"I Thought, Is It Too Early To Thank Old Saint Nick?"

 

 

Good Thanksgiving Thursday Morning, all bodies.

In the afternoon two days before today, I walked into Folsom's "The Donut Stop" to assure myself that there would be enough chocolate covered Bavarian creme donuts and apple fritters. The young woman at the counter, let's just call her Darcy, assured me that there would be but that they'd be closing at 1pm the day before Thanksgiving.

She asked me if I wanted to to secure my order and I told her that I didn't think that that would be necessary though in the back of my mind, I knew better. The Donut Stop's apple fritters are legendary.

Well, I should have placed an order, and then again, Darcy might have mistook my indecision and did it anyway!

It's been our Macy's Morning tradition even in California, to order danish and bearclaws and serve it with a big bowl of fruit. I can't find bearclaws that I like on the Northshore, so apple fritters fill the void... So to speak!

So yesterday around 10am, I saunter into the bakery to find no apple fritters on the shelf, or in the back, baking..AACK!

The woman who knows me from my frequent visits over the years, apologized and said that they were holding in a box, two apple fritters and two chocolate covered Bavarian creme donuts for pickup sometime today... for someone!

"Aw jeez, my wife told me that I should've placed an order," I said.

Therese who was with me was a bit disinterested because she spotted on the shelf plenty of chocolate covered Bavarian creme donuts.

So the manager, sporting a camo baseball cap, and wearing a long black apron that covered his camouflaged ensemble, seemed to be biding his time till 1pm. He came to the counter to see what was the problem.

After telling my tale hoping that Darcy mistook my non-order as an actual order, I awaited the manager's decision. The older woman told the manager that they were saving the order, but that there was no name written on the order.

I could tell by the sympathetic look on her face that she was pleading the case in defense of the entire staff as well as my traditional Macy's parade need.

The manager put his large hands across his salt and pepper gray beard and scrubbed it in thought.

"So, we don't know who actually made the order," right?

The older woman handling the drive up window, nodded.

"And it is the exact same order this man is looking for, right?"

"That's right," she said.

I could tell as he continued rubbing his beard that he was thinking about that "bird in an hand" stuff...

"Well then, let these folks have it!"

"That'll be $ 8.53 with tax," he said, confident in the finality of his decision.

I thought, is it too early to thank Old Saint Nick?

First home brewed with fritters!

Oh yeh, c... y'all.

Copyright 2023/Ben Bensen III

 

."Belton, the belted kingfisher.".

The Little Opportunist!

 Good "late Wednesday Morning," everyone!

We drove into Merrywood a few evenings ago, and circled the bird sanctuary to notice white things on the lake. Slowing down, I noticed that those white things were egrets, ibis, herons and other shore birds feasting on the slowly drying up lake... It's pretty sad. I don't think Louisiana has ever had a drought as long, hot and intense as the one we've been experiencing in the last three or four months or more.

Bird Sanctuary Pond

We get all kinds of the feathered visitors according to the seasons, but one that seems to endure the changes is our clownish resident, the belted kingfisher and his babe. Most of the times, one finds it hard to locate them around the many ponds and the sanctuary lake, but you sure can hear their noisy "rattle" that seems to express their disgust with being disturbed.

Perched high up on a very flexible branch with a coififure that is straight out of a punk rock group, the kingfisher overlooks the lake, bounces and awaits the right moment dive bomb the lake for a scaly tidbit. We sat quietly in the car for about twenty minutes to checkout the action.

We were both laughing in disbelief when we saw the "belted one" dive down and actually snatch a fish right out an ibis's mouth and take it to the treetops on the other side of the lake.

Little stinker!

A sketch inspired by the antics of the clownish freshwater fisherman. Maybe tomorrow, I clean it up and add some digital color!

A few adjustments were made!

I'm pretty happy with the outcome so, I think I'll give the bird a name. The name "Belton." seems appropriate and kinda Cajun though not as popular as Boudreaux or Benoit!

I'm okay with that...Belton, the belted kingfisher... ha!

Copyright 2023/ Ben Bensen III

" Don't Look At Me,"

 

"Don't Do Like They Used To!"

Good " Don't Look At Me," Sunday Morning, all bodies.

Last night, after that LSU debacle, we settled in on a baseball game. I sensed that Tee didn't want me to return to the studio after dinner. All through the baseball game, our dawg was stalking Therese's left over potatoes.

He was told, way too many times, to go sit, but his "MO" is to wait a few minutes and jump off the sofa pretending to be thirsty. He'll take a perfunctory sip at his water bowl and then, as if no one is watching, plop himself at Tee's feet just under the table that holds the potatoes. I casually point to the sofa and he acquiesces, but five minutes later, he's thirsty again.

