Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers

Crazy story...

A buddy of mine decided to quit his job and head down to Texas to become a wildcat oil man. It was a mid-life crisis sort of thing and he had plenty of money to get started so he went for it. Before long he had a few wells and was learning on the job. Things were going great until one day when one of his wells caught on fire. Well, my friend knew just enough about the oil business to be dangerous but didn’t know the first thing about how to put out an oil well fire. So, he did what anyone else in 2020 would do...he Googled it...and sure enough, four or five oil fire extinguishing companies came up. He called the first one and the guy wanted $25,000 to put the fire out. My friend thought that was a ripoff so he called the next one but discovered that he too wanted $25,000. Finally he got to the last company...Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers. My friend hesitated at the name but called because he was desperate. Bubba himself answered and said not only would he would put the fire out for $5,000, but he could be there within the hour! My friend was thrilled and hired him on the spot.

About an hour later, off in the distance, Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers truck appeared at the crest of the hill. It was a long flatbed truck with wooden side panels packed to the gills with men. There must have been fifty guys crammed in the back of that truck. My friend watched as the truck started descending down the hill to the burning oil well. The truck began picking up speed. As my friend watched he thought that maybe the truck was going too fast. Before long it was careening down the hill, out of control and headed right into the fire. My friend watched on in horror as the truck crashed into the burning well, sending fifty men flying this way and that. Suddenly he saw the men rolling on the ground while others began waving blankets all around. Within ten minutes and to my friend’s great amazement...the fire was out! He had never seen anything like it before in his life. He cautiously walked over to the truck and watched Bubba writing something on a clipboard. Then Bubba got out and handed my friend the bill for $5,000. 

My friend said, “Bubba, I have to say, that’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Your guys put that fire out in five minutes. Your method seemed unorthodox but it sure did work.”

Then he handed Bubba a check for $5,000

“So, Bubba,” my friend said. “It sure didn’t take you very long to earn this money. What are you gonna do with $5,000?”

Bubba looked at my friend and said...”Well, the first thing I’m gonna do is fix the brakes on that truck.”

My Friend, My Book, and Wong’s Tacos

So, here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with my friend this morning:

Me: So...any blood in the toilet this morning?

Pam: No blood. PTL. They put me on antibiotics for a UTI. They will do another blood test Tuesday to decide about surgery.

Me: Can you believe I just asked you that question? Can you even imagine that you and I would ever be talking about blood in the toilet?

Pam: NO!! It’s crazy. I consider you like my brother...

Me: ...your annoying bossy brother.

Pam: Exactly.

Yesterday she had a rough go of it. She ended up back at UVA where they discovered that her platelets had fallen to a point where she won’t be able to have surgery. She has seven days to get them up to appropriate levels or they will have to postpone the operation. To do this will require lots of rest and dietary adjustments. The rest part is difficult for her. She is ADHD and antsy as all get out—-just like me. But, she will have to dial it back and rest or pay the consequences. To that end I have been fussing at her...a lot.

So, say a prayer for my high strung, stubborn friend that she would be able to rest and eat properly over the next week.

In other news, I picked up the first proof of my book from the printer yesterday. Pam will be reading over it, looking for typos etc this weekend. Pretty exciting stuff...

One more thing. Last night, Pam and I tried a new place for dinner, Wong’s Tacos. Oh. My. Goodness. Its one of those fusion joints, a delectable mashup of Asian and Mexican cuisine. I had three tacos and a spring roll appetizer that were so delicious I nearly cried. It felt like the beginning of a beautiful friendship!

The Kids Are Alright

I have written many times in this space about my experiences with teenagers during the time I was involved in youth ministry at Grove Avenue. So many years have passed since those days there’s always the danger that I have romanticized the experience beyond recognition. We tend to do that with our memories. But yesterday I was reminded of why I loved working with teenagers so much. I received a long text from one of my favorite kids from those years. She is now a grown woman with a grown up job in another state. Before I share her words with you, a little background.

All teenagers might be created equal, but they don’t stay equal for long. Some of them, by the time I got them were disasters. Others were fragile flowers who I couldn’t imagine surviving in the real world as adults. Still others looked to me like sure things, confident, smart and engaging. In my ten years of youth ministry I met all kinds of kids, but I always seemed to have a soft spot for the ones with the rougher edges. These were the kids who asked the hardest questions, the ones who didn’t always say or do the right thing. They could be counted on to say just about anything, often inappropriate things. In other words, these were the kids who reminded me of exactly who I was at 17. This girl was one of those kids.

