Cork from a Pig's Ass

Today’s economic crisis is old hat for me; I have lived it all before. Wife Anne and I suffered financially for ten long years after our oil company failed in the eighties. We somehow managed to pay our bills, mainly because we pared our lifestyle down significantly. We went to the movies and out to eat once a week, and spent only cash because we had no credit cards.

Despite our spare existence, money was tight, hardly anyone drilling for oil or natural gas, or buying prospects from an independent geologist. We did not have much in the way of assets, just a huge glass piggy bank filled with coins from years of collecting.

“We won’t raid the piggy bank until we just have to,” Anne said. “I know there is at least a thousand dollars there and it will last us a while if we need it.”

Things grew tight many times but years passed without the necessity of breaking the piggy bank. Finally, the fateful day arrived. The big glass pig had a large cork in its rear. We removed it and poured the coins into a pillowcase.

We had no bank account because we had legal judgments against us as principles in the failed oil company. If we had maintained an account, one of our creditors would have garnished the proceeds and taken them. Because of this, we simply picked a bank at random, walked in with our booty-filled pillowcase and asked a hapless cashier to convert the coins to bills for us.

There was not, much to our dismay, anywhere near a thousand dollars in the pillowcase. The cashier showed us the printout from the coin counter and handed us two-hundred-fifty-two-dollars and fifty-two cents. I felt like someone had kicked me in the gut and Anne almost started crying as the cashier counted out the money.

We had no health insurance for years and could not afford to go to the dentist. If we had a toothache, we just suffered. It was not that we weren’t making money. When I was lucky enough to sell a prospect, we were the recipients of lots of money. Problem is, you never knew how long you had to make it last. Still, we always seemed to do better than minimum wage.

After finally cracking the piggy bank, Anne told me we both needed to get real jobs. “Except for oil and gas, you’re not qualified to do anything except maybe teach. If we don’t sell a prospect in the next ten days, we need to find a job, even if it’s sacking groceries.”

There was a joke going around at the time that went something like this: When a petroleum geologist applies for a job at McDonald’s, the manager rejects him because, “All our geologists have Master’s degrees.”

I have no regrets toiling in the oil and gas profession. Oil, quite simply, is the most important commodity, with the possible exception of water, on the face of the earth. Life as we know it would shut completely down if we had to rely on wind, solar, water or nuclear energy, even for a single day. Yes, burning oil pollutes the atmosphere and we should stop. We have better uses for the oil anyway – drugs, plastics and so many other things without which we cannot endure. Problem is, there is no substitute now.

People that rail against the oil industry are like vegetarians that wear leather belts and shoes. Do you want to stop destroying the ozone? Quit driving your car. As a person that has worked in the energy business all his life, I feel much maligned, and think of an eighties bumper sticker that said, Please do not tell my mother I work in the oil business. She thinks I am a piano player in a whorehouse.

I was not looking forward to the possibility of having to swallow what was left of my pride and take a minimum wage job, but I was prepared to do so. I did not, as luck would have it, because an oil company in Illinois (go figure) called. Someone we both knew had recommended me for a position as geological consultant. The little company gave me two-thousand dollars a month as a retainer and we settled on a fair figure that they would pay me if they purchased one of my prospects.

Two-thousand dollars a month does not sound like much, but our overhead was low and it was just enough to pay our bills and leave a little extra for unexpected needs. We even had enough for Anne to finish her business degree, and then to enter law school. We were also able to purchase health insurance and get our teeth fixed.

Things were not all rosy. Anne’s teeth, according to our dentist, were “toast,” and she would eventually have to have them all pulled. For Anne, a person that brushed and flossed at least twice daily this was a heartbreaker. That day never arrived because her health was already failing. She first suffered a heart attack and we later learned that she had lung cancer.

Today, as I read the newspapers and scan the internet, I feel the financial pain the people of the world are experiencing. We are all close to the end of our rope, and the President, like Anne and me so many years ago, has already popped the cork from the pig’s ass.

One thing I know for sure - stress can kill you as sure as a bullet through the heart, but you do not have to let it. What do we do? My east Texas grandmother had a saying – “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.”

Garden Spider - a pic

Here is a pic I took of a colorful spider in my garden. Yes, I played with a few filters.

Eric's Website

Company D, 1st Texas Infantry, CSA

Autumn is here, a magical season fraught with changing colors and spirits of long ago. I remember a few particular spirits and have my own mystical tale – one I have never told before.

I grew up in north Louisiana. My Grandmother lived nearby on a farm located near the tiny community of O’Farrell, in Cass County, Texas. When I was young, we visited my Grandmother at least once a week.

Grandma Rood married a man named Oscar, a company pumper for Humble Oil. I remember a picture that hung proudly in their house - her parents, my great-grandparents, Annie and J.P. O’Rear. John Pinkney was sitting in a chair, his wooden leg detached and propped against the wall, Annie standing behind him with her right hand on his shoulder.

Pink, as he was called, served in Company D, 1st Texas Infantry during the Civil War. How he lost his leg I haven’t a clue but he was captured and spent much of the War in a Union prison camp. When the war ended, he was released and hiked the entire distance from somewhere in Georgia back to his homestead in east Texas.

