Penguinmas

Feeling great in a new body

Today is my birthday- a day that I generally treat as a holiday and stretch it out as long as possible (and why I never mind belated Penguinmas wishes). Christ gets his mas every year and I think we all deserve our mas. This year I’ve made a particularly big stink about Penguinmas. I’ve not done so purely for attention, although after nearly 2 years of covid isolation and 1 year recovering from the trumpvirus, a little attention sure does feel nice.

I got out of the hospital after 8 days, on January 6, 2021 (Happy Insurrection Day). When I was released, I had lost 22 pounds. That was a very unhealthy side effect 3 weeks after getting sick. When I got home I had a very weak appetite. In fact, the old appetite has yet to return, and thus the hyping the big news that I’m so excited to share.

As I watched the pounds melt away and the loose skin sag and slowly shrink, I began setting weight loss goals, not expecting them to be easy to reach. They are about as easy to reach as the top of Everest. I’ve been overweight pretty much all my life and had reached a point that I didn’t care how high the needle rose. A healthy appetite, love for food, and depression are quite the melange to greater mass. And I’m not known for my willpower. I do as I please.

Before: scary

Each time a post covid weight loss goal was reached, I would set a new one. There were times the pounds seemed to fly away, losing 3 a week. Other times were slower, but I never really changed my diet. Sure, I was no longer eating fast food 1-3x a week. I’ve only been to Whataburger 5 times in the past year! (And each burger and fry is 2 meals!) And yes, I was eating healthier, but I never denied myself anything. To this day I eat dessert almost daily. I still eat pizza, burgers and TexMex and HEB ice cream (so much better than BlueBell). It’s just that with such a small appetite, I’m eating about 1/3 of what I used to. I’d go to Eva’s and eat an entire chimichanga meal with chips and a large ‘rita. That same plate now lasts 3 meals and if I do get the occasional margarita, it’s generally a small one. It’s like eating out has become Hanukkah. Stretch it out.

Speaking of stretch it out, back in high school, 1985, I started working out with Jane Fonda. Not in person—I wish—but some of you may know of her famous workout tape complete with 80s leg warmers and over-synthesized music while coaching us to “stretch it out.” I continued this into college and remember it being low impact and fairly easy on the body, although a tough workout. Jane loved beating me up; after all, she popularized the phrase, “Feel the burn.” I’m glad she was on tape and not in person. There were times I had a few choice words for her. You keep that leg up there, b***h. (I still love you, Jane.)

After: wowza

I squee’d finding the DVD on line so I have been working out with Jane again since April—7 months ago. I have not felt so happy with my physique since the late 80s, when I was lifting weights in college 4x a week. It’s nice running my hands down my legs and feeling muscle instead of fat.

So here is the big reveal that I’ve not mentioned but to a very select and close few. I’m ashamed of how I had let myself go and mentioning the numbers is difficult, but here goes. At my heaviest, I was at least 260 pounds. I suspect I got heavier than that because I stopped stepping on scales. When Mom had her seizure in January of 2020, my stress eating took off like a Besos rocket. Fortunately, after her passing and a few months into quarantine I started to walking 3 miles a day. By the time I contracted covid in December of 2020 I had lost about 10 pounds. Loosing 10 pounds? That was huge for me.

169 pounds on 8December2021

I recall 12 years ago when I started a diet and my goal was to get back under 200 pounds. After struggling to do so I promptly contracted that PenguinPox virus, as my friends named it. Yet another virus that nearly created a Penguin-free world. That’s right, covids wasn’t my 1^st virus rodeo. during recovery from that illness, I waved goodbye to being under 200 pounds and never looked back. Until this past spring. I don’t recall the date that I reached 200- early summer, perhaps. The next set goal was 185. When reaching that, I made my goal 170 pounds...and to be at or below that weight by my birthday. And that’s why the big deal for making this announcement on Penguinmas.

Today is my birthday and I reached 170 pounds on November 23^rd (actually a few days prior...I don’t usually accept a new weight until I get 3 readings at that weight in a row). Going to Dallas for Thanksgiving and feasting on culinary delights with my adopted Mom, Leta and her friends and family, I lost my footing and was scared that when my birthday arrived I might be a pound or 2 over my goal. However, as you can see, I have attained my goal. This morning, Wednesday, I am 169 pounds.

It’s not a diet that I recommend—getting covids—but after all the SHIT that I’ve been through in the past 3 years, this is one thing that I’m happy for and so, very proud of. I know Mom is happy for me, And prior to Itsy’s passing, she was really impressed with my weight loss. I can feel their pride in my progress from across the veil.