Each year, a group of kids would graduate out of the group and either go off to college or out into the workforce. Occasionally I would take one of them aside with a proposition that went like this:

“OK, kiddo. I want to make a deal with you. I want to give you something...but there are strings attached!!”

Then I would hand them a clean, crisp $100 bill. Their eyes would light up, but because these were unique kids, their eyes would narrow a bit...”Mister D, what are you up to??”

Then I would explain that this $100 bill was special. I wanted them to fold it neatly and hide it in their wallet and forget that it’s in there for a while. “One day,” I would say, “this $100 dollar bill is going to come in handy. There’s no telling what it might do. You might be presented with an investment opportunity, there might be an emergency that comes up where this forgotten 100 bucks will come to the rescue, the possibilities are endless. But there’s a catch....whatever you spend it on and no matter where you are when you do...you have to track me down and tell me the story.”

So, yesterday, I got this:

Hey Mister D! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about this when it happened!  I drove to the Atlanta airport and parked my car in long term parking to go home for Christmas and the whole ride on the shuttle bus, I just kept thinking I wanted to give the driver the $100 bill. I’d never had such an overwhelming feeling about it all the years I’ve had it. He was just this sweet older middle aged black man talking about barbeque and his family, nothing special or that gave an impression he was particularly in need. But I got off the shuttle, told him about how you’d given me something when I graduated and said if I ever felt compelled to give it to someone, I should. And that I’d had it for almost 7 years and never felt compelled but I did tonight, and handed him the bill. He got teary eyed and hugged me and told me I’d blessed him and we wished each other a merry Christmas and I left to get on my flight! I don’t know how it blessed him or to what extent, but I really felt the Holy Spirit compelling me for some reason I’ll probably never know. I had actually forgotten about it since moving to Georgia, and sitting on the bus all of a sudden I just thought, “you have that $100 bill in your wallet” and couldn’t stop feeling that I needed to give it to him.

When I read this note emotions started welling up in me from all over the place. I pictured this spunky kid embracing the stunned shuttle driver, two total strangers hugging in an airport parking lot, wishing each other a merry Christmas. He will tell the story of the crazy white girl who gave him a $100 dollar bill with a tear in his eye for the rest of his life. How much will that story, that memory, be worth to him?

Nowadays, in some circles, it has become fashionable to rag on Millennials. Well, I worked with two or three hundred of them more than a decade ago before anyone was throwing that word around as an epitaph. I publish this story in part because it was such a blessing to me, but also as a reminder of something I know for a fact...the kids are alright.

Dinner With My Friend

Some disjointed thoughts after a very, very long day yesterday...

- Very relieved that the huge gun rights rally at the Capital proceeded so peacefully. With such a throng of people packed into such a small place, mixed with high passion and thousands of firearms, it could easily have degenerated into a catastrophe. The fact that it didn’t speaks well not only of the attendees, but also the law enforcement men and women in charge of security. Well done.

- Left the house at 7:00am. 700 miles later, rolled back into Short Pump at 10:00pm. Along the way I was able to have dinner with these people...

That’s my friend on the left sporting the latest in Cancer-chic headwear, her husband in the middle—the rose between two thorns—and her daughter on the right. This was the first time I had actually visited her since all this started. She made homemade soup. There were barbecued ribs and a ridiculous chocolate concoction for dessert. She kept apologizing for how she looked. “I have no hair. My skin is peeling off my hands and this hoodie makes me look fat!” To which I say...balderdash. 

I was expecting the worst. After everything this woman has endured for the past five months, I was expecting a hollowed out, emaciated  shell. Instead, she greeted me at the door with her customary smile, running her mouth a mile a minute like always. Yes, she has clearly been through a war and has the scars to prove it, but it’s still her, same smile, same personality, same generosity, same unquenched optimism.

But seriously y’all ...she has got to get well soon. This morning’s jokes...

“Happy day, friend.” 

 

Shameless Plug Time

  “Everyone knows him as a good man, proud father, loving husband, and successful businessman. But when Jack Rigsby’s wife is brutally murdered in the parking lot of a convenience store his life descends into an abyss of guilt and grief, made worse by the discovery that her killer has a connection to a secret from his past. Saving Jack is a story of betrayal, secrets, grief and the limits of forgiveness.”

