Butchie Boy

Webmaster's Notes: For those of you that have not yet sailed in the NW Caribbean, Hal is one of the favorite Net Hosts (in the cruising community there is frequently a net that provides up to date information to cruisers). Hal's Radio Rodeo Show is a classic. His Butchie Boy stories (my Grandpa always said "Butchie Boy ....."). Hal is now doing a column for the Rio Dulce Chisme relaying his Butchie Boy experiences. The following are his columns found in the Features Section. Enjoy.

The Great Getaway (Almost)

I was reading an article recently about some jailbirds who managed to slip the confines of their prison. With the aid of some friends they were able to elude their captors for a few days before being welcomed home by their fellow inmates.

At the time, we were living in beautiful Del Rio, Texas on the banks of the Rio Grande. It was decided that I and my cousin would benefit from attending a summer camp in Castroville, a ways up the road near San Antonio. I can’t remember its name, but I know it was run by an order of nuns.

It was exciting…at first. But as time went on, I grew tired of swimming in the river, shooting arrows into who-knows-where, checking the sewn-in name tags on all my clothes to be sure they were mine and eating that group grub (I can still smell it).

One Saturday, the boredom was relieved when my Granddaddy pulled up in his truck. What a joy.

As we sat under a tree and he passed on his wisdom, I confessed (something I guess I learned from the nuns) that I wanted to go home.

That’s all it took. He said “Butchie Boy, climb in the truck and we’ll head to Del Rio.” I assumed my usual place in the bed of his stake-bed pickup, leaning on the cab, feet surrounded by tools, oily rags and most likely an empty beer bottle or two, and we set out for home.

That road was straight as an arrow and you could see all the way to tomorrow. We were flying along with the wind barely mussing my crew cut and me dodging bugs, counting skinny cows and laughing at a goat trying to climb a crooked mesquite tree to get fresh leaves. We were the only traffic, so the middle of the road was ours for miles and miles and miles of Texas.

Then, through the heat rippling like water on the road ahead appeared a black dot coming toward us. Oh boy, someone to wave at. Soon the car was close and my hands went up…for a moment. At about 50 miles per hour each, my Granddaddy’s truck passed my Aunt’s car, with my Mom riding shotgun. My Mom never drove a car after they changed the law that allowed you to buy a driver’s license from Sears, no test required.

I watched over my shoulder as they slowed down and began to turn around. Granddaddy carefully eased the truck over onto the shoulder by the bar ditch. I banged on the top of the cab, shouting “Let’s go, let’s go!” I looked through the rear window and saw him shaking his head slowly. The jig was up.

Mom explained to him and me that they were coming for a visit and expected to find me at the convent. So I should get in the car and go there with them . No use arguing. But as I hugged my Granddaddy goodbye he whispered with a wink, “Next time, Butchie Boy, we’ll head for El Paso.”

Say What?

Free Spanish lessons! And right here on the Rio! Now there’s a deal you don’t want to pass up. And from what I hear, a whole bunch of people feel that way and Schoolmarm Linda at Mario’s Marina has her hands full helping some of us to avoid making fools of ourselves…at least in speech.

That reminds me (standard start for a geezer) of an event during my first month on the Rio back in ’02.

The coconut trees at Mario’s were full of coco fruit and they were raining down, scaring the hell out of you at times. For safety, they had a crew come in to prune and the cocos were piling up. At the same time I was helping out in the clinic in Esmerelda, the village behind Mario’s . Why they put me out front trying to understand family names and symptoms, I’ll never know, especially with my limited South Texas Spanish.

The “waiting room” was full of moms with lots of kids…and most of the kids crying. In limped a young man holding his side. He showed me a huge bruise on his ribcage and another on his foot, and kept saying a lot of Spanish words that included “coco.”

Well, my simple mind moseyed over to my latest experience, and I astutely deduced that perhaps he was the victim of a stray coconut falling at high speed.

Just to make sure, I sketched on a piece of paper a coconut tree and a stick-figure of a person on the ground beneath the tree. Then I added a coconut falling through the air with the person dead in its sights.