In Dallas for Thanksgiving

Beefcake!

I’m not sorry that you might have to suffer with more selfies than I’ve ever taken, but I’m loving how I look after so many years of being heavy. I’ve dropped 4 sizes and now feel like Narcissus- not the plant, but the handsome man who so fell in love with his looks that he couldn’t stop looking at his reflection. I deserve this and I will own it. I may not be as hot as Army Hammer or whoever is on the cover of People’s hottest man of the year issue, but in my magazine it’s me and I’m rocking it!

On sale today!

Thank you for your support and Happy Penguinmas- 90 pounds lighter than a year ago.

Purchase signed copies of my poetry books at www.PenguinScott.com

Includes free bookmark and button badge.

Et tu, Julius

 

I don’t recall how I first learned about Julius Caesar, but I was just a wee-thing. I remember wondering how the guy in the blood-stained white sheet had a chain of drink stands named after him. Little did I know that Orange Julius was actually named after the 1926 founder of the business. I wasn’t familiar with anyone else named Julius, so in my young mind it must have been Julius Caesar, not Julius Freed.

Orange Julius

Soon after, I discovered the same smooth and creamy orange thrill of the Dreamsicle, on a hot Houston day at Southampton preschool. The dreamy orange-flavored Popsicle quickly found a special place in this kid’s summertime cravings. And I didn’t have to force Mom into a trip to the mall food court to enjoy one because they gave them free at school.

I better understood this name, with that dreamy mix of orange and vanilla, it truly was a dream-sicle. But I wondered, did Brutus stab Caesar because he didn’t share his orange-vanilla treat? Kids ask the silliest things. “Drink up, Penguin, there’s a sale at Joske’s…” “OK, Mom.” So I learned about Caesar before I learned about Dreamsicles. That was one heck of a school. It was a Montessori school in the Rice Village section of Houston and I am so thankful for their fostering my independent thinking.

 

It’s been a very long time since I had a smooth and creamy Orange Julius from an Orange Julius stand. This is strange because I have such fond memories of how much I enjoyed them. A few years ago I was on a long flight from New York. While bored I decided to experiment with flavor combinations utilizing open drinks and juice left over from the beverage service. I attempted an Orange Julius but failed in simply mixing orange juice with milk. Even the suggestion from a colleague to add a bit of sugar didn’t help. Leave it to the pros, Penguin. (The recipe for an Orange Julius follows.)

In April of 2004, I went on vacation to the tropical paradise of Phuket Island in Thailand. While enjoying the waves softly closing themselves onto the white sand and then fading away, all from the comfort of my shady lounge chair, I discovered the magic of mango smoothies. Or to be more precise, mangoes in general. I’m not sure how this sweet, creamy fruit had eluded me for so long. For the past third of my life now, I have added mango smoothies, a la Phuket, to my summer repertoire of Dreamsicles.

HEB Grocery Store, a Texas favorite

 

On a recent run for culinary provisions to the HEB grocery store, I found something I’d never come across before while in the cereal aisle. It sounds a bit off-putting, but hear me out because it’s like a trip to tropical paradise—in a bowl: Mango Flakes cereal with Granola clusters and pieces of mango, apple and passion fruit. The flakes are as orange as a Julius (apparently, I’m on a first-name basis now). And similar to the magic of Cocoa Krispies, it colors the milk, but orange in this case, which excites the kid in me. Orange milk!

Even when I saw it sitting there taunting me from the shelf, my first instinct was, “um, gross.” But the kid in me started to jump up and down and I know that kid well enough to understand that when he doesn’t get what he wants he throws a tantrum. And no one wants to see that. “Attention. There is a social media moment in aisle thirteen. Set cameras to stun.” So in the shopping cart it went.

Tropical paradise in a bowl *  

 

It took a full five days before I was brave enough to open the box and give it a try, half expecting to end up tossing it in the garbage. I had already accepted that possibility the moment it hit my shopping cart, making the almond milk wonder what it had done to deserve such a horrific fate. I’m not sure who was more surprised at how delicious it was—me or the milk—showing of its snazzy new orange outfit. And not only was the milk now orange...it tasted very reminiscent of dreamsicle, which started out as a brand name, but is now universally synonymous with the flavor itself. 

I fully intended to write only about finding an odd-flavored cereal and discovering how much I enjoyed its flavor as much as for the childhood memories. So out of curiosity, and lack of knowledge, I researched the Orange Julius chain for this story. 

Before this story I had no idea it was named by creator Julius Freed, or that it was done so in the mid 1920s in Los Angeles. I was actually a bit happy to hear that it was not named in honor of the late, great Caesar. That would surely have required deeper investigating and I’m too busy for all that.