I had seen Pink and Annie’s picture many times and heard their story, although I was just a kid and promptly forgot most of it. Pink was just a picture on the wall to me – until something unexplainable happened years later.

I was drafted into the Army in 1970 and bound for service in Vietnam as an infantry foot soldier. If I told you I wasn’t frightened, I would be a bald-faced liar. Vietnam was different than Iraq. Every night on the news we witnessed row after bloody row of body bags being unloaded from transport planes. Worse than coming home in a body bag was to return limbless, or eyeless - or hopeless!

I was young and strong but I was frightened to the very core of my being that I would be killed or maimed – or worse yet, I would kill or maim some other poor human that didn’t deserve to die. I was having a hard time coping and none of my family or friends had the right words to say. And yes, I had trouble sleeping. It was during a particularly restless night when I saw a specter, or perhaps had a vivid dream. I don’t know, but this is what happened:

Something disturbed my dream and caused me to open my eyes. Gail was asleep beside me but she never woke up. There was an ephemeral glow at the foot of my bed, not a strong radiance but a peaceful aura that surrounded an apparition I vaguely recognized. As I lay there, eyes wide and unbelieving, the old man spoke to me with a raspy voice in a dialect so southern that at first I hardly understood him. He stood erect on a very noticeable wooden leg.

“I’m Pink, your great-granddad. You’re going to war, Son. I spent most of my powers getting your Daddy back from the last big war. I ain’t got much left but now you’re in need and you ain’t got nobody to help ‘cept me. There ain’t no good wars but the one you’re headed for is real bad. You keep an eye on what’s going on in front of you and I’ll keep an eye on your back. Have faith, Son, pray, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

I awoke the next morning with no memory of the dream and many years passed before it crept back into my psyche. I was visiting my parents in Vivian and it came pouring forth, back into my mind, as I stared at the picture of my Great-grandparents in my parent’s front room.

I miraculously made it home from Vietnam unscathed, although I barely missed death, often by friendly fire, at least a dozen times. I once had a mortar round land between my legs without detonating. Old Pink was with me every step of the way, his powers diminishing every time he turned a bullet away for me.

Autumn is here, a magical season fraught with changing colors and spirits of long ago. It caused me to remember a dream I had many years ago. Or was it a dream?

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Mavis' Mayhaw Jelly

If you are lucky enough to find a mayhaw bush loaded with luscious red berries, pick a batch of the very nicest ones. Take them home and wash them up. About six cups of water are needed to cover two quarts of mayhaws.

Put them in a large pot, add the water, bring to a boil and cook for thirty minutes, or so. Press the berries in a colander using a big wooden spoon, and then strain the juice through damp cheesecloth. Now you are ready to make the jelly.

5 cups of the mayhaw juice you just extracted
7 cups sugar, preferably cane
1 box of pectin, powered

Mix the juice in a large saucepan with the pectin until it is completely dissolved then place on the fire. When the juice reaches a rolling boil, add the sugar, return to a boil and continue boiling for five minutes.

Remove from heat and skim the foam with a metal spoon. Skim again after placing juice in clean, sterilized jars. Seal jars and place in boiling water for fifteen minutes. When you finish, you will have eight or so jars of the best jelly you ever tasted.

Eric's Website

Mayhaws and Other Wild Louisiana Things

Growing up in northwest Louisiana, I recall trekking to Jeems Bayou in search of wild mayhaws so my mother could make mayhaw jelly. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this is the fruit of a variety of Hawthorne bush that grows profusely throughout the south, especially in swampy environments. Jeems Bayou, near Caddo Lake, is a perfect spot for the elusive mayhaw.

Mayhaw jelly is thought by many to be the finest jelly in the world. I can’t argue with that sentiment. If you can find a jar, buy it and try it. You won’t be disappointed.

Mayhaws grow ripe in May and June, a time of abundant vegetation and wildlife, including snakes, in the area around Jeems Bayou. Once, far from the car and deep in the heavily vegetated area where mayhaws abound, my mother crossed paths with a snake. Probably a harmless grass snake. It didn’t matter. It may as well have been a boa constrictor. My mother screamed bloody murder and didn’t stop running until she reached our brown and tan 1950 Ford.

My brother and I found the scene pretty funny until we learned that Mom was done hunting mayhaws for the day and that we would likely miss out on mayhaw jelly on our biscuits for the rest of the year.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MOM!

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Butterfly with a Damaged Wing - a pic

Here is a pic I took of a butterfly with a bite out of its wing. Despite the missing piece of wing, the butterfly was flying just fine and didn't seem affected by the results of an apparent mishap.

Eric's Website

Pecan Charmante - a recipe

Marilyn did it again. She found a magnificent old cookbook filled with wonderful recipes. The name of the book is New Orleans Creole Recipes, written by Mary Moore Bremer. The original was published in 1932.