 

This...is happening. It’s at the printer. Haven’t figured out the e-book thing yet, but the paperbacks are on the way. If you want one, let me know. $10

The Astros and Sign Stealing

This past week was the week that baseball lost its collective mind. The hammer came down on the Houston Astros for sign stealing during the 2017 World Series. Their GM and Manager both got fired along with two other big league managers implicated in the scandal. For Major League Baseball this is a big deal, the biggest scandal since the steroid debacle fifteen years ago. First, a tutorial:

So, the Astros brass figured out a way to steal signs by watching a monitor back in the clubhouse of the opposing catcher giving the pitcher signs for what to pitch. As soon as the guys figured out the sequence of signs they would bang on a trash can in the hallway between the clubhouse and the dugout loudly enough for the batter to hear. My understand is the only thing that was communicated by the trash can banging was whether the pitch was a fastball or an off speed pitch, but just that information would be invaluable for a big league hitter. Which is why baseball players have been stealing signs since Christ was a corporal. What makes this sign stealing different, I suppose, is the level of technological sophistication. Especially after an unproven rumor began circulating that several Astros hitters were wearing small devices under their uniforms that buzzed before each pitch to alert them to what was coming. What a mess.

Here’s my take on all of this. Baseball, despite its reputation as an unchanging game mired in its history and traditions, actually has changed quite a lot during the 50 years or so that I have been a deranged fan. In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, when I fell in love with the game, players tried to steal signs all the time. Some were more successful than others, but sign stealing was ubiquitous. Whenever a runner would reach second base he would peer in to try to decipher what signs the opposing catcher was sending the pitcher and then by some facial expression or hand gesture try to relay that info to his teammate in the batter’s box. Smarter pitchers and catchers changed their signs frequently during games to combat this thievery. Other pitchers, like Bob Gipson or Don Drysdale, if they suspected a player was attempting to steal signs would simply aim a 90 miles per hour fastball at the offending player’s ear hole...and that would take care of that. Back then, if sign stealing got “out of hand” the players themselves would put a stop to it by setting players up...putting down a sign for a curve ball, then busting the guy high and tight with heat, knocking the poor guy on his ass. Today, that sort of thing is frowned upon in the big leagues. You throw a pitch anywhere near a guy’s head and you get a warning from the umpire. The next one brings your ejection. Sometimes even curve balls that drift too far inside make modern players want to fight. It’s a different game.

But, having said all that, the Astros did cross a line. The lengths they went to, the technology they set up, all the subterfuge seemed excessive. So, I support the firings of the Astros brass. But, at the same time, I know that probably over half the teams in baseball steal signs, maybe not as expertly as the Astros, but they steal signs nonetheless. And these punishments will not end sign stealing in baseball. Every business, at the highest levels always seeks out edges. Everybody looks for an advantage over the competition. It’s part of how human beings are hardwired. So, part of me rolls my eyes when I hear all these baseball fans taking to their fainting couches over this...I’m shocked, shocked to discover cheating in baseball!!! Please people. Give me a break!

Terror in Texas

Bloodthirsty Squirrel Leaves 2 Hospitalized, Neighbors Hiding Out During Daytime

I saw this screaming headline on Drudge this morning and immediately felt sweet vindication. Many of you have rolled your collective eyes at my determination to rid my property of these tree rats. Doug, you all said, they’re adorable...God’s creatures, learn to coexist in harmony with them, you all said. Well, this is what happens to you when you start playing nice with these killers.

“When I stepped outside the door he leaped on me and bit my arm, I pulled him off, threw him to the ground, and tried to get in the house,” said French-Amezquita. “I couldn’t get in the house because he came back, he bit this leg.”

My heart goes out to poor Mrs. French-Amezquita. But reading through this sad story I came across this statement:

“Residents have contacted both animal control and the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department but were told that until someone traps the squirrel they cannot remove it.”

Excuse me? This isn’t Connecticut or Massachusetts we’re talking about here, this is freaking Don’t Mess With Texas!! The only option these fine people have of ridding themself of this outrageous menace is to trap the thing? Wait...WHAT?? I am told that there are 750,000 legally registered firearms in the State of Texas, making Texas the most heavily armed state in the Union. It would seem to me that someone in the Bridgeland Shores neighborhood of Houston needs to grow a pair, march over to Mrs. French-Amezquita’s place with a a shotgun and a box of shells and rain down some hell-fire justice on this marauding killer. Order needs to be restored in Bridgeland Shores. People need to be able to walk outside onto their decks without fear of being attacked. I mean, what in Sam Hill is the 2nd Amendment for if not this??