This is where this story takes a turn that I was not expecting.

Food always instills strong memories. Comfort food is a favorite term of mine because it is an accurate label for flavors that take us back to milder times. As compensation for dragging me to the mall when I’d rather be exploring the world outside, Mom would treat me to an Orange Julius. I considered writing the memory as Mom wanting to shop at Penny’s because of one of my favorite movies, “Airplane!” (True fans of the movie will understand. Others can simply do a search for “there’s a sale at Penny’s.”) But Mom never shopped at Penny’s. Her go-to favorites were Foley’s, Saks, Joske’s, Palais Royal, and Lord & Taylor. I often thought we were royalty for shopping in stores with such names. Maybe we were too good for copper Penny’s. 

 

Joske's

Northwest Mall in Houston was a favorite

 

I’m not sure why my brain went with Joske’s—rhymes with frost tease—over any of Mom’s other favorite stores from my childhood, but it did. So of course I decided to check the spelling and history of Joske’s. Joske’s was founded in 1867, one-hundred years before I was born. It was a department store originally based in San Antonio, Texas, the same as HEB Grocery Stores. Would you believe that the founder of Joske’s—a German immigrant—was named Julius Joske?

What started out as Mango cereal reminding me of Orange Julius and my early association to Julius Caesar led to the discovery that Orange Julius and Caesar shared a name. My association of Orange Julius to Mom shopping at Joske’s led to the discovery that Joske also shared the name Julius and that the store was headquartered in San Antonio, Texas, the same city that headquarters HEB, where I found the cereal. I delight investigating facts behind memories when I write. My father once said you never stop learning, and he was on-point about that.

 

Dreamy orange cereal *

I’m not sure if it was my Montessori subliminal genius, or maybe Mom has become a Muse, helping me cull this story from our history together. Either way would be fine. Either way, Mom is sitting there on her cloud smiling down on me while enjoying a dreamy Orange Julius...in a crystal glass she got from Joske’s. She always thought I was brilliant and I always credited her for my creativity. Cheers, Mom. And say hello to Julius. You know the one.

 

⥈

 

You can make an Orange Julius drink at home:

Ingredients

• 6 oz. can frozen orange juice concentrate

• 1 1/2 cup milk

• 1/4 cup sugar

• 2 teaspoons vanilla

• 12 ice cubes

1. Combine the first four ingredients in a blender. Blend on high speed until smooth.

2. Add ice cubes (depending on the size of your ice cubes, you may want more or less. I suggest starting with 8-10). Blend again until ice cubes are crushed and the drink is smooth and creamy. Serve immediately.

Add 4 oz of vodka for a boozy Julie.

Dreamsicle Recipe – Nostalgia on a Stick

Ingredients

• 2 cups orange sherbet, slightly softened

• 2 cups vanilla ice cream, slightly softened

• 1 cup fresh orange juice

• ⅔ cup simple syrup

• ½ cup heavy cream

Combine sherbet and ice cream in a large zip-lock plastic bag. Massage the bag to slightly mix the 2 colors. Make a 3/4-inch cut in bottom corner of bag. Squeeze about 3 tablespoons of sherbet mixture into each of 10 (3-oz) Popsicle molds.

Stir together orange juice, simple syrup, and cream in a liquid measuring cup. Pour juice mixture into Popsicle molds allowing liquid to fill in all the air pockets of the ice cream. Insert Popsicle sticks, and freeze at least 8 hours.

 

 

**

Do you share similar memories? Leave a comment. And let me know how you like the recipes if you try them.

*Photos are not mine except those with asterisks.

**I created the artwork using a photo I did not take.

Early Voting Clerk: The Inside Scoop

 

My clerk badge

My civic duty experiment is almost concluded. I've wanted to be a poll worker for many years...to see how things work behind the scenes, maybe learn more about the process. (Not to be confused with pole working, as many thought when I mentioned it. Turns out, poll sounds just like pole. I could never work a pole and earn any money from it...unless getting paid to stop.) With early voting now closed, and only hours until election Tuesday...November third, 2020... I'm ready for it to be over.

I had no idea how much work it was going to be. I was an official, sworn-in election clerk for Harris County. The rate of pay was $17 an hour. Not as cushy as my job at the airlines, but better than most entry level jobs in retail or food. Of course, it also paid overtime. During week 2 of early voting, I had more hours of overtime, than straight time. 