The copy we have is the nineteenth edition published in 1962. Our initial browsing of the book revealed an appetizing dessert called Pecan Charmante and Marilyn couldn’t resist whipping up a batch. If I’m any judge, the final product was awesome and reminded me of what an early-day candy bar probably tasted like.

Ideafinder.com defines a candy bar as “A confection made with sugar and often flavoring and filling with a shape that is longer than it is wide.” If this is so, Pecan Charmante should have become a famous candy bar. It didn’t, as far as I know, but here is your chance to taste it anyway. In my mind, it’s a scrumptious delight.

Pecan Charmante

Cream one cup of sugar with one stick of butter. Spread this over fifteen large graham crackers; sprinkle on this one cup of chopped pecan nuts. Put in moderate oven and bake for eleven minutes.

Hey, I said it was simple!

Eric's Website

Joy's Wild Sandplum Jelly - a recipe

Marilyn and I were taking my Dad to lunch on Sunday when she pointed out to me a bushy tree loaded with small reddish-orange fruit. “Do you know what it is?” she asked. She went on to explain that it was a sand plum bush, the fruit of which produced her mother Joy’s second favorite jelly; blackberry was her first.

Sand plums grow wild in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma and served as an important food source to the native Indians and early settlers. Joy isn’t around to make us any sand plum jelly and the last jar we had we purchased in Guthrie, Oklahoma while shopping for souvenirs. Marilyn and I agreed that we would find a sand plum bush and plant it in our yard. Maybe then she will take a stab at Joy’s simple recipe.

Wild Sand Plum Jelly

4 c. wild sand plum juice
4 c. cane sugar
1 tbsp. butter

Wash well and barely cover with water both ripe red wild sand plums and partially ripe pink plums. Boil until fruit is soft and liquid is bright red. Cool until warm only and strain through cheese cloth to obtain clear pulp free juice. Make jelly in proportion listed above. Bring strained juice to a boil, stir in butter to keep juice from boiling over sides of pan.

Slowly stir in sugar, stirring constantly until mixture reaches 220 degrees on candy thermometer. Remove from heat immediately and pour into dry, warm sterilized 1/2 pint jelly jars, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at top of jar for expansion when jelled. Seal jars tightly. Wild plums contain natural pectin. Do not over cook because jelly will continue to jell while cooling in the jars.

Yields approximately 8 to 10 jars.

ERIC'S WEBSITE

Night Crawler - a picture

Here is another spider pic. I got home after dark last night and walked through the web of this spider. As I drink my coffee this morning I'm still combing bits of the web out of my hair. No, she didn't bite me.

Eric's Web

Pommes de Terres Souffle - a recipe

Marilyn and I are both avid collectors of old books, especially cookbooks. Miss M recently found an old cookbook on eBay titled New Orleans Creole Recipes by author Mary Moore Bremer. The book was first published in 1932 by Dorothea Thompson of Waveland, Mississippi. I could find nothing on the internet about the author but the book is a culinary treasure. If you can find a copy, buy it! Here is just one of its wonderful recipes. Here is an original recipe straight from the book.

Pommes de Terres Soufflé

This famous dish is difficult for any but a professional chef. All authorities agree that the kind of potatoes used is of great importance. I would suggest the use of a starchy potato.

Peel, cut square, and trim off corners. The pieces should be absolutely even, not thicker than a silver dollar, and cut lengthwise of the potato.

They are hard to cut. Do not soak. Wipe each slice dry. Have two pots of lard. Pot number one must be warm. Put in ten or twelve slices at a time. Let them cook slowly until soft and nearly done, then take out and cool.

Heat second pot of grease quite hot, but not smoking. Have the frying pan hot so as not to chill the grease.

Put into it not more than six slices at a time for the same reason. Turn on a fierce heat and fry until they puff and become slightly amber in color. Keep slices turning constantly.

If they do not puff in a moment, they will never do so.

The exact temperature of fat depends upon the quantity of fat and the texture of the potatoes; so accurate directions are impossible.

I would not advise one unskilled to try this for the first time when strangers are invited to dine; but anyone that likes to experiment might get great pleasure in mastering this dish. It is quite a feat, and puts one in a class with professionals. Besides, it is ever so nice.

The puffs may be served on a napkin and hurried to the table, having been salted first. One may get them in New Orleans, served most beautifully, sometimes in a hot basket made of pastry, tinted in various colors.

When you eat them, be sure to appreciate the one behind the scenes who prepared them, and say with the colored folk, “Ain’t dat sumpin?”

Eric's Website

Conch Fritters - a recipe

Here is a recipe for Conch Fritters I found at http://www.bahamas-travel.info. Believe me; they taste great, but good luck finding any conch unless you live in Florida!

2 cups freshly bruised conch, cleaned and diced
3 teaspoons tomato paste
1-1/2 Tablespoons flour 2 onions, diced
1 Bahamian sweet pepper, diced
2 stalks of celery, chopped
3 Tablespoons baking powder
3-4 cups vegetable oil
Hot Peppers and salt to taste

Combine all ingredients (except oil) in a large bowl. Blend well. Heat oil in deep frying pan or pot until water dropped into oil sizzles. Drop batter by the tablespoonful into hot oil. Fry until brown. Drain on paper towels and serve.

