May I Have a Pecan Log Please?

Each summer, we travel to Georgia to the beach with family. Enjoying a tradition from my wife's side of the family, we are all able to leave the real world behind and take in the sun and sand.

This year and in keeping with our tradition of walking each morning, something my wife and I try to do as it provides a small break from the kids, we headed out and up the street towards the beach.

It was really early this particular morning and my wife suggested we take a walk on the beach. We hit the sand and began walking as the sun rose slowly above the ocean and the gulls swarmed looking for their breakfast.

Within the distance, I saw what looked like a man sitting in a chair with his trusty dog by his side. As we got closer, I noticed he was much older and was smoking a cigar almost down to the nub so he must have been out there for a while. I told my wife that any man who would get out on the beach this early in the morning smoking a cigar had to be someone I should meet immediately.

We approached the man and while my wife paid attention to the dog, "Tyler, Texas" blurted out of the man's mouth and I was a little taken aback. He pointed at my shirt and I realized that I had worn a Stanley's Barbecue shirt on our walk which had Tyler, Texas on the front.

"I spent half my life in Tyler, Texas." said the old man. "You folks sure are odd about your liquor. When I was there back in the old days, you had to have a club membership for each place you wanted to get a drink. I'll bet I had a hundred memberships in my pocket at any given time."

As he pulled on the cigar, I asked, "What were you doing in Tyler?"

"I was in the construction business. I built Stuckey's up and down the interstate. Of course, that's when the interstates were all brand new so my job was to evaluate land and then build the buildings. I spent a lot of time in Tyler as it was in a good central location. And it was a nice town except the liquor thing."

In Tyler's defense, I quickly told him that we could now buy beer and wine in stores as the law just passed a few months ago. Not sure that this was much of a defense as he began to chuckle at my statement.

The wife glanced my way telling me it was time to get back to our walk. I stuck out my hand and said, "Well it was nice to meet you. My name is Edwin Holt."

"Well it was nice to meet you as well Edwin." said the old man. "My name is Bill Stuckey."

Walking away, I whispered to my wife, "No freakin' way."

This would begin the conversation down my childhood memory lane as Stuckey's was a big deal on any road trip with my mother. Pecan logs were like gold as well as all the other candy they offered.

Stuckey's began in Eastman, Georgia back in the 30's. Williamson S. Stuckey, Sr. had such a successful pecan harvest from his family's orchard that he offered a portion of his bounty for sale in a lean-to roadside shed. Florida-bound tourists traveling the two-lane Georgia 23 blacktop snapped up the flavorful pecans instantly, as gifts for friends and family and as succulent souvenirs of the agricultural south.
 
As the business continued to flourish, Mrs. Stuckey took to her kitchen and created a variety of homemade pecan candies. The rest, of course, is history.

In 1937, a new building went up in which candy became king. The crowning glory in a profusion of nut-based confections was the now-famous Pecan Log Roll in a size for every appetite and every budget. Restaurant service was added, other fancy foods were stocked, and a souvenir section was installed to cover every whim from rubber snakes to sea-shell ashtrays. Gasoline pumps were a logical addition - all of it tied together with the signature teal blue roof. Stuckey's had come to life, and a new era of roadside travel service was born.

Stuckey's are few and far between these days due to a corporate buy-out that happened back in the 70's. Now, with a Stuckey back at the helm and over 200 franchised locations on the interstate highways spanning 19 states from Pennsylvania to Florida in the east and to Arizona in the west, they're alive and thriving.

Peace out brothers and sisters. And remember, great brands are made from hard work and that great entrepreneurial spirit. Oh...and Pecan Logs!
 

From The Sidelines of Common Sense

It's been an unusual couple of weeks considering all the emotions that seem to be swarming around the Zimmerman and Martin case. Emotions can be a dangerous thing and for the most part, I've stayed on the sidelines watching this disastrous media and now racial frenzy.

I think emotions and race relations aside, my opinion on the matter is a bit more cut and dry than the rest of America and has very little to do with justice but just good old common sense.

There are two topics I would like to cover on this piece and they are:

1. Fear

2. Guns

First let's discuss fear. There will be very few women that can relate to this story as most women I know haven't really been in a knock down drag out physical fight. I'm sure there are a few of you perhaps but I'm talking about a down home outside the bar fight that involved fists flying.

It was in a summer of my high school years when a young man approached me outside of a club and before I could get two words out of my mouth, he hit me twice in the jaw. (Yes there was a woman involved.) It happened so fast that the rest of the fight was more or less a blur and I have no recollection of movement, what I was doing or any sense of coordination. I do remember grabbing him by the head and hitting him underneath but this only lasted until a bouncer came running out of the club and broke us up. Fear, anger and adrenaline managed to take over my entire body leaving me with little control of my own actions. All I could do was hold on and try not to fall down. It damn sure wasn't like what you see in the movies. You know, where the guy is some sort of martial arts expert and within three moves the bad guy has a broken leg and a dislocated jaw. This is the kind of crap the entertainment world feeds us as if two guys are actually in control and fighting is some sort of glorified art form. It isn't.