 

Because I was furloughed from my job in aviation on October first, thanks to the failings of congress in signing a relief package, I signed up to work early voting full time, not realizing that meant working every single day of voting, from open to close, for each of those days. That meant 18 days in a row...polls open at 7am and close at 7pm. Of course, we don't just show up at 7am and leave at 7pm.

Set up began daily at 6am. This meant setting an alarm for 430am and leaving my house at 530am. I was fortunate to know an election judge (a primary judge, or PJ) in my neighborhood. I reached out to her and she was able to have me assigned to her roster working about 15 miles away in far north Harris County. 

 

Every morning I thought this was a full moon. It was a Burger King sign.

After polls closed, we had to secure things for the night, which after a few days, we got down to only 15 minutes to complete. I was home by 745pm on the nights I didn't have to stop for groceries. I left my house before sun up. I got home after sun down.

Once home, I spent half an hour getting ready for the next day's lunch and dinner and cleaning up from that day's lunch and dinner. After a shower, that left about an hour before I had to get to bed, at 930pm...and that was only giving me 7 hours of sleep, where I usually need 8.

On Sundays, the polls opened at noon, meaning I had to be there at 11am. So Saturday was the night to start laundry so I could finish it Sunday morning. I would also cook for my lunches the following week. I made a King Ranch casserole and meatloaf (for awesome sandwiches on my homemade bread). I also cooked a Mexican lasagna, baked bread, and each week I baked a bundt cake to share with my co-workers. Sunday became the 1 day a week I allowed myself to eat out on my drive to work.

I learned a lot from working early voting in Harris County. First of all, each polling location is staffed evenly by people of both major parties. Each has a judge and an alternate judge. They must be of differing party affiliations. The alternate only has judge duties if the primary judge is absent. The poll workers are also equally represented.

We were never told with which party a co-worker was affiliated. No one ever felt the need to ask. There were, of course, a few who made it obvious...not by anything they said, but by how they acted and reacted to things. Conservative people who affiliate with the red party act differently from someone more liberal and voting blue. The under-educated and more stubborn among us tended to be red, as well.

       A few of my co-workers                 

After a week, we all seemed to be playing the same game of trying to pin a color on the worker. We never formed cliques, however. We all worked well with one another, even at the few times that there were disagreements. Afterwards, we found no issues working with one another. It was nice.

Once we all seemed to have it figured out, we became more open about being "R" or "D". There are times when someone from each party needed to perform a task together, such as when we had curbside voters. One D and one R had to be present. The bell would ring...I would state that I'd go get it...look at one of my co-workers and state, "You're R, do you want to come with me?"

We had 3 alternate judges (AJ) in the 3 weeks of early voting. The first one quit suddenly and without fanfare. He came in at 6am, turned in his keys and went home. He was not well liked, but his wife made good cookies. We all had a laugh when I brought this up- sounding as if he had died. He was annoying- to the point that a voter complained. He didn't want to do the duties of AJ, and kept stating that he was not an AJ. With such short notice, it was decided to make one of the current co-workers our new interim AJ. Because it had to be someone from the other party than the PJ, there was only one person who was full time who could do the job. That started out OK, but as predicted by most of us, within a few days, the title went to his head and he started acting like he was above the rest of us, even if he was one of the youngest among us, at 22.

Fortunately, we were assigned a new AJ and the young man returned to being "just a clerk" rather quickly. However, the new AJ was worse than the first and nearly got herself fired on day one. She would have been fired, but her party fought for her and she kept her job, which immediately morphed to sitting in front of the kitchen in the far corner of the room for 13 hours, refusing to assist us with any task. I called her our kitchen guard, "Where did the Kitchen Guard go? Oh, the restroom? Good for her." You can probably guess the main infraction that started the new drama...she refused to wear her mask. OK, not fair...she wore her mask, but kept it folded under so you could clearly see her mouth. After a voter complained, the stuff hit the fan. We almost lost our deputy clerk (basically the PJ's right hand and, at least in our case, her backup). She had tried to intervene but failed, returning from their pow-wow in the attached park stating that she was done working with people who couldn't act as the adult they clearly appeared to be at first glance.

Homer Simpson donut

Really, the only drama was with the revolving door of the AJs. The rest of us got along, formed new friendships and we were all giving. I brought cake every week. Another brought donuts, another cookies, another brought kolaches. There were 3 nights the polls were open until 10pm. Someone brought in Chick fil A nuggets (Chick fil Hate, in my dictionary). One day we had delicious homemade lemon squares. I brought a bag of popcorn with cups for people to snack on. There was candy, chips, nuts, drinks (non-alcoholic) and more brought in to share. On the last day, our PJ bought lunch for everyone, catered by her cousin's BBQ business. We had become a chosen family.

