The Wine Commonsewer

You Cannot Put Out A Roman Candle

Good Morning Gentle Readers,

Tim Cavanaugh once observed that a people who need the government to define what barbecue actually is cannot be considered a free people in any meaningful sense, which sort of sums up the state of the Republic in the new century.

Not to be outdone by California, Arizona, apparently, has raised the fireworks pot. I'll see your patchwork bans and raise it to a full, outright, statewide ban on everything from sparklers to bottle rockets, leaving residents to privately celebrate their independence with glow worms and confetti poppers from WalMart, some of which were louder than the real McCoy.

On the outskirts of Santa Fe, The Boy and I sauntered into Pyro Mania (not making that up) which seemed to be staffed entirely by gregarious Indians (feather, not dot) who, with sly smiles and an exxagerated shrug of the shoulders told us they just didn't know if bottle rockets, fire crackers, M-1800's, fountains, roman candles (and the two foot high mortar launcher guaranteed to put Disney's finale to shame) were legal next door in the Grand Canyon State.  Truth is, TWC expected gun-toting Arizona to be a bit more open minded about blowing stuff up.

Back in the day we enjoyed America's birthday celebration with Safe 'N Sane fireworks courtesy of the local Boy Scout Troop. Given that Casa de las Rocas Grandes is in a tinderbox and a complete fireworks ban is in force, The House Blond and The Boy have never once written their names in the air with a sparkler. We aimed to cure that deficit.

Suffice it to say that the fear of repercussions resulted in a toned down sort of a celebration. Still the kids were awed and thrilled by the colored smoke bombs, multi-colored fountains, firecrackers, and boxes and boxes of shimmering sparklers.

The Boy remained mightily disappointed about the Roman Candles but Uncle Will was firm. The HOA would likely have puppies over something so brazen and the neighbors might call The Man. Being he's a two term HOA president, it'd not look good on his resume to be sanctioning the use of contraband.

Later, I called out to the The Boy and we took a stroll. Found an ideal spot, too.

Here now, hold this thing. Point it down the road. I'll light it. Do not shoot it up in the air or off into the roadside flora.

Hadn't heard a car for two hours but you know what happened next. Got that  thing lit up and a BIG 4X4 roars through the gate, whereupon we commence our Three Stooges Do Fireworks routine.

Holy Crap! (expletive deleted) car coming. Dude! Shove that thing into the remains of the monsoon mud.

Bam! Red mud, gravel, sticks, debris.....pummeling Jake, back lit by fireballs and stars exploding in every direction.

Buried the dead remains in a shallow, red mud grave and tippy toed away.

No Sir, not us.....heard all the commotion, just checking things out. The box of kitchen matches? For the barbeque.

As Ever,

TWC 

We Hold These Truths To Be Self Evident

Good Morning Gentle Readers,

Had a delightful conversation over sturdy coffee and huevos rancheros in Old Town ABQ with a good friend a day or so ago. Presently the conversation came around to firearms and freedom. He explained that his country had thousands of years of history and accordingly firearms are tightly regulated. America is different, he explained.....

The gun culture in America was born of an inherent distrust of government that manifests itself to this day.

America's distrust of government has eroded mightily over the last century and, although we have squandered the better part of our birthright on the notion that more taxes will solve everything, there is still an undercurrent of readily apparent dissatisfaction with all things political. Thank God for small favors.

One day, a long, long time ago, a bunch of dead white males came up with something unique. Something appalling. Something that cost most of them whatever was dear to them. Something that doesn't exist most other places. Something that has been abused, debased, stretched, twisted, and warped by subsequent generations, but none-the-less, it is our unique American birthright. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

As Ever,

TWC

Happy Father's Day, Pop

Good Morning Gentle Readers:

Back before my vagrant yoot, when I was knee high to a knee, my dad drove a truck for Knudsen Dairy Products. He ate hot Cream of Wheat for breakfast before the sun came up and  hot-out-of-the-lard-fryer donuts with a quart of half and half for a mid-morning snack. Dad was a big burly guy who slung milk cases made of hardwood and steel like they were plastic and empty (plastic was at least 15 years off).