In consideration of fear, which will bring up another point of this piece, I'll tell you another story that everyone can relate to. A few years ago, I was in a drugstore on the corner of Mockingbird Lane and Central picking up a birthday card for my wife. I was in the back of the store where all the greeting cards were when yelling broke out up front. Looking around the greeting cards, I saw a man yelling and screaming at the clerk. "I'll kill all of you! You'll do what I say!" He was obviously homeless and raging back and forth at the counter which put the fear of God in all of us in the store. We had no idea what to do and I felt absolutely helpless with nothing to defend myself with. Then all of a sudden I heard screaming and the air became so thick with a burning sensation that I could barely see and breathe. Unbeknownst to me, the clerk had let go of an entire can of pepper spray and even though I was at least 20 yards away, it was all I could do to get the hell out of there. I can't imagine what the homeless man was feeling as he took it straight in the face.

My take on all of this, the case, Zimmerman and the Martin boy is that both of them were out of control due to their own emotions. And emotions like fear, anger and a good shot of adrenaline are a deadly combination when a gun is involved.

Which brings up Mr. Zimmerman as we're all supposed to believe that it's perfectly acceptable for an untrained guy to carry around a firearm. It's the American way right? Now before you go beating me down as some liberal who's against guns, think again. What rubs me the wrong way is our society is perfectly fine with giving a guy who has no training the responsibility of keeping the peace with a gun. And that's just plain stupid.

Some of you reading this may know a cop or a soldier. These men and women are trained to handle guns and under large amounts of stress. All the while controlling their fear and emotions and even trained, it's not easy. They suffer from all kinds of emotional damage if by chance duty leads them into taking another human being's life so to say it's fine to arm up a civilian would beg the question, are you really prepared to take another man's life?

The moral of this story lies within my own experience in the drugstore which is simple and most importantly, it works. There are several ways to render a man helpless without killing him. Pepper spray, mace and my new favorite, the taser.

So before you plan on pretending to be Joe Badass with a handgun, ask yourself this question. Am I really ready to kill another human being? And if not, what other alternatives are there that would aid in taking a man down.

Problem solved brothers and sisters.
 

Hans and Spätzle - The Shoe Spoon Novel

This particular blog post was something that started around five or six years ago. Back then, it was actually an email chain going back and forth between me and Julian Potter due to how funny we thought the image was that Wade Griffith, a photographer, had discovered. 

What started out as a few emails began to grow into a full length story written by me, Julian, David Brashier and David Allen, one of Dallas' finest creative directors.

I had forgotten all about it until I discovered it in some old files so here it is for your own reading pleasure.

The great thing about this piece is it's an open story so if you feel that you can add to the saga, please be my guest. I'll review your content and post it if I deem it worthy.

Enjoy the read...

 

 EDWIN HOLT:

Hans never made it to the front lines. Most days, he stayed in his very own bunker he dug using a shoe spoon in the back of his grandmother's yard. He was always good about keeping his legs clean shaven and wanted so much to meet all the other German soldiers.

His pet kitty, Mr. Whiskers, kept a close watch on him as Hans had been known to eat other small animals and Mr. Whiskers was in no mood to become a small meal. He spent his time atop the green helmet. A place he called home or as Hans liked to call it, "My Lookout Kitty."

JULIAN POTTER.:

Hans’ older brother, Spätzle was extremely jealous of Han's ability to dig with a shoe spoon.  Of course, Spatzle wasn’t his original name, but after their mother left, the boys’ dad (Arnulf) renamed his oldest after his favorite German delicacy.

Soon after, Arnulf disappeared.  Some say he went to live out his dream as captain of a shrimp boat…but most others feared a more notorious theory.

The boy’s grandmother took great care of the boys…she was a seemingly caring and kind person…but getting along in years…Her only rule was to NEVER enter the room on the third floor – she called it the “knitting room”

One day while both of the boys were playing in the bunker, Mr. Whiskers inexplicably left his helmet and ran into grandmother’s house…straight up to the third floor.

The boys ran after him, and despite grandmother’s warning, they entered the “knitting room”…what they saw when they opened the door…would change their lives…and perhaps the course of history…forever.

EDWIN HOLT:

The room was littered in documents with swastikas and empty make-up containers. As Hans looked around the room, there were numerous pictures of Adolph Hitler and Nazi memorabilia. Rows of German uniforms hung from a free standing rack in the room next to a full length mirror. Next to the mirror was what appeared to be a makeup sitting table lined with bright white bulbs. An array of brushes and small black mustaches were lined neatly on the make-up table while pictures of Adolph Hitler were taped to the mirror.

Looking closely at the pictures, Hans gasped in shock as all the pictures of Adolph exposed a very hefty chest. Obviously a women's chest of generous proportions. The head of Adolph Hitler on a 70 year old woman's body? Hans shrunk to the floor in disbelief.

As he held his hands over his head hoping that he would awake from a terrible nightmare, Mr. Whiskers screamed as the door swung open.