It reminded me of the game I played pitting wits between my mother and Pierre.

"Mom, don't feed the dawg," I'd say.

"I'm not!"

Naturally, the discussion has to end there otherwise we'd have a yell fest, which wouldn't help anyone's digestion! Even though mom knows I know she does feed the mutt, she tells me she doesn't. Pierre circles the table like a shark waiting for his chance to attack.

"Pierre, go away," I'd yell.

He uses his patented "thirsty pup routine" and then, moves in for the umpteenth time. In the corner of my eye, I see my mother lean over to stealthily drop the dog another tidbit, saying...

"Don't look at me, Murgatroyd! Benny told me not to feed you!

Mom always referred to that moniker with disdain, or when she couldn't remember a person's name.

Ah... such memories!

Finally, after the ballgame is over, Therese gets up and returns her plate, with the uneaten potatoes, to the kitchen counter. Taking his chances that I'll yell at him again, he slips off the sofa and follows Therese's every step. Then, he puts on the cocker spaniel charm and looks up to her longingly.

From across the room, Tee looks at me with a smirk and says to the dawg...

"Don't look at me, Pierre, Benny told me not to feed you!"

First cup...

Copyright 2023/Ben Bensen III

"Thud... and a "Cold Cocked Cardinal Is On Its Back!"

An attempted heart shaped couple.

 Good Saturday Morning, y'all.

St. Louis is jogging my memory a bit. It reminds me of a failed attempt to capture a cardinal adventure that happened months ago. There was a thud against the breakfast nook window unlike the familiar thump I occasionally hear around the early spring when fledgling birds try to test their independence only to bounce off the screened windows.

But this was a distinct THUD!

So, I left the kitchen and walked out near the bird bath to find a "cold cocked" cardinal on its back with its feet straight up in the air. I took a look at the bird's eye to notice it was not sunken in, which is a sign that blood is running through the cardinal's head.

I had a large wooden spoon with me and gave the bird a slight poke... There was no movement, so I waited.

I went back into the kitchen to check on the soup I was making, and wait a bit. About five minutes passed before I went back out to see if the bird left, but it was still belly up. I gave it another poke and attempted to flip it over on its chest and it gave me a rather aggravated screech like I had awakened it from a good dream.

I gave it one convincing poke under the wings and he flapped his wings and complained again... but, I bit louder. I went back inside to check on the soup and to give the bird another five minutes to compose itself. Finally, the colorful male took one look at me, freaked out and dizzily fluttered a few feet unto a branch of our maple tree. The whole process of shaken out the cobwebs and making it to the tree took all of about a half an hour.

But, strangest thing is seeing the female cardinal meet him as he entered the azalea bush a few feet away. She obviously was concerned, but decided to wait and see what transpired for she was nowhere to be found as I attempted to awaken her "beau."

A minute or so later, they both took off for the safety of the tree line probably to continue feeding their brood. Blue skies...

Copyright 2023/Ben Bensen III

"A Family Of Cardinals Started The Proceedings Of Excommunication!"

 Good Monday Morning, y’all.

The bluejays are full of scorn. The female titmice flashed me in disgust. The woodpeckers pounded a tree and screamed their disapproval. The chickadees chattered, “yeh, you rite,” and shot me the bird while a family of cardinals started the proceedings of excommunication. The hummers just hummed.

I apologized profusely and tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault. It was Perky Pet!

That’s right. After rebuilding and rebuilding while searching for years to replace the original Cathedral Feeder with a new one, my wife actually found one.

That first feeder lasted, with some help, about ten or twelve years. I cajoled, chastised and even caressed that feeder. At one point, I believe that I totally rebuilt every aspect of that feeder using bleach, glue, gesso, varnish, finishing nails, and one ply plywood. I attached it to a stand that was originally belonged to a bluebird feeder until I accidentally backed into it with my lawn tractor.

Sadly, this new Perky Pet Feeder is slowly falling apart like a French cathedral. It is barely two years old. Damn those Chinese! Let’s make America Great Again by first designing and building a better bird feeder!

Of course, I was smart because I bought two more of the famous feeder, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna give those birds the satisfaction of a new place to worship even if it is easier to just replace it. They are just gonna have to go out and, and eat worms… or something.

I wonder if there are any “building code” violations to poorly built bird feeders that I can pursue?

Copyright 2023/Ben Bensen III

"Speak Softly And Carry A Big Paint Brush, Bridget!"

Curating was fun while it lasted...

 Well, good Saturday Morning on another sleepy, dusty, delta day, all bodies!

Some rain would be nice!

One of the really great things I loved about curating at City Hall in Covington was all the wonderful art I got to see and discovering the artists that created them. One of those was Bridget Jarvis, who indefatigable spirit shined through everything she did and everyone she met. I only got to spend a few moments with her over the last few years, but had the chance to speak with her, at length, when she rolled on in with her paintings and the "HueDats" about her disability, her art and her perspective on life.