Our location was new for early voting this year, so it was unknown to most voters. There were 2 larger and better-known locations in the Tomball area. We were very busy the first week, but our longest line was only a 20-minute wait, and that happened only once. Week 2 and 3 we were fairly slow except for the mid-morning rush, the lunch rush, and the after work rush. The mid-morning rush became known as the donut rush. This, because of the first day someone brought donuts, I mentioned that I was in need of a sugar rush and was off to the kitchen to get one. Another said he would join me. Just as we rose from our chairs, voters started coming. A short line of 5 or 6 people formed and it was 60 minutes later when we were finally free to get our donuts. I mentioned that we had just gotten our donut rush, so that's what we called it from then on.

The longest our line got.

The scariest thing was how red the voters in our location were. The northern edge of Harris County is fairly rural. Twenty years ago, this area was farmland, pastures, ranches, and far from the big city. It is still as red as it ever was even if the city has grown so close. It was easy to tell who was voting for the orange man in the oval office based on their demeanor. The ones who were loud and boisterous, with poor diction, negative attitudes, quick movements, and refusal to wear a mask or use the COVID precautions we had available to all voters (finger protectors for signing the screens and using the dial in the voting booth and even hand sanitizers), these were ones most likely voting for twitler. 

Texas does not allow electioneering within 100 feet of the polling place (thank gods!), which means one cannot wear anything with a candidate's name, logo or phrase. There were many people wearing slogans of the orange one as they approached the door. When we asked (and very nicely, I might add) that they remove it or wear it inside out, 80% of the time they would make snide comments or give us attitude. Most would say something along the lines of "You're just saying that because it says trump." No, sir, or ma'am. If Jesus Christ were running for county clerk, you couldn't wear a cross in here. It's the law.

Voting

 

The times someone wore merchandise from the former Vice President, they complied without issue. As someone who sees the need for a change in leadership, it was scary to see so many red voters-- people voting against their issues-- voting party lines over country or over their own needs. There were elderly voting for a candidate who could very likely take away their social security, or was putting them at greater risk for COVID. There were people who clearly needed government aid or medical subsidies voting against the likelihood of continued benefits. One man yelled "MAGA" as he left the voting room. We turned to one another. Someone asked me what he said. "I think he said maggot," I replied. We laughed at him. No one ever shouted anything like, "Ridin'!" The cheeto base stands out like a star and thistle on an American flag, even without their pickup flags, red hats or white sheets.

Another thing that struck me time and again, were the great numbers of voters who were not educated on the candidates or their ballot. There were state offices with candidates from only one party, meaning they were running unopposed. If I had a dollar each time someone turned and shouted across the room why there was only 1 candidate, and then asked if they had to vote for that candidate, I could buy you a nice meal. Not to mention that they were clearly advertising the party for which they were voting. There was no regard for the person. Simply because they were the only person running and not on their party's ticket, they were closed to voting for them. Like it made a difference. They are going to win, regardless. One woman was quite upset about this. I flatly stated that she could have run for that office. It would give the red voters someone to vote for.

On the first Saturday of voting, there were about 3 voters in the room when outside, on the highway, a police bike passed by, followed closely by trucks with multiple flags for the orange one. There were also American flags, Texas flags, confederate flags and more. Ten trucks passed, then 20, and they kept coming. They looked like a line of flag corps girls at a high school football game. There were cars, motorcycles, vans, jeeps and pickup after pickup, with 3, 5 and what looked like 10 or more flags flapping in the wind like the little anus-mouth of our fake president. And each vehicle honked. And each driver and passenger shouted, hooted and hollered. There must have been over 50 cars in the parade. It lasted at least 10 minutes but felt like an hour. 

 

The 3 voters had finished voting and we all stood there, mouths agape, in awe, shaking our heads and some of us scared. Why scared? Because I felt like I was seeing what was going to be commonplace if the orange one wins. And because I was also seeing those who were going to be an issue if the orange one losses. Others would later agree.

 

These are the people I would be fighting in the next civil war. These were the people who will be the conspiracy theorists over how the election was stolen from their dear orange leader. These are the people who are under-educated, ill-informed and carry guns without fear of waving them or using them to defend what they see as a threat to their way of life. So selfish.

 

Flying a flag is normally seen as an association with a nation, symbolizing territorial identity or a rally cry in times of war. Those who display cheeto flags aren't trying to convert others as much as they seem intent on showing their loyalty, much as to a royalist to a monarchy. And the fact that they fly it along with flags of state and nation only drives home the extent that they seem emboldened to display their loyalty to an office that should never attract the kind of cult status as what we are seeing today in America.