Makes 40 fritters

Wilder's Website

Larkin Edward's Louisiana

My Aunt Dot is the family historian and probably knows more about north Louisiana than anyone alive. She sent me this interesting email after I published the piece on the Great Red River Raft. I’m passing it on for those of you as interested in the history of Louisiana as I am.

DOT’S LETTER

Just read your log on Jefferson, Texas. You do know that our ancestor Larkin Edwards was an interpreter for the Caddoes. In the Caddo Treaty of Cessions of 1835 the Caddoes gave Edwards his choice of property. He chose a square mile of land, said that was all he wanted, that is now downtown Shreveport. The next year he turned around and sold it to eight men for five-thousand dollars. They formed the Shreve Town Company. The eight men were: Angus McNeil, James Cane, Wm. Bennett, Bushrod Jenkins, James Pickett, Sturgis Sprague, Thomas T. Williamson, and Captain Henry Miller Shreve.

There is a lot of info on Larkin Edwards. Unfortunately, a lot is not correct. I have copies of documents from the Shreveport Court House that a Katherine Jeter sent to me. She was or is an attorney in Shreveport who had her office on Edwards Street (this was named after Larkin Edwards). I never got to meet her but we talked by telephone a number of times. She was very interested in the information of Larkin Edwards. We exchanged Christmas cards for a while; I think she was somewhat older than I, so she might have died or retired or whatever. She was with the law firm of Tucker, Jeter, Jackson and Hickman.

I did get to visit with a distant cousin, Ashley Sibley, before his death. He had a museum, Grindstone Museum, off some road coming out of Shreveport. He was a very nice old gentleman. He was descended from Larkin through his daughter, Mary and we were through the daughter, Emily Jane. Emily Jane married James Schenick. Jeems Bayou was named after James Schenick. Mary Edwards married Jacob Irwin; I believe he was a gunsmith.

Dot Pourteau

http://www/EricWilder.com

Louisiana Creeper Vine - a picture

Here is a pic of a vine growing on my friend Dave Beatty's back porch in Livingston, Louisiana. The flowers are pretty but I have no idea what they are. Some type of clematis?

http://www.ericwilder.com/

NASCAR and Goodyear's Brickyard Fiasco

All my readers know that I am a huge NASCAR fan so you may be surprised to hear my comments on last Sunday’s Brickyard 400. To put it mildly, it was a debacle and I place the blame squarely on the shoulders of Goodyear.

The Brickyard is known for the abrasive nature of its track but give me a break! Thousands of races have been run there, never with the result we witnessed Sunday. The track is usually rubbered-in as a race progresses, resulting in lessened tire wear. This didn’t happen Sunday because the Goodyear rubber compound simply blew away like so much dust in the wind instead of sticking to the track as it should have.

To compensate for the tire problem, NASCAR called a competition yellow about every ten laps or so. What ensued was a bunch of race cars lapping the Brickyard at about fifty miles and hour while half a dozen addled race announcers tried desperately and without much success to keep up the buzz, at least when there wasn’t a commercial running. The resulting race, the second most important race on the entire NASCAR circuit, was boring with a capital B.

The flubbed race Sunday rests solely on the shoulders of Goodyear. The tire company mixed up a bad batch of rubber with which to make the tires and NASCAR compounded the mistake by allowing almost no tire testing.

I’m not sure of this but I think the Hendrick group was one of the only teams allowed to test the tires on the track. They responded in the race by being the only team to change four tires on every stop - and they won the race. Did they know something the other teams didn’t know? Did they benefit from this knowledge? Hmm!

Goodyear should have to repay every loyal NASCAR fan that paid hard-earned money to watch a carnival sideshow that didn’t even hire a clown to lighten the situation. Hey, and I think we die-hard NASCAR fans also deserve an apology.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Origin of Sayings

I recently published an article titled Very Interesting Stuff that gave a brief and interesting history of the origin of certain sayings and names. It prompted a reply from my friend Dave Beatty from Livingston, Louisiana. Here is some more interesting stuff that he has uncovered:

Beatty’s More Origins

I read on you blog the origin of some commonly use phrases and thought you might like to ‘learn’ about some more. I say learn because with all of the internet sites, anyone can go to them and learn the origin of almost any saying. The sayings listed below are the ones I remember and learned in my many travels and did not ‘learn’ by just going to some web site. I think this is the way sayings should be passed on thought time, and not from web site to web site. I hope you enjoy and you might just learn one or two new ones.

“So cold that it will freeze the balls off a brass monkey“

As the story goes, in old sailing days, war ships would stack the iron cannon balls in a pyramid held at the base by a ring. This ring was/is made of brass and called a monkey. As it got colder, the brass would contract more than the iron balls did and the pyramid of cannon balls would fall ‘off the brass monkey”.

At a dinner party someone says “A toast” to or for whatever, and every one will lift their glass and touch them together with each other glass at the table.

