When you're a Wal-Mart captive, with no other recourse, you're bound to run into a few neighbors when you go. If you're lucky, it's in the parking lot - coming or going. Sooner or later, though, you're in for a drive-by among the aisles. Much to our amazement, when this happens, it's also time for an inspection - of our cart's contents. Not just an inspection; a good once-over and then the urge to comment.

"Oh, having a party?"
"Stocking up, huh?"

So, our lesson here is: don't put anything in your cart early on that you don't want the neighbors to see. Being in a dry county, there's no booze to hide. Other unmentionables do come to mind. Rest assured, if it's really a good unmentionable, the neighbors around here will know about it soon.

For a trip through our past, be sure to check the link "more of our daily adventures" in the upper left box.

Yes, that's right - a Starbucks started to rear its familiar building blocks just a few months ago. We shook our heads - who in the heck would put a Starbucks in - in the middle of nowhere. The town they selected couldn't even maintain a Wendy's. The Sizzlin' Sirloin is going strong only because it's an all-you-can-eat sort of place. (We worry a bit about our Chili's, too.)

But, the franchisee (whoever that was) forged ahead. The building was oh-so-pretty, with a reminder of our city days. Mind you, we had never sprung for any of the chi-chi stuff. After all, we were still messing with perfecting the crema on our home espresso machine and buying the perfect grind at our favorite boutique shop.

As anyone in their right mind (non chi-chi coffee fogged brain) might imagine, the day came. After months of construction, the grand opening, and a few weeks in business, there it was. The sign in front: For Sale. Windows were papered over and that was that.

Some things just don't belong in the middle-of-nowhere.

Game ranches are a real "thang" in Texas and I'm not even going to have that discussion. While out in the wild, we could trim back on the deer and boar populations, inside those fences impala and who knows what else are on the other end of a shotgun.

Now, if you're into this stuff and about to find yourself engaged, just head to a game ranch this side of Texarkana. The place has large signs on fences along Interstate 30, so you can't miss it. Hunting, meetings, weddings. I'd share the web site, but since this isn't an advertisement, I don't want to tempt anyone unnecessarily.

So, now some guy has done gone down on his knees and said the magic words. But, what if the bride-to-be's dreamed of wedding date happens to get in the way of a B-I-G hunting trip? Not a problem. Here at our local ranch, you can get hitched and get a hog - and not in that order, if you prefer it the other way around.

You're not limited to hog hunting; there's a list. And you can even get a glimpse of the type of furniture that is perhaps in the honeymoon suite. For some months, a bed made from spiky branches sat on the front porch of the main lodge. Looked like a dangerous proposition from any angle.  

While I've gone along on fishing excursions growing up, I never really "fished." As a child of the city, I let my grandparents have all the fun. When we would visit, they'd take me along to catch a passel of catfish for dinner. Then, all the aunts, uncles and cousins would gather around the table for some - you guessed it - fried catfish and hushpuppies. My grandmother would sit at one end of the table watching each of us with an eagle eye. At the side of her plate, a string tried around a small mashed ball of bread was at the ready. That was in case any of us choked on a fish bone. She was ready to have us swallow the bread and string, then pull it back up to snag the bone that was supposedly caught in our throats - saving us from certain death.

The thought of going through such a life-saving process left us all in fear. To this day, I chew every bit of fish - regardless of what it is or where it comes from - v-e-r-y carefully.

Now that we're part of the lake-living crowd, it's time to pony up and get to some real fishing. I'm proud to announce my first catch - it was a good-sized crappie. The moment I realized there was actually a fish on the line was quite an exciting one. I do believe I paraded around for some time afterward. Here's my trophy.

Setting fires in East Texas is no big deal. Took me a while to get use to the smell of smoke in the air. But folks outside of city limits have to get rid of stuff somehow. Not just any stuff, generally tree limbs and such. Some get carried away with this practice and don't bother to rake the leaves before they light up. This causes a trail of fire that, so far, has remained safely contained in our little lake community.

Lately, though, there have been a few idiotic turns for the worse. We face a blackened field at the top of our driveway because our former Homeowners President decided to burn some papers within a few feet of a field full of waist-high grass. On a windy day. He went inside because he "thought it was out." Thanks to our volunteer fire department down the road, (guys who had to leave work to take care of this idiotic fire), it didn't reach any homes.

Another neighbor waited for the next windy day to burn off some leaves. The fires kept reigniting, but - as we were told - it was under control. Yeah, under control right into the night when little flares kept popping up.

I'm thinking some folks shouldn't be allowed to play with matches.

Just about three weeks ago, a domestic male goose and his significant other tootled down our channel. We don't know where they came from, but they seem to like it here. For the first few days, they'd hang out grazing in the neighbors' yard directly across the water from us. We'd hear them squawking, even when they weren't in sight. They must have names, so - they're fondly called Roy and Dale.

It wasn't long before a single white egg landed at the edge of the bank. It didn't last long - something got it pretty quick. Now, every few days, another shiny white egg appears in the same spot, soon abandoned to quickly become pillaged by turtles and vultures.