JULIAN POTTER:

It was Grandmother!  She had a furious look on her face…a grimace the boys had only seen once in their lives when she caught them trying to electrocute a frog with a car battery and her curling iron.

Grandmother, except for her generous sized chest, had always been a masculine looking woman…strong chin…excessive facial hair…larger than normal adam’s apple.  The boys were petrified with fear.  Poor Han’s actually wet his pants, which was not uncommon because of the strict diet of apple sauce and sour kraut that was demanded by his grandmother.  Spatzle however, was allowed to eat whatever he wanted…another point of contention between the boys.

Besides being frightened, the boys were confused.  Growing up they had heard a spectrum of stories about Hitler…he was considered a monster by some…and a hero by others. They also heard that Hitler’s supposed death in the bunker may have been a farce…this was the main inspiration for Han’s obsession with digging bunker’s in the back yard with a shoe spoon.

Spatzle garnered up the courage to ask a question of his grandmother, although he suspected she would not tell the truth…”Grandmamma – did you know Adolph Hitler?  Are you Adolph Hitler?”  Grandma simply answered “No”…but the tale-tale signs of her deceit were evident – the boys had learned this over the years…her left eyelid would become uncontrollably twittery…and she became extremely flatulent.

As the foul air overcame the room, Grandmother told the boys “NEVER EVER come back to this room…and NEVER NEVER EVER tell anyone about this.”

The boys agreed, and ran from the room…they felt guilty…but they knew what they had to do….

DAVID BRASHIER:

The boys' plan was simple in concept, but fraught with complications as to its execution. They had decided that their grandmother had to be exposed to the world as either the somewhat gender-confused Hitler impersonator that they feared, or, even more horrifying, an actual gender-transmuted Hitler. Either way, the road ahead was a treacherous one.

Choosing the right media outlet for this task was imperative. They considered Geraldo, but were concerned that he might not have the necessary credibility after the whole "Al Capone's Vault" fiasco. Fox news was also a possibility. But would a cross dressing Hitler really stand out among the Bill O'Reilly's and Sean Hannity's that graced their airwaves? Not to mention the prospect of their grandma/fuhrer being given her own 30 minute time slot on Fox. What about CNN? MTV? TMZ? There was a veritable alphabet soup of possibilities.

Once an agreement had been reached, they decided to act before they lost their nerve. Hans soaked a rag with ether, careful not to stain his lederhosen. With a trembling hand and a rumbling in the pit of his stomach, Spatzle picked up the telephone.

DAVID ALLEN:

One ring. Two rings. Then, suddenly, a click of the receiver and a voice at the other end of the line that would chill every fiber of Spatzle’s being: “This is Harriet Goldfarb, how my I direct your call?”  Spatzle had meant to call the CIA, but in his haste had inexplicably dialed the JDL by mistake. Speechless, he  desperately groped for something, anything to say, until he blurted out the first thought that came to mind:

“Can you tell me where I might find a nice Pastrami on rye?”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Whiskers, who by now had overpowered the unsuspecting Hans, wresting the ether soaked cloth away from him. There was something about Whiskers that had always troubled the boys, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. There was the time their pet parakeet mysteriously disappeared. And other strange occurrences too: a bootleg mix of Cat Stevens inexplicably appearing on Hans's Wolkmon and an unsolicited VHS of Bye Bye Birdie arriving by parcel post with no return address. Unfortunately for the boys, they were never quite able to put zwei and zwei together.

As it turns out, Whiskers was no feline in the forest.  She had been around the litterbox a few times and when it came to counterintelligence, she was one Tidy Cat.

JOHN HINES, JR.

It wasn't like she'd intended to become a double-agent. Whiskers had started life with the intention of being a simple family pet in rural Kansas. Things had surely changed directions several times.

Her first "owner"--God, she hated that word--had been an eight year old girl, and they'd lived together on a farm in Hill City. Then she'd ended up living with a troupe of clowns, spending her nights sleeping in the glove box of their tiny car. After that, she'd moved to Pennsylvania, which is where she'd learned German and had been recruited as part of a network of couriers who could move around Europe without arousing suspicion.

That had been the life. One week, she would be living as the companion of a intermediate-end French prostitute. The next week, Whiskers would be on a train to Belgium, traveling with a salesman who dealt in clockwork marital aids. And then to Germany with the plastic surgeon pioneer who had perfected the first breast implant not made from wood. It had been he who had grafted the two tiny thumbs onto Whiskers' front paws.

The same front paws she was now using to hold the ether-soaked rag against Hans's nose and mouth. "Does this rag smell like ether to you?" she thought, smiling to herself at the joke as Hans lost consciousness and slumped to the floor.

All because of the invention of redial. If Spätzle had just dialed direct, instead of hitting redial on Whiskers's experimental Cat Phone, he wouldn't have known she'd been in touch with the JDL, and she wouldn't now be staring him down, trying to analyze his weaknesses and planning to kill him.

She didn't want him dead. They were on the same side, in fact. But, he'd possibly discovered her identity, and for that he must be silenced. She'd deal with the grandmother after she got the answer from the Home Office. First things first.