I was told about a week ago that she passed away leaving a hole in the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to have made her acquaintance. Speak softly and carry a big paint brush up there in the heavens, Bridget.

No cups, yet!

Copyright 2023/ Ben Bensen III

"Once Again... This Time With Soul!"

Before... on site!

And, Once again...

 Good "for a good cause!" Wednesday, all bodies.

About five years ago, I painted this waterway near the Prieto Marina near Mandeville and hung it in one of the few one man shows I've ever done. The show was a lotta fun, but I only sold one panting and I sold it to a high school girl friend I hadn't seen in a very long time. The painting was entitled, "The Best Seat In The House!"

Twenty minutes after I sold it to Cathy, a family friend wanted to buy it. Many business opps came to mind, but a sale is a sale... is a sale. When I offered to paint another one for him but at a higher price, Ken jump on it. I have done such things in my commercial business.

Too often ad agencies don't know what they like until they see it!

Every Christmas get together, Ken inquires about the state of that art. "Yeh, man," it is still available, and the deal is still the same." (It has been in and out of many galleries, at different prices.) I'm still pretty proud of how the second one turned out... Damn near nailed it, but I have no record of the original that I sold to Cathy except the one on an easel, unfinished.

This morning I dropped off a few paintings at The Far Horizons Gallery to be auctioned off for a good cause... And, I donated one called "The Best Seat In The House!"

First cup!

Copyright 2023/ Ben Bensen III

The "Watermelon Man" sez...

A Curly Pig Tail...

 Good "freaked out" Friday Morning, all bodies.

Well, yesterday, in my Facebook memories, I found a post I made six years ago about hunting for the perfect watermelon. I found the post after returning from the local grocery to purchase, you guessed it, a watermelon.

Coincidences that most folks consider "just a part of doing life," freak me out. But, I pulled myself together by allowing the gods of happenstance to assist me in the use of the post for today's "Throwback for Thursday's.

There's only one thing wrong with that... the god's timing!

So, for the amount of time it takes one to read a post from 2017, let's pretend that today IS a Thursday. Thanks for y'all's cooperation and understanding... Here ya geaux...

Still groovin’ after the Tuba Skinny concert on Saturday night, I skipped on over to Giddy Up to converse with the regulars and have a cup or two. Even though I thought it unwise to squeeze in some local grocery shopping, I managed to meet MaryJane, a good friend who has had her own special version of tribulations, and one who still finds a way to smile. We had a fun talk!

While grabbing a few things “we just can’t do without”, I was reminded that it was once again, Washington Parish Watermelon Time and they seemed to be going fast. As MaryJane went her own way in the store, I bumped into a total stranger who, like me, was kinda baffled as to which melon to take home.

I remember that song, “Watermelon Man” did pretty well on the radio in the late sixties.” I suspect it was a successful tune, especially in New Orleans, because most of us as well as our parents grew up with salesman selling fruit and veggies from a horse or mule drawn cart.

Herbie Hancock wrote the song, but Mongo Santamaria turned it into a hit!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJuX-JJ8WF0

“I never know which melon to pick,” a man said to me as if he needed help.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “The wife’s giving you grief about last year’s pick?”

The man was wearing a jeans, a camouflage tee shirt and a baseball cap that advertised a “weed and feed” store. To me, wearing blue jeans in this heat was a definite sign… he was a farm boy.

“So you don’t know how to pick a good watermelon either,” I said.

“Well, you’d think I’d be good at it because I used to grow them commercially, but lately, I haven’t been too successful picking a winner!”

“I know that’d be of little help. Washington Parish melons are usually the sweetest and juiciest I’ve ever had, though I must admit, I’ve had a few over the years that weren’t as good,” I replied.

“You know, he said, there’s a farm in South Carolina, I forget the brand name, that had a sure fire way of being consistently successful!”

“Oh, yeh, what was their secret,” I asked.

“It was a sure fire solution,” he said. Eighty five days after the melons are planted, they are harvested. Works every time… in South Carolina!”

“I’ll tell you a good way to be sure the melon here is ready. It seems to work pretty well when I was growing them, though not all the time!”

“Cool, man! What’s the secret? I asked.

“Try to find one where the stem is curled kinda like a pig’s tale!” He continued, “the way they farm now, it’s hard to find one with a stem still intact, but if you do, it’s a big help!”

So, after the man decided which one to pick, and left with his prize, I went digging around the two large cardboard boxes that were left and actually found one… kinda. Hopefully, it’s “Piggy Approved!”

First cup!

Copyright 2023/Ben BensenIII

"Mary, Can You Change The