The parade was well organized. When the last pickup drove past, there were 2 more police bikes. I wondered if they were paid or if they volunteered to escort them. We wondered if the parade was going to drive all over Harris County to intimidate other polls, or if they just picked ours. I don't think even the red among the workers were moved to a sense of pride. We all seemed a bit shocked. These future domestic terrorists had succeeded in showing how fanatical and warped the more enthusiastic of the far right could be. They showed an extremist side of the most maniacal of the MAGAts.

 

There would be no more parades, however, from to time in the next few weeks, I would see a truck or jeep pass down the highway with a cheeto flag waving. And one night, on my drive home, I passed a pickup with 5 flags waving from its bed. The truck wound up right behind me, with my Biden sticker in clear view. I was actually scared. I didn't know if they were going to intimidate me, to run me off the road, to follow me closely with their bright lights nearly 4 feet off the pavement searing through my rear window. Or worse, waving a gun. I suddenly realized how black people must have felt (and still feel) when seeing vociferous fringe elements seemingly on the prowl and not knowing what their intent might be...what little infraction I might make to warrant their continued and increased intimidation upon an unsuspecting person simply going about their daily life. Off to the grocery store one minute... in the news the next. "Biden supporter drug from car and beaten. More at eleven." When the truck turned and was no longer behind me, I was able to breathe and relax the iron-grip I had on my steering wheel.

The hardest part of my little experiment in working the polls were the 3 nights of closing at 10pm. Well, I missed the first night because I had arranged to take off early for my neighborhood's annual HOA meeting. I know the PJ because we serve together on the board of our HOA; she's the VP and I'm the secretary. She was actually running for a new term, but as secretary, I needed to be present to oversee the election. As the PJ, she couldn't leave to campaign at the meeting, so I would do so on her behalf. We didn't realize until a few days out that I would be leaving early on the first night we were open until 10pm. Of course, we had to be back at 6am to open for the next day. And of course, my HOA meeting kept me out late, anyway. It's not like I got out of the pot without getting into a frying pan. 

Finger cot family. I was bored.

The second night we were open late, I would be there. I brought a game, which actually helped pass the extra 3 hours very quickly. In those extra late hours, they had 5 voters the first night. On night 2, we had 8 voters. Night 3 brought us another 5. Our judge let some workers go home early. I didn't ask to be let go, since I had left early the first night. I got home at 1030pm, was in bed by 11, and up again at 430am. I was dead tired that next day. We were slow enough that we could leave and take a nap in our car, which I did and felt so much better when I returned. And after my 2nd late night, I asked to come in the next morning an hour late, and that extra hour made a world of difference.

The final Friday of early voting snuck up on us. With the stress of the 3 late nights, suddenly it was Thursday and we were growing almost sad that our little family would come to an end on Friday. Being October 30, we decided to dress up for Halloween, and only 7 of the 11 of us did so, but it was festive. An organization had delievered10 pizzas on Thursday and again on Friday. (We each took a whole pizza home at least one of the 2 nights.) We exchanged numbers and social media details. We took a group photo. We still didn't hug, due to COVID, but many of us wanted to. We had talked about going for a drink after we closed on the final night, but every one of us was too tired. We talked about a reunion instead; getting together every so often. Maybe a picnic in the same park where we had spent the previous 3 weeks. And I'll be working with one of my early voting co-workers on election day, again with Judge Briscoe. But this time, we are working at the elementary school in our neighborhood.

 

Those of us who dressed for Halloween.

This is the most important election of my life. So much hangs on the outcome of this election. This is a president who is in way over his head, who sows so much division and spews so much hatred and vitriol. Who surely has told more out-right lies than any other president in history and has a base of supporters bent on fighting for him and another group voting for him simply because he calls himself Republican (he is not). This is a president who is only 1 of 3 in our nation's history impeached. He is the laughing stock of the world. Nothing could be more important than not only voting him out, but with a degree of separation that the cries of voter fraud couldn't possibly be fought to victory. I'm happy that I will be kept busy working on election day rather than being fraught with fear, anticipation, and nervousness at watching the returns. By the end of election day, no matter if I get home at 8pm or 10pm, I'll be too tired. And hopefully, my dream of seeing Texas turn blue and of the orange one losing 30% to Biden's 60% might come true and I'll find a reason to open the bottle of champagne chilling in my fridge behind leftover meatloaf and King Ranch casserole. Because if cheeto wins a second term, he will get worse, his base will get worse, and America, the environment and the world may never be the same. 