As the story goes, in the old days the preferred method of killing your enemies was to invite them to a dinner party and poison them. To make sure that no one was being poisoned, it became the practice to have everyone at the table to pour a little wine from their glass into each and every one else’s glass. Therefore everyone was drinking the same wine.

The military salute:

This practice is reported to be based on the practice of knights of old raising their face shield to show their face as they approach each other on the road. As to say, look at my face, I’m a friend.

There are several more that I have learned over the years but they will come later, when I can remember them.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Shrouded Promises - a short story

Lust, self-deceit, a single young mother and her two-timing boss. Add in a snowstorm, a party, a spurned suitor and a white rabbit. Mix well and you have a recipe for promises never kept, or maybe never made.

SHROUDED PROMISES

With gentle hands, Leslie Scott clutched the arms of Howard Pike's big leather chair. Pike was late, and welling tears revealed Leslie's gloom, blue and red neon pulsating through the open window as she imagined footsteps at the door. She longed for Howard's contagious smile and booming voice but knew in her heart he wasn't going to show. She continued to wait anyway.

Snow was falling in sooty clumps on the sidewalk when Leslie remembered brave little Billy, waiting alone for his mother to return home and cook supper. Having no more time for tears, she grabbed her coat and started for the door just as Howard's phone rang. Leslie answered in a rush.

"Pike and Scull."

"Leslie. Why are you working so late?"

"Carla, is that you?"

"Yes, dear is Howard there?"

"Gone for the day."

"That rat. I wanted to remind him about the party tonight."

"Sorry, Carla. I'm the only one here."

"Poor dear, why don't you turn off your computer and come to the party?"

"Oh, I really couldn't."

"Sure you can. Bern is here and Howard will show up before the night is over. You know how lively things get when those two party together. "Anyway, there's someone here I'd like you to meet."

"I don't have a sitter."

"Find one, Darling." Carla hung up the phone.

Leslie stared at the dead receiver. Maybe Mildred, the janitor's wife, would watch Billy for her. After finding Mildred alone in her one-room basement hovel, she gave the slovenly old woman half of her remaining weekly wages to sit with Billy. Forcing the guilt from her mind, she changed into her best blue party dress as Billy finished the half-cold hamburger purchased on her way home.

No buses traversed the Scull's fashionable neighborhood, so Leslie took a cab she could little afford. Waiting on the front porch, shawl pulled tightly around her neck, she listened as

violins created a beautiful melody, just beyond the door, feeling very much like an uninvited intruder. Blocking the entrance as if she were, the maid frowned when she opened the door.

"May I help you?"

"I'm Leslie Scott. The Scull's invited me."

"May I see your invitation?"

A woman in a thin party dress tapped the maid's shoulder, then stood shivering, her arms hugged tightly to her chest. "Leslie's my special guest, Margaret." Margaret nodded and disappeared into the house. "Leslie," she said, touching the younger woman's shoulder. "Come in. Don't mind Margaret."

Instantly immersed in the noisy party going on around her, Leslie followed her into the house. Carla hurried through the crowd, grabbing champagne for herself and Leslie from a passing waiter.

"I simply must discuss something with you, Les," she said, leading her to an upstairs bedroom.

Leslie asked, "Have you seen Howard?"

Lighting a cigarette, Carla only stared. Leslie noticed her faded green eyes, strangely incongruous with her short-cropped, bleached hair, but somehow complementary to her anorexic figure and pale complexion. Raising her chin, she blew a wisp of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You look lovely Leslie, but you really should do something about your wardrobe. Baby blue isn't your color."

Leslie ignored her remark. "Your party's lovely, Carla. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Still staring, Carla said, "You should see my hairdresser. You're lovely, but there's so much he could add."

"Carla --”

"Sorry Dear."

Leslie felt uneasy, forehead flushing and a red flush spreading down her face as Carla eyed her like a butcher sizing up a cut of beef. Carla finally asked, "Are you warm, Dear?"

"I’m fine."

"Maybe, but your tits just turned the color of a boiled lobster."

Leslie put her hand over her plunging neckline, smiling weakly when she realized Carla's joke. Carla continued, unabashed, to stare, finally turning, puffing the cigarette as she gazed listlessly out the window.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Carla said.

"But --"

"My brother Joe. He's young and has a law degree. Most important, he's single."

Carla glanced around for an ashtray. Finding none, she deposited the butt into a vase and sat her empty champagne glass carelessly on the dresser. Grabbing Leslie's hand, she led her from the door. At the base of the stairs, they found Carla's husband Bern with an attractive middle-aged blonde woman. Leslie saw him touch the woman's leg, but Carla didn't. Pinching her smiling confidante before strutting away, the woman left Bern to peck Carla's cheek and plant a much too friendly kiss on Leslie.

Carla asked, "Who was she?"

Bern motioned a waiter for another drink. "Richard's - our banker's - wife."

Without commenting further on her husband's overly friendly companion, Carla also grabbed a fresh drink and asked, "Have you seen Joe?"

Bern pointed to the far wall. "Mr. Holier-than-thou is standing by himself in the corner."