I showed it to him, and suddenly tears swelled in his eyes, followed quickly by a painful laugh. “Que paso?” I asked, relying on my language education provided by that famous Texas Tornados’ song “Hey Baby, Ke-Pa-So” (I didn’t think “Hey Baby” would be considered appropriate).

He continued laughing, while clutching his side, as he showed everyone the drawing. They all joined in the mirth. OK, I’m not a great artist, but….

He paused long enough to take my pencil and turn the falling coconut into the head of a FALLING PERSON! He fell from the tree! So much for my Spanish! Well, we took care of his pain, and I gently patted him on the back and gave him a hearty “adios” as he shuffled through the door.

OK, my Spanish sucked, my art work was a laughing matter and I’m sure everyone thought “gringo loco.”

Momma Said

Recently I was taking my daily walk on the bridge over the Rio Dulce. Up ahead I saw a young boy on his hands and knees with his head stuck through the railing. When I got there I could see what he was up to. There’s a water pipe that runs under the railing, and I know there’s a small crack in it that sends a fine stream of water straight up about a foot. It’s been there for a long time. Well, this boy had his lips locked down on that watering hole like a wobbly-legged newborn calf on its momma’s teat.

He got up and walked on with me, wiping his mouth and smiling. All I could think of was “what would my Momma have said if she caught me doing that?”

That reminded me (there I go again) of a song that really takes me back to my childhood. It’s called “Old Screen Door” and it was begun under the Ballad Tree at the Kerrville Folk Festival many years ago back in Texas. I say begun because verses have been added by lots of folks after that bunch got together and tried to outdo each other with childhood memories of their mommas.

Here are a few memories from singers, and other sources, most of which seem to touch some part of my life. I’ll bet you can add some of your own.

But one of my all-time favorites comes from our supper table. (fyi - in Texas your lunch is our dinner and your dinner is our supper) I had decided that I didn’t want any more to eat, and I left a lot of food on my plate. Of course, I asked to be excused from the table. My Momma looked at my plate and said, “Hal, (Butch became Hal when trouble was loomin’) there are thousands of starving children in China that would dearly love to eat that.” To which I replied, “Well, send it to them.” BIG MISTAKE! No dessert for a week and banishment to my room every night after supper.

Well, that little boy got his cool drink of water and I sure didn’t want to be his screen door. No le hace…Momma.

The memory stream flows on, but that’s enough from me. What did your momma say? Send ‘em to Roy and maybe we can have some fun.

Go to www.kerrville-music.com and see where the Kerrverts gather for true home-grown Texas music. And thanks Larry Joe Taylor for keeping this song alive.

Got Gas?

Ah, another triple-day for my Moviestar cell phone. Wahoo, time to load it up with minutes. When that balance is high I can hardly resist calling my friends back home. The first time they think they’re really special for me to spend that much dinero to call all the way from Guatemala! My conscience finally takes over, and then I tell them it’s cheaper for me to call from here than it is for them to call across the street back there. At least they appreciate my honesty.

Well, the old blower (really ancient term for a phone!) was packed with Q, so I decided to give my former boss and mentor a call, just to remind me of why I retired. I don’t think he’ll mind me calling him Spin Doctor. We had some really great times together in the public relations bidness, as we say in Texas.

S.D. “Haven’t you been paying attention to the news? Has that tropical life addled your brain?”

B.B. “Probably has, but I steer clear of those goofy, opinionated news folks since I retired from the public relations business.”

B.B. “Come on, the only “two sides” left in this world are on the menu at Rudy’s Barbeque in Leon Springs.”

S.D. “Well, anyway, you need to pay attention. I believe there’s money to be made out of somebody’s tomfoolery.”

S.D. “Seems like some whacked-out guys in white coats with a lot of time on their hands think that methane gas from farm animal flatulence is heatin’ up this blue marble we live on.”

S.D. “Whoa there, word master, you need to raise the level of your language if you expect people to read your stuff. Elsewise, you’ll end up writin’ for some ol’ fish wrap. But yes, that’s what they say.”