It's been a thrill to see what happens behind the scenes of a Texas general election. And to learn about provisional votes and understand why, on election night, it often takes so long for the results to come in. There are quite a few provisional votes that require further inspection on election night. Some are necessary to ensure no one votes twice (such as those who requested a mail-in ballot, yet don't surrender it when they come to vote in person) or those who don't have the proper identification, or we can't find their voter registration number. No one can be turned down from voting. Even if you have not registered to vote, you can still vote. However, it is a provisional vote and only on election day will it be looked at and most likely won't count. That must take a long time. Maybe in the future, I will be able to get a position working that end of the election, and will know for sure. 

 

 

Stevie Nicks posted this photo of her voting.

I've never worked so many days in a row without having one off. I often wonder what that would be like when I'm on a cruise ship and seeing how the cruise staff works 7 days a week for months on end. It's exhausting. Much like my job flying the time zones of the world, I lost track of what day it was. I looked forward to Sundays since that meant reporting to work 5 hours later than the other 6 days of the week.

It's been a thrill to be involved in this election process. I enjoyed posting daily early voting tips on social media. I've enjoyed working with nice and fun people (some of us still wonder if all of the R co-workers are going to vote for cheeto, or if they might join the army of Republicans for Biden). It seems odd that so many decent people can actually vote for the monster who has become the man who sits at the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. But they exist...and I got to meet quite a few in the past 3 weeks while working early voting in Harris County. It makes little sense to me, but that's nothing new. It's a crazy world and it takes all types. Hopefully, the record-breaking, early voter turnout across the nation is indicative of a sweeping change. But who knows. Party loyalists and the rabid right could pull off a great surprise.

Gods help us.

Full Circle: A burger with my mother

Penguin and his Mother in the early 70s

Wendy's sign *

The first fast food restaurant I remember eating at was Wendy’s. It was before I entered first grade, so I must have been four or five. I have many memories of this period of time, living in a home off Kirby Drive near the River Oaks section of Houston. I remember passing the Wendy’s on our way to Piggly Wiggly on Westheimer Road, where Mom liked to do her grocery shopping. This is the same Piggly Wiggly I grabbed a candy bar from the impulse area while Mom paid for her groceries. She didn’t see it until we got home. I got a good lecturing and she drove me right back to that Piggly Wiggly and made me give the candy back and apologize. I cried.

With my face still red and wet from streaming tears as we quietly drove home, we turned into the Wendy’s parking lot. I had learned my lesson about taking things without paying. My reward was a cheeseburger and fries. We shared a chocolate frosty for dessert.

Newsprint table *

I was just learning to read and I wondered at the newspaper print on the tables. I asked Mom if people came here to read the tables. She glanced down and said probably not. From my seat, I could look out at the Wendy’s sign. The Wendy girl looked like a girl I knew from school. They both had red hair and freckles, but my friend didn’t have pig tails that defied gravity and stuck out from her neck like wings.

After being introduced to Wendy’s, I started to notice their commercials. “Hey, look, Mom,” I’d exclaim, “it’s that place where we ate...with the newspapers on the tables.” She wasn’t as excited as I was. I had to ask why the people in the commercial kept wiping their mouth after every bite. This was a new concept to me, still learning that using my arm wasn’t the way to do it. Their gimmick was burgers so juicy, you had to wipe after every bite. Good ad campaign if I still remember it 47 years later.

"Hot and Juicy" *

Mom didn’t make a lot of money when I was that age, so eating out was a treat. Her favorite place was the Purple Cow, a little hole in the wall on Shephard, which didn’t last long (and I don’t think has anything to do with a new brand of restaurants with the same name). Mom also loved Taco Bell and I loved Jack in the Box. I don’t remember the food there as much as I do the square building...a literal box! And that silly clown with the round face atop colorful metal strips where his neck should be. Mom also frequently commented on loving Sonic. We shared an adoration of the tots and cheese. 

Jack in the Box in the 70s *

We didn’t go to Water Burger. I was fine with that. I never understood the appeal of eating at a place called Water Burger. It was a few years later I realized that it was actually Whataburger, a Texas treasure. No one ever seemed to pronounce the ‘what.’ It was always pronounced ‘wot.’ I may be the only Texan who actually calls it WHATaburger. I also have no memories of Mom taking me to McDonald’s, but when one went into the small Texas Panhandle town where my grandparents lived, they took me there every summer.