"Come, Leslie," Carla ordered, dismissing her errant husband without another word.

As Leslie edged passed Bern on the stairs, he blatantly stroked her backside, causing her neck to flush. Pretending not to notice, she hurried after Carla.

"Joe, Darling," Carla said, embracing her younger brother. "Why aren't you mingling?"

With a shrug, the young man said, "Not my style, Carly."

Carla gave him the same visual once-over Leslie had received in the bedroom. Leslie sipped her champagne to avoid his embarrassing stare when the man's eyes caught hers.

"-- this is Leslie." Hearing the last part of Carla's sentence, she smiled, realizing she was being introduced. "Leslie, this is my handsome brother Joe."

Joe shook Leslie's hand, holding it a moment too long. Self-consciously, she pulled it away a bit too fast.

Carla edged away into the crowd. "Can you entertain this pretty-young-thing while I hobnob with the other guests?"

"My pleasure," Joe said.

Leslie glanced around the crowded room.

Joe asked, "Looking for someone?"

"Just seeing who's here."

"How do you know Carla?"

"Bern's my boss - and his partner Howard. You know Howard?"

"Yes."

"Is he here?"

"Haven't seen him, but I haven't done much mingling."

Again, Leslie glanced around the room, this time seeing Howard and his wife Cynthia enter the party through the front door. Margaret took their coats and they disappeared into another part of the house.

"If you'll excuse, me I have to go to the bathroom," Leslie said, barely glancing at Joe as she departed to find Howard.

Joe waited alone for ten minutes before abandoning his drink on a coffee table and starting after her. Halfway through the crowded room, he bumped into Howard Pike's wife Cynthia.

Cynthia draped her slender arms around his neck and said, "You weren't trying to avoid me were you, Joe?"

Unwinding her arms, Joe pushed her gently but firmly away. "How are you, Cyn?"

"Much better." Hiccupping, she grinned foolishly, hand at her mouth.

"I'm looking for someone," he said, moving away.

"Wait," she said, grabbing his elbow. "Another drink?"

Cynthia had already had more than one, but Joe asked, "What are you drinking?"

"You know what I drink."

With a drunken attempt at seduction, she kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips. Joe grabbed the wobbly woman's shoulders, maneuvering her against the wall for support. Then, shaking his head, he looked around for the nearest bartender.

"You all right, Cyn?"

Cynthia nodded, eyelids drooping. After patting her cheek, he started to the bar. When he handed Cynthia the fresh drink, she greedily savored it, the half swallow of straight scotch reviving her. When she answered, her words were slurred.

"Who are you looking for?"

"One of your wonderful husband's employee's."

"Leslie?"

Confused, Joe's eyes narrowed inquisitively and he asked,

"How did you know?"

"Wives know. Besides, she found us when we got here, wanting to discuss company business with Howard."

"Company business?"

"Funny business is more like it." Draining her scotch, she pleaded, "One more, Joe?"

Again, Joe took Cynthia's glass, her words playing through his mind as he returned to the bar to refresh her drink.

When he returned, he asked, "Where did they go?"

"Probably to the nearest toilet with a lock on the door."

"What?"

Grinning impishly, Cynthia explained. "That's where he made love to me the first time - at a New Year's party, both of us butt-naked on a toilet seat."

"You're incorrigible, Cyn."

"Maybe," she said, putting her arm around his waist and hugging him to her delicate breasts. "It was fun. Let's find a bathroom so I can relive old memories."

"Why don't you just browse through some photo albums," he said, backing away.

"The photos I'd like to see are in your apartment."

Joe winked and started through the crowd as Cynthia finished her drink and wobbled to the bar for another. True to Cynthia's prediction, Howard and Leslie had found a secluded upstairs bathroom. Leslie sat on the toilet stool, skirt hiked to her thighs and pantyhose rolled down around her ankles. Her unbuttoned blouse revealed an ample expanse of bosom radiating an embarrassed shade of pink. Howard stood primping in front of the mirror.

"Please come home with me, Howard."

"Can't," he said his voice booming and distinctive. "I have business."

Leslie watched him comb his hair and preen his mustache with his little finger. "You haven't seen Billy in a week."

"Busy, busy," he said, turning around. "Besides, we've already made love."

Averting her gaze, Leslie stared sullenly at the tile floor. "When are you going to tell Cynthia about us?"

Caressing her bare breast, Howard bent forward and kissed her full on the mouth.

"Soon."

Howard patted her head like a pet dog and opened the bathroom door.

"Howard, wait."

"Gotta go."

Without bothering to close the door, Howard hurried away. Leslie shut and locked the door, then stumbled to the mirror. Hair a mess and dress torn and mauled, she began to cry.

Joe searched the party for Leslie with no success, soon completing the loop and finding the intoxicated Cynthia propped against the same wall where he had left her. Spotting him, she held up her empty drink glass.

"Please, daddy. One more."

Nodding, Joe returned with a fresh scotch for her and a tall bourbon for himself. With one hand on his shoulder for support, she tapped his glass and choked down everything but the ice.

"Drinking away your troubles, Darling?"

