Miami City Limits

Thump

(click for a little bit larger view)

I found this after downloading the contents of my MSN Groups storage site which means I have it on one of my many clipart disks. I love these old trippy posters. A friend of mine had one that had so much detail on it, I would see something new each time I saw it. The main theme of his poster was an overpopulated Earth, with people edging out into the water, either to try to find space to live or a peaceful place to die. I think what I really like is the apocalyptic nature of these things.

Speaking of trippy, I need to find my old Freewheelin' Franklin rug.

limn

From Word of the Day:

limn \LIM\, transitive verb:
1. To depict by drawing or painting.
2. To portray in words; to describe.

I don't think I've ever read this word nor seen it used in print.

I've heard something like it, though, here in the Texas Panhandle.

"Ah lak mah catfish wi' a liddle bida lim'n squeez't awnitt. "

Wrong Addy or Spam?

I rec. this email last night; the email address it was sent to was very similar to mine, same name but with some punctuation. Viewing the source /properties of the mail, I found it originated from a "Blackhole server".

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mike i send katherine some money for her birthday and some money for the girls also. i donot have her email address so i am telling you. i also included sydney and conner money for the stuff i ordered and pledge to do. ask katherine to please e mail so i will have her email and i can talk to her. i miss all of you very much. let me know how you are doing with your new job. your daddy was asleep the .other night when you called . he said he had taken a sleeping pill and he just could not wake up. he stated that he had not been drinking since we ate supper at 6:30. your daddy is really cutting back and i wish you and vicki would undersand that he is a really good person. and i love him. we all have our faults and he loves all of you very much. it hurts when i think you don;t want to have anything to do with him. he stated the other day that you never call and he doesn't feel right calling you because he knows you are busy. we know that you are busy and really have grown as a person and your values have changed which is good. just remember that we love you and we are very proud of you and your family / this may not be the correct way to say this but please remember that we did the best we knew at the time raising you and vicky and we have made many mistakes but we have always loved you and have always supported you in what ever you do. love you mom

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I think it's meant to look like a mistake and I'm supposed to write back to them, tell 'em they got the wrong guy, but instead it will only verify that it is a working address.

I dunno. I feel sorry for 'em, though.

Preacher Smith

The Rev. M.B. Smith

PAMPA - The Rev. M.B. Smith, 88, died Saturday, June 14, 2003.

The Rev. Smith was born to Nelson and Ora Sivells Smith on Dec. 28, 1914, in Richland Springs. He attended Richland Springs Schools and graduated from Howard Payne College in 1936. Bro. Smith taught school and coached in several central Texas schools before entering the gospel ministry in 1942.

Following pastorates in Agua Dulce, Calallen and Marble Falls. He married Laura Bentley on Nov. 27, 1936, in Richland Springs. Bro. Smith moved his family to the Texas Panhandle, where he pastored First Baptist Church of Wheeler, Highland Baptist Church of Pampa, Alanreed Baptist Church and College Baptist Church of Big Spring.

For many years, Bro. Smith was interim pastor for many Baptist churches and supplied in Baptist churches in the Pampa area, as well as teaching science at Pampa High School and Clarendon College Pampa Center. According to Bro. Smith's records, he performed 1,191 funerals, 858 weddings and 421 baptisms, most of them during his years in Pampa.

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I stumbled across this obituary while looking for another. I knew the man had passed away but decided I'd like to do a post about him.

Bro. Smith was a football official back when I played the sport in junior high. Over a two year period, we had only a dozen games, but I bet he officiated more than half of them.

"Preacher Smith" was what we called him ... behind his back/in the huddle/after the game. What I remember most about him was his booming voice, it having the aural texture of gravel on a bumpy, hot tarred road. That, and with his worn, craggy face and commanding personality, he looked what I thought God probably looked like. He was a good official, always fair in his calls.

Being a minister, I suppose he couldn't help but preach to us. "Help him up." he'd tell a boy after a tackle. "Here now!" he'd growl and grab your jersey, pull you close to him. "Don't be hittin' late." You didn't, not again. One warning was enough.

He was always impatient for the ball so he could spot it for the next play and would efficiently pry the players off of a pile-up in search of the pigskin. (the referees were paid by the game, not by the hour) He was a big man, tall, and had no trouble untangling the sweaty, fleshy knot of budding testosterone.

At the time, with my juvenile wit, he seemed to me to be a mixture of the stature of Herman Munster and the kind-hearted wit of Andy Devine (no insult intended), good-natured while we boys were playing a clean game, but a towering stern God with glasses when we'd make him angry.

During one of those pile-ups, I had wrested the ball away from the kid who had it, yelling "Ball, Ball!" as though I had recovered a fumble. I don't think Preacher Smith had seen me steal the ball in the tangle of arms, legs and torsos, but a stare at me and seeing - I guess - the guilty look on my face, he silently took the ball from me, ignoring any change of possession, sadly shaking his head at me in rebuke for my attempt to cheat.

Verily, I say, it is written, woe unto the poor boy who was heard blurt out a cuss word. The dreaded "F-word" slipped out from someone after a hard tackle and he stopped the game and threatened to end the contest if he heard more swearing. He preached to us for a good five minutes, complained to both coaches and kept up his criticism of we foul-mouthed heathens throughout the rest of the game.

I ran into his son shortly after the funeral and I told him my memories of his father, the son laughing when I told the part about cursing and getting an official time-out sermon. "Yep, that was dad!"

Ol' Preacher Smith. RIP

In the Middle of the Racetrack

Was just sitting here reading some news; the tv on behind me and the cat curled up on my his recliner. A NASCAR commercial came on and the sounds of the race cars graduately kept getting louder, as if they were zooming right by my window.

I turned around and saw the Beej stretching, woken up by the super-loud noise, one of his back paws pushing the volume control on the remote.