TWC was proud that Dad was responsible for providing those little cartons of five cent milk that Del Sure Elementary School was happy to pre-warm to room temperature before serving at lunch.

Sometimes I'd see him making his delivery.....

Look Dick!

Look Jane!

See the truck?

That's my dad.

[Beaming smile.]

Although he rarely had two days off in a row, the money was good and the taxes were light. It was America in the 1950's and we had our share of the comfortable life.

These days Dad is 80 and thin. Still cuts his own wood  though (and takes care of his invalid wife).

Happy Fathers Day, to all the hard working dads out there.

As Ever,

TWC

Good Morning Gentle Readers:

Back before my vagrant yoot, when I was knee high to a knee, my dad drove a truck for Knudsen Dairy Products. He ate hot Cream of Wheat for breakfast before the sun came up and  hot-out-of-the-lard-fryer donuts with a quart of half and half for a mid-morning snack. Dad was a big burly guy who slung milk cases made of hardwood and steel like they were plastic and empty (plastic was at least 15 years off).

TWC was proud that Dad was responsible for providing those little cartons of five cent milk that Del Sure Elementary School was happy to pre-warm to room temperature before serving at lunch.

Sometimes I'd see him making his delivery.....

Look Dick!

Look Jane!

See the truck?

That's my dad.

[Beaming smile.]

Although he rarely had two days off in a row, the money was good and the taxes were light. It was America in the 1950's and we had our share of the comfortable life.

These days Dad is 80 and thin. Still cuts his own wood  though (and takes care of his invalid wife).

Happy Fathers Day, to all the hard working dads out there.

As Ever,

TWC

Happy Mothers Day

Good Morning Gentle Readers,

On a warm day in 1939 three little barefoot girls sat impatiently for a picture. Film was expensive so there was but one photograph taken.

Later on they'd be wives and lovers, mom's and aunts, but my cousins and I could never know the little girls that were plunked on the stoop that day, wiggling their toes in the cool grass.

 

Mom is in the middle with Buff. Aunt Jeanne, shushing the girls. Aunt Betty didn't know she was destined to learn the accordion, a talent that fascinated me as a child.

My Mom's 82 and she's going dancing on Mothers Day.

And, the mother of my children.....

Four Generations: Three Moms and a House Blond circa 2007

Not much else to say except, may this day be just what you imagined it might be.

Happy Mother's Day.

As Ever,

TWC

Cinco de Mayo

Good Morning Gentle Readers,

Although the revelry is largely confined to the Great American Southwest, Cinco de Mayo, like St Paddy's Day, is an American holiday that spontaneously evolved within the culture, irrespective of the fact that CONgress never officially legislated it into existence.

Despite the significance of Zaragosa's tequila inspired victory over the Frogs, south of the border, public school is in session and nobody but tanked Americans in places like Cabo celebrate the Fifth of May.

UPDATE: Just to clarify, Cinco de Mayo in Mexico is, for the most part, just another day, except for celebrations in Puebla.   

Bonus: A couple of years ago TWC had the opportunity to spend Cinco de Mayo with the godfather of free market economics and school choice.

That's Uncle Miltie and Cato's Andrew Coulson. Is that a GREAT shirt? Or what?

 

As intriguing as the idea was, jawboning with Milton Friedman was kinda out of the question. I felt intrusive enough just taking his picture. Besides, what the heck do you say to Milton Friedman?

Uhhh, Good Job, Dude. How's the wine?

Lot's of fringes to being hooked up with Mrs TWC, one of which was the Los Cabos tag along. And, the night before at Villa Penasco, where TWC had THREE gracious and well dressed waiters to himself.....

Oh, Señor TWC, you look like you need a leetle more wine. Eh?

......our friends Shikha and Arthur actually found something to say to the Nobel Laureate and I suspect it had to do with Arthur's long ago summer camp counselor, a brash young man named David Friedman. That's Mrs TWC to the right, sliced nearly in half, vertically.

Milton Friedman bio here.

As Ever.