Joe glanced over his shoulder as Carla Scull approached through the crowded room.

Cynthia said, "You don't have enough booze for that."

"Someone knocking my booze?" Bern Scull said, appearing through the crowd behind Carla. From his wobbly gait, Bern was also suffering from alcoholic indulgence.

"Bern, baby," Cynthia said. "I wondered where you were."

Bern laughed, stumbled to Cynthia's side and grabbed her by the waist. Both leaned against the wall for support.

Carla ignored their obvious groping and asked, "Where is Leslie."

"The bathroom," Joe said.

"There she is," Bern said, pulling away from Cynthia and pointing.

Joe saw her, moving aimlessly through the crowded room.

"Leslie, over here."

In a haze, Leslie drifted toward them without a smile, or look of recognition.

"Leslie," he said, taking her hand.

Suddenly smiling at everyone as if in a trance Leslie looked at Joe and asked, "Can I have a sip of your drink?"

Joe handed her the drink laced with extra ice and she thrust it to her lips with both hands.

Bern, again, pulled Cynthia toward him, asking, "Where's that no good partner of mine?"

"Haven't seen him," she said, numbly.

"He left the party with Jim O'Brien and his long-legged, puff-brained secretary,” Carla answered.

Leslie's body stiffened. Her hands trembled and she dropped the glass. It exploded into flying ice and shards of crystal against the hardwood floor. Leslie sank to her knees to pick up the mess but Joe touched her shoulders and held her.

"No harm," Bern said, waving across the room for Margaret. "Let’s go to the living room."

Without waiting, Carla, Bern, and Cynthia walked away. Joe helped Leslie to her feet.

"Don't worry," he said. "Carla will never miss it."

"I have to make a phone call."

Joe pointed, through the crowd, at a closed door. "There's a phone in the den. I'll show you."

After leading Leslie to the empty den, Joe switched on the lamp beside the couch and handed her the phone. When no one answered, she put her finger on the button and dialed another number.

"Calling for a taxi?"

"Yes."

Taking the receiver from her, Joe said, "My car is outside. I'll take you home."

Remembering she'd spent her last five dollars getting to the party, Leslie accepted his offer but remained passively silent during their icy trip to her apartment. Joe walked her to the door, watching her shiver as she fished in her purse for the keys. After opening the door a crack, she took his hand.

"Thank you," she said.

Slipping inside, Leslie shut the door behind her, leaving Joe to briefly stare at the peeling paint before starting back down the icy sidewalk. Before he reached the car, raspy hinges creaked behind him and the door opened once again. Leslie called to him, as if in shock.

"Wait. I need your help."

Disturbed by Leslie's voice, Joe returned up the walk and followed her into the squalid, cold-water flat, watching as she shook an incognizant old woman, lying on the couch.

Leslie demanded, "Where is Billy?"

After snorting loudly and rolling over, the old woman covered her head with her arm and dropped an empty bottle to the floor. It dribbled whiskey on the threadbare rug. Leslie's impassioned question went unanswered and she glanced up at Joe, tears forming in her eyes.

"Billy's gone!"

Hurrying back outside, Joe searched the shadow-cloaked sidewalk which was faintly illuminated by the feeble light of the porch lamp. "I see some footprints in the snow."

Pushing past him, Leslie ran through the ankle-deep mire,

still wearing her baby-blue party dress. Joe stalked the tiny footprints by the light of the full moon. Before reaching the surrounding chain-link fence, the flat ground around the apartment sloped suddenly downward. There they found Billy, foot caught beneath the wire. After releasing his foot, Leslie hugged him to her breast.

"Mommy," he said weakly. "I slid down the hill."

Draping his coat around the boy, Joe helped them back up the slope. Returning to the warmth of Leslie's apartment, they got Billy out of his wet clothes, dried him off and warmed him up, and soon learned he was more frightened than hurt.

Leslie knelt beside his bed, holding his hand, and asked, "Why did you go outside?"

"I saw a white rabbit through the window and chased him."

Granting them a moment of privacy, Joe vacated the bedroom and woke Mildred, still asleep on the couch. After ushering her out the front door, he poured a glass of water from the rusty kitchen tap as the ripple of soft fabric behind him interrupted his thoughts. It was Leslie, watching him from the bedroom doorway.

He asked, "Billy all right?"

Leslie started to answer but hesitated. Hearing the metallic rattle of keys in the lock, she wheeled around with startled disbelief. As Howard Pike opened the door and entered, eyes unfocused and dilated, she smiled weakly and her lower lip began to tremble.

Unmindful of Joe's presence, Pike removed his overcoat and went to Leslie, drifting forward in a drunken, exaggerated gait. Twirling her once in the air, he let her slide slowly through his arms to the floor. Joe waited for Leslie's negative reaction. Instead, her trembling lip magnified her smile. Enraptured by Pike's sudden appearance, she wrapped her willowy arms around his ruddy neck.

Feeling suddenly like an unwelcome voyeur as painful reality encompassed his soul, he watched Leslie unbutton Pike's shirt and cover his bare chest with passionate kisses. Opening the front door he stepped out into the cold then turned for one last look before plodding away through the snow.

