last Putter-Away     If it needs to be picked up and put away, I’m “Johnny on the spot” because no one else in this house will put away anything. I know if I don’t do it, I’ll just trip over it later. (Real job description: sorts and stores shoe molds.)     Lingo Cleaner     If you say a filthy word, it is my job to clean up your mouth by washing it out with soap. (Real job description: cleans metal heddles used in Jacquard loom harnesses.)     Odd Shoe Examiner     This one actually makes sense, but I would be more qualified for odd sock examiner. There is always one extra sock and usually two lost shoes around here. (Real job description: examines shoe uppers for defective parts.)     Smash Hand     Have Band-Aids will travel, I always say. What mother doesn’t have Band-Aids stashed in every bathroom, stocked in the car and on her person at all times? (Real job description: repairs broken yarns on a loom.)     Sulky Driver     I am always a sulky driver when I am forced to listen to a teenager’s music in the car and usually end up with a splitting headache in the process. (Real job description: takes charge of two-wheel, horse-drawn carriages in races.)     Unscrambler     There’s lots of ways a mom unscrambles. Whether it be knots in shoe laces, math homework or just a sentence out of your child’s mouth, we women can unscramble anything. (Real job description: controls movement on food processing conveyor belts.)     Yeast Pusher     Technically, I am a carb pusher: loads of spaghetti, macaroni & cheese and pizza. I do my part to keep all children in the immediate vicinity away from white bread. (Real description: transfers yeast from fermenting cellar to storage tanks.)     Mother Repairer     I don’t really qualify for this one, but I need to hire one desperately. Funny, but the real job description sounds as hard as it is to be a full time mom. (Real job description: improves metal phonograph record matrices.)     I don’t think the above list comes close to all the odd jobs a mother does everyday. She takes it in stride, with a smile on her face, because that is what a mother’s life is all about. So here’s your hope for your week. Hope that motherhood is more fulfilling than heartbreaking. It is odd job number one and hopefully, one that you’ll make it through with most of your mental faculties.

News from the headwaters in Medina Over Technology Hill by Mikie Baker Published May 24, 2007    Remember when Over the Hill parties were all the rage? Your friends thought the best use of their time and money was to celebrate the fact that some magically-numbered birthday marked the beginning of your demise. No expense was spared to remind you that Father Time was ticking away and that you'd never make it off the earth alive.     Well, there's a new wrinkle on the scene to make us feel old. Technology. Personally, I opted out of the technology rat race when I moved to the Hill Country. No more electronic leash (pager) for me. Cell phone? Yes. Computer? Sure. Electricity? A must. But all that other new-fangled gear was off my radar screen. Life was pretty simple. The cable company even came up with a way for me to cut my remote control needs from four remotes to one.     Unfortunately, I have learned that none of us can escape the technology industry alive. Take Very Best Friend for example. She is the not-so-proud new owner of a technological "It". "It" is a combo telephone, computer, camera, day timer and weed eater. "It" does way more than she is capable of learning. "It" controls her. All she can make "It" do is make phone calls. And "It" always manages to call you back after she's just hung up from talking to you. "It" has a mind of "Its" own and they have begun a hate/hate relationship. "It" also requires a Blue Tooth (or something like that). You'd think this had something to do with her teeth, but it's actually a device that you stick in your ear so you can talk hands free. Between "It" and "Tooth" she has become technologically challenged.     Then there's Hill Country Martha. She lives in the part of the county in which no cell tower roams, so her only link to the outside universe is her barely-out-of-the-box Mac computer. As the commercials have informed us, Macs are user friendly, virus-free and never break. Until their hard drive crashes. And Hill Country Martha's just did.     Now she's as depressed as a sixth grade girl whose purse full of frosted lipsticks just got stolen. Somehow our computers have become cyberspace storage units full of prized photos, really great recipes and the electronic way to keep our finances in line. All of this has come to a screeching halt on the north prong as said computer is now in a San Antonio hospital awaiting a hard drive transplant.     And then, there's this household. Now, any mother worth her salt knows that if a thirteen year-old boy doesn't have a working cell phone, he will have heart failure and die within twenty-seven minutes. And any mother worth her salt also knows that the chances of said cell phone making it through a two year contract alive are slim and none. So this savvy mom would assume that buying the optional cell phone insurance for the low, low price of $3.95 per month would be a wise move.     As anticipated, the Teenage Eating Machine dropped his phone on the hard Hill Country earth. It cracked. Then another teenage boy with enormous feet stepped on said cell phone and the end was at hand. No more cell phone. Call 911, because communication for the Teenage Eating Machine has come to a dead halt. Oh no – the adoring fans can't call! They can't text message! No more bad photos of stupid kid tricks! Put the child on life