Nonetheless, Roy and Dale make the rounds, and one day waddled up under our deck. A handful of popcorn kernels kept them chowing down for some time. They squawked for more; Roy looked up as if to thank us. They left us presents, so to speak.

Now, every morning they can be in any yard and when they see us come out on the deck they come running. First swimming, then a very fast waddle up the bank. Roy and Dale are indeed well-fed. Last night, for the first time, they came looking for a Happy Hour Handout. How can you resist a big white goose and his wife?

Sooner or later, as a noob fisherperson, you're probably going to get snagged by a hook. I'm sure even seasoned fisherman grab the wrong end of a hook now and then. In fact, that's where this little tale starts.

My born-and-bred Texas husband was fishing off the banks in our back yard yesterday and caught a bass. The fish was squirming all over the place and husband forgot the plastic worm he was using had two hooks, not one. You got it. I hear a banging on the front door and there he was gushing blood from a thumb still connected to one rubber worm and one fish.

As I ran inside for peroxide, scissors and a 1st aid kit, our neighbor pulled down the driveway in his truck. He just "happened by" to loan a fishing rod for a tryout on what kind to get. Luckily, he's a seasoned bass fisherman with some serious corporate safety training under his belt. He told me to get some string. We cut off the worm and the still-flopping fish Our neighbor returned the fish to the channel (first things first). Then he set to work. Since the curved end was about to poke through another part of the thumb, he pressed it inward, wrapped string around the back end and gave it a jerk. String slipped off. Ouch. One more try, and the hook was out. Whooooohoooo.

Our neighbor related how fishermen who get snagged out on the water take care of this by themselves. They wrap the string, then use their teeth to yank all the while pressing the curvy part back into the flesh so it won't cause a rip - just a hole.

The moral of this story - if you get a hook in your hand, don't call the doctor - call a bass fisherman.

Yours truly,

The One Who Bandages

P.S. Yes - first thing this morning, husband went to one of our small town emergency units for a tetanus shot and a load of antibiotics. Nasty lake water + dirty fish = flesh-eating disease and other unimaginable horrors in my mind. Not to mention how grateful we are to have these particular neighbors.

We have coots. The bird variety and not old codgers, although we have some of those, too. When they first showed up last year, first in twosies, gradually growing into the hundreds, we went to our trusty bird ID guide. Of course, like most people, we went to the duck section. No such luck. Apparently everyone tends to search on the Internet for ducks with fat gray bodies, black heads and white chicken bills. There it was - the coot.

Apparently, these are American coots. They look a lot like guinea hens and travel in armadas - all going in one direction until something happens. Then it becomes a free-for-all with lots of strange noises, diving, and twittering around. Because their bodies are so round, it appears they prefer to paddle, as taking off requires quite a bit of effort. When disturbed, it's quite entertaining (and mean, if we doing the disturbing for entertainment purposes).

Here are our coots, technically known as a "cover," but we call them all sorts of things. After all, in the city, we - the formerly clueless - only knew coots as drooling old dodgy men with pinchy fingers.

Special thanks to the US gov photo site for the single picture above. We'd never be able to get that close. My super zoom lens and Nikon have gone the way of the dinosaurs because there are no close places to have pictures developed, anyway. The flock is all ours, taken with a digital camera, of course. What in the heck would we do without instant gratification, even out in the middle-of-nowhere?

We never see raccoons alive around here. After all, they're nocturnal. We've also heard that black bears are making a comeback in our neck of the woods. So, when large droppings started appearing on the roads rather frequently, we grew curious. No, I won't show any pictures (and didn't take any), but there are forums out there that help you make identification in close-up detail. Heaven help us.

These droppings became the talk of the neighborhood, due to their size. Some of the women thought it might be a fox, but I soon learned that no self-respecting fox would eat seeds - and these are loaded with them. According to size estimates, these were very possibly left behind by a black bear. As the community researcher, my quest continued so we could all rest easier.

Finally, on a trip into town, we spotted a deceased raccoon that was of Sasquatch size. No ordinary animal by any means and certainly living up to its Texas roots. We are mostly satisfied that, indeed, a gigantic raccoon could, indeed, produce bear-sized scat (to be professional about it). It and others are probably crossing the road from the woods to the lake. One less thing for us former city folks to worry about.

We're fortunate to have a very good car repair place in our main town. They're right on the price and quick to respond, even out in the middle of nowhere, with a wrecker when one of our vehicles busted a gas line. You don't need to make an appointment, either - they'll get right on it.

Just last week we took one of our SUVs in for a fix to the idle control motor. Darn thing wouldn't run without keeping your foot on the gas. We own two Explorer Sports of the same vintage and, amazingly enough, the other one had the same problem last year. (Yes, we've done the math. And, yes, we're thinking this is a "Faulty Ford" sort of thing.) Anyway, while waiting my husband had a chance to peruse the pile of magazines, all the typical stuff about ATVs and hunting. Digging down, he spotted a bright and shiny edition of Food & Wine. This in a town where all-you-can-eat places are the only ones to survive. None of the pages were thumbprinted or worn. That spoke volumes about the owner, who obviously enjoys a few finer things. It also speaks to the clientele - who definitely prefer to catch up on ATV and hunting news. No surprises there.