TWC

Oh yeah, and it's also Linda R's birthday! Happy, Happy!

The Easter Sermon

Good Morning  Gentle Readers,

Welcome, welcome. And a glorious Easter Sunday morning it is. Indeed.

Easter celebrates the final and most lasting miracle.  This morning, however, we're turning back the page to John 2, verses 2-11. Thankee.

Shortly before Passover that year a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Among the guests at this glorious affair, were Jesus, his mother, and the Disciples. The celebrants, danced, feasted, and drank wine until there was no more wine.

Once the wine was gone, Jesus’ mother said to him,

Son, we have no more wine.

Always the polite son, Jesus responded thus,

Ma, it is not my place..........

As any Jewish mother would do, she tapped her foot firmly a number of times, flashed a demure smile, and admonished the servants to do whatever Jesus might ask of them.

Nearby stood six stone water jars ordinarily reserved for ceremonial washing, each of which held from twenty to thirty gallons of water.

Jesus then said to the servants,

Go to the well and fill the jars with water. Once you have done so, draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.

The servants did so, and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had become wine. Although the servants who had drawn the water knew from whence it came, the master of the banquet did not and when he called the bridegroom aside, he said,

It is to be expected that the choice wine is served first and then the cheaper wine is brought out after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the very finest wine until now.

Thus, Jesus performed the first of his miraculous signs at Cana in Galilee, and by doing so revealed His Glory, and his disciples put their faith in him.

Bow your heads in benediction, please.

Amen. Go in peace, holding Saint Paul's admonition to Saint Timothy close to your hearts.

.....use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities.

As Ever,

TWC

Chocolate Rabbits

We put this one up every year and it just never gets old.

UPDATE: Kids are expensive. Tens of thousands of man-hours and tens of thousands of dollars. But when they get it....it's worth it to see the House Blond giggle like a ten year old.

Last Year's Easter Egg Hunt

Easter Surprise

May Ya Be In Hev'n a Half Hour 'fore the Devil Knows Yer Dead.....

Good Morning Gentle Readers,

Long before I was a vagrant yoot, when TWC was just a little boy, my folks had friends that were Irish immigrants. They were turkey ranchers and did well at it. The Patriarch spoke with a heavy brogue that may as well have been a foreign language as it was entirely unintelligible to mini me.

Reading Frank McCourt's book a few years ago, I was reminded of Old Man Porter who once told me that a prosperous family in Ireland has two bicycles. That gem was entirely lost on me, but I loved his 1959 Cadillac with the bullet taillights, the 1959 El Camino with the 348, and the turkey egg that invariably found it's way home with me after every visit. For the uninitiated, turkey eggs are mostly like giant chicken eggs. Nothing exotic, but they go well with bacon, toast, and cold milk.

Years later, Old Man Porter caught a dose of the stomach cancer and it withered him mightily. My first encounter with the cruelties of life was there in that hospital room with a man I couldn't recognize.

My father was crazy for Old Man Porter's daughter. I can say that because nobody in my family bothers with this blog. I don't know if my mother realized it or not, though she may now. He was in love with the girl of his dreams, beautiful red haired Isabel. Though he would deny it if confronted, fifty years later he still carries the unrequited torch of love for this little Chiquita, a grandmother in her own right.

And, Gentle Readers, do you know why it's a Paddy Wagon? Thought so.

In Ireland, St Patrick's Day bears no resemblance to the raucous celebrations across America. Church in the morning and off to work. Most pubs are closed. Except those that cater to tourists looking for the 'real' St Patrick's Day celebrations.

Sidebar: Seen some really good blues bands at Patrick's in the Gaslamp Quarter.

On this St Patrick's Day TWC suggests that Angela's Ashes should be required reading in every classroom throughout the land. From starvation to owning the Dodgers, in one lifetime. Only in America. And don't you forget it.

UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention by Roberto M that Frank 'Parking Lot' McCourt who owns the Dodgers is not Frank McCourt of Angela's Ashes fame. I blame the wine.

The lesson still stands, it just isn't quite as dramatic.

As Ever,

The Wine O'Commonsewer