S.D. “Well, here’s the really whacky part, mister inquisitive. They want to develop a feed that will, pardon the expression, eliminate the flatulence. Then they want to make all the ranchers use it.”

B.B. “Wait a minute. Telling a cow it can’t eat grass is like telling a fat kid he can’t have a BigMac.”

S.D. “Correctomundo, bozzo. That’s where BEANO comes in. Hell, it works in people, why not farm animals? A bucket of sweet feed, a BEANO tablet. Can’t get much simpler.”

S.D. “You’re going mono-synaptic in the heat, boy. I told ya, there’s money to be made. Just invest in BEANO stock.”

B.B. “I’ll ponder that financial move for a bit if you don’t mind. Oh, in case you forgot, the staple foods of Central America include large quantities of beans and cabbage. Get my drift?”

S.D. “Well, there you go, melon head, BEANO rules the world. Call again when ya have time, gotta run.”

Fruity, veggie names for hurricanes?

Hmmmm. Looks like the tropical weather is kickin’ up. Jennifer, down river in Gringo Bay, can’t always hear our cruiser’s net weather reports, as lame as they are. So if there’s something brewing I give her a call on the ol’ telephone.

With Dean developing out there I did just that. During our conversation she said with a laugh, “Why don’t they name these storms after something else…like fruits and vegetables?” Immediately, I started hearing those little voices that go off in my head from time to time. Jennifer made me hang up before I had just about punned her to death.

Imagine those clueless weather folks on TV, decked out in rain gear, leaning into a non-existent wind while ocean ripples lap on a peaceful beach saying:

“The outlook for H. Peach is still fuzzy, but a landfall could be the pits.”

“It looks like H. Cherry has the Virgin Islands in her sights. By the way, this is the first time for a H. Cherry.”

“H. Banana is stalking the east coast but could peel away and slip off to the northeast.”

“We have no idea where H. Cabbage is headed, but the seas around it surer boiling.”

“A high pressure system and a low trough will squeeze H. Lemon toward Florida increasing the pucker factor there.”

“H. Carrot’s path seems to be wiggling a bit.” (An obscure reference to lusty dialogue from “Lonesome Dove”)

“The core pressure of H. Apple seems to be falling. Only time will tell, eh William?”

“Those brave Hurricane Hunters are checking out H. Onion one layer at a time. Their dedication almost brings tears.”

“If Mother Nature doesn’t relieve us of H. Asparagus, things could really be stinking up.”

“It looks like Tropical Storms Avocado and Tomato are about to merge and we could see a real dip in pressure. If this happens you can bet all your chips that things will get spicy.”

Circle of Life

Last week this wonderful little Praying Mantis (on the left!) flew onto my shoulder and just wouldn’t leave my hand or arm. So I took Chiquita back to Griffin where I eventually nudged her onto a counter. She walked around looking at me wherever I went (so it seemed to me). Over the next three days she would mysteriously appear, sometimes flying onto me, and then quickly disappear, presumably searching out a meal of tiny bugs I couldn’t even see. I hoped she wasn’t finding any on me!

In the wee hours of Monday morning, I awoke with an “itch” behind my ear. Sleepily, I reach up to scratch and my fingers found something that shouldn’t be there. Suspecting a spider, quickly I flicked it away. As I reached for the light I suddenly had a sinking feeling. In the glow of the lamp my fears were realized…there was Chiquita on the sole of the boat, lifeless.

Well, she had served well aboard ship and deserved a proper burial at sea, so I took her to the dock where I knew there are lots of fish. She had barely touched the surface when a moharra snatched her away.

Now one day soon the caretaker of our marina will catch that fish. It will become a meal for him and his wife. She is pregnant with a baby due in February, and the fish will help her provide nourishment for the baby.

The Great Getaway (Almost)

Say What?

Momma Said

Got Gas?

Fruity, veggie names for hurricanes?

Circle of Life

Stay tuned for more Butchie Boy ....

Butchie Boy with his sis, Peni