These restaurants from my youth remain favorites to this day, even if it’s rare that I frequent most. I still love the square meat patties at Wendy’s. Taco Bell, while far from TexMex, still satisfies the occasional late-night craving. The Ultimate cheeseburger at Jack in the Box is about my favorite of any fast food burger. Sonic still has half-priced burgers on Tuesdays and those tots and cheese are so good—they never need ketchup.

The old speaker box clown *

As I got older, it was rare that I ever ate at fast food with my mother. If we ever did, it was usually Taco Bell. I think it was thirteen years ago when my Mom moved to Florissant, Colorado, just west of Woodland Park. Woodland Park was the closest town from our family mountain ranch. It had a Sonic, where I think she and I ate only once. We also recently ate at the new Arbys. There was a Taco Bell, but I hardly knew it—it wasn’t on the main highway and we never ate there. Wendy’s was in a prominent place in town. It was in the parking lot of one of the grocery stores, of where she took her dog to get groomed, and of our favorite Asian food restaurant. For 13 years, I’d pass by that Wendy’s and never go inside. We simply never ate fast food when we spent time together.

My mother lost her fight with cancer in March. She had a seizure in January, which was her body’s way to inform us that the cancer had entered her brain. She was never the same. For several weeks she was unable to speak and had lost control of her right arm. This happened just as I came down with a flu, so it was nearly a month before I could fly up to Colorado to see her. She was doing much better in February. Knowing her time was limited, we had several great conversations. We talked about life and dreams and art and family. We watched movies and ate ice cream together. She had improved so much since her seizure that as I flew home, I just knew that I’d be buying Mom gifts for Christmas in 2020...2021 was questionable, but 2020 looked good. I was wrong. Three weeks later I watched as the beautiful woman, a goddess in my world, took her final breath. My heart has never been so broken.

How I remember it *

My mind floods with so many images of my mother...so many memories...so many GOOD memories. During her last visit to Houston in October of 2019, she stayed at my house. We had a wonderful visit and I drove her to our old apartment near River Oaks. It’s now an up-scale home goods store. What was once my bedroom now displays crystal wine glasses and serving ware of fine china. Where once was my mother’s bedroom is now a cash register. She was amazed. She could envision where all the walls used to be, the front corner where we had our Christmas tree, the wall where the TV used to be, the kitchen with the pantry doors that she started to paint – a project that would last quite a while. The place where I learned to ride my bike, where I posed for a photo on the morning I started first grade, where I would cuddle with my mother on the couch to watch The Wizard of Oz, and the space where I was once lectured on the wrongs of taking candy from the Piggly Wiggly without paying was now teeming with socialites looking for over-priced plate sets with matching linens, glasses and flatware. During our visit to the old homestead, she actually gave me a pair of wine glasses that I now treasure. They were on a shelf in the area that was our garage.

This space was our home. My bedroom was in the middle and the living room beyond. Mom's room was in the foreground.

While looking at some of the photos I’ve taken in this year, I came across those from my February visit to Colorado. One makes me smile every time I see it. It’s a selfie I took at lunch. My smile matches hers. She looks so happy. So content. And then it hit me; and when it hit me the flood gates opened up and my tears filled the room. The selfie was taken at that Wendy’s in Woodland Park: the very last restaurant I would ever share a meal with my mother.

The day the photo was taken, I awoke and went into the kitchen. As I made a cup of coffee, Mom announced that for lunch, she wanted to go to Wendy’s. I nearly dropped my coffee. I have no memory of eating at a Wendy’s with Mom since I was a kid! She heard no complaint from me in having lunch there. In fact, I turned the tables and bought her lunch. She could only eat about half of a double bacon burger. We split the fries but not the chocolate shake. That, she finished on her own!

Penguin and his mother at Wendy's, February 2020.

I continued to look at the photo through the prism of tears and wondered if she planned that. It felt like maybe she had, but did she remember that my first fast food experience was Wendy’s? Was it her design that our first and last fast food burger would be at Wendy’s? It’s not like we ever went there, so it was strange. That cold February day in Colorado was the first time in 13 years that I’d stepped foot in that  Wendy’s. I’m almost certain that on her part, it’s just a coincidence. But it sure seems like providence that she suddenly had a hankering for Wendy’s that day. Or maybe it was her way of giving me one more fantastic memory. A magic memory. Another bond that only she and I can share.

Gone are the newsprint tables. Gone are the commercials of people dabbing their mouth after each bite, and the Wendy’s Mom first introduced me to on Westheimer is also gone - more upscale retail stores in its place. But just like that first visit we had in Houston circa 1972, I’ll never forget taking her to lunch in Woodland Park, and the smile on my mother’s face after her hot and juicy burger. The last burgers we'd ever eat together.

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*Not Penguin photographs