Bathed in dim light filtering from the single remaining bare bulb in a corroded light fixture on the ceiling, Leslie's brown eyes registered some indeterminate emotion far beyond Joe's ability to fathom.

Blinking away his confusion, he backed slowly away and shut the door behind him. Two steps from the door he began whistling a broken tune. Without looking back he trudged through the snow to his car and drove away.

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Last Tango in Heidelberg

The results of my recent yearly physical showed two adverse things: my cholesterol is high and my blood sugar is elevated. While I’m not diabetic I am moving in that direction. I was told to start eating like a diabetic or else become one.

I began assessing my diet but didn’t have to go far to discover at least one major reason for my condition. The culprit is beer. I love the beverage and not just the light American variety. My favorites are darks and ambers, most with the consistency of highly refined motor oil. The problem is they are all loaded with carbohydrates.

It’s hard to believe that one little beer can cause major health problems but for a person with a tendency toward obesity and an exercise ethic that consists of little more than walking from the dinner table to the computer screen, it can become a death threat, especially if you drink several six-packs, or more, every week.

I haven’t drunk a beer since last Wednesday and the regimen is beginning to play havoc with my writing. Why? I can’t think of anything else except quaffing a pint of Bass or Beck’s, or one of the many wonderful American brews such as Anchor Steam or Full Sail. Sorry if I didn’t mention your favorite brewski as - in good Oklahoma and Will Rogers fashion - I personally never met a beer I didn’t like.

For all my faithful readers out there I don’t mean to make light of a serious health problem. The possibility of becoming diabetic frightens me to death and I intend to deal with it. I guess I’ll just have to start making do with a shot glass of Guinness once every week or so.

http://www.EricWilder.com

French Chicory and Potato Salad

Chicory is as old as history itself, being a primary ingredient in many Roman dishes. The plant’s green leafs (radicchio) are often eaten as a salad in Europe and the root is used as a coffee substitute. It is largely unknown in the United States except for in the south, mostly around New Orleans.

Here is a Cajun recipe you probably have never heard of but try it anyway. I found it in the French Acadian Cook Book published in 1955 by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc. The recipe was contributed by Mrs. F.A. McKague of Jennings, Louisiana. Even if you aren’t familiar with the culinary qualities of chicory give this simple recipe a try it and I’ll bet that you’ll become a certified aficionado.

French Chicory and Potato Salad

1 lb of onions 3 lbs Irish potatoes
1 head of chicory 1 lb of bacon
Hard cooked eggs

Boil and dice potatoes and eggs in separate dish. Fry diced bacon and onions until brown. Mix potatoes, eggs and chopped chicory in frying pan and cook for five minutes. Serve hot. Serves six.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Drilling Rig in Path of Tornado

Here is a pic currently circulating by email between oily types. It is supposedly a real picture of a Sandridge Energy drilling rig sitting directly in front of an approaching tornado. I PhotoShopped the pic a little just for kicks.

http://www.ericwilder.com/

Cattleman's House Dressing

There's a pivotal scene in my book Bones of Skeleton Creek that takes place at Cattleman's Cafe located on the south side of Oklahoma City. A rancher has hired P.I. Buck McDivit to help him catch the culprits rustling cattle from his ranch. Buck's friend Trey is an agent for the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association, and they meet at Cattleman's for lunch to discuss the case.

I-40 bisects Oklahoma City into what are really two distinct towns, the north side, and the south side. Just south of I-40, on Agnew, is a retail neighborhood known locally as Stockyard City. It's the home of Cattleman’s Steak House, the oldest continuously operated restaurant in Oklahoma City. Cattleman's opened its doors in 1910 three years after Oklahoma became a state.

The restaurant and Stockyards hold many bittersweet memories for me as I was banking at the now-defunct Stockyards Bank when my little oil company, caught up in the eighties oil bust, went “belly up.” Cattleman’s is still a fixture for oilies, cattle raisers, and other risk-takers, a fitting legacy as the owner won it in a game of dice.

Many luminaries including John Wayne and Ronald Reagan have graced Cattleman’s doors since 1910. The restaurant serves stiff drinks and some of the best steaks in Oklahoma City (no kidding!) along with lamb fries and their signature Cattleman’s Salad. The recipe for their famous house dressing is a secret, but it’s hard keeping a secret for one hundred and eight years. Try it and enjoy. If you can't get there in person, read Bones of Skeleton Creek and have lunch with Buck and Trey.

Cattleman's House Dressing

8 oz. cream cheese ½ pint sour cream
Egg Beater = 1 egg 1 Tsp salt
1 Tsp garlic powder ¼ cup Wesson Oil
¾ cup water

Blend in a bowl larger than 2.5 quarts with an electric mixer for about 3 minutes. Add 1/4 cup of Wesson Oil and blend until smooth and well mixed. Add ¾ cup of water and blend until smooth and well mixed.

Makes a bunch and you may wish to share a portion or two with your friends.

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series set in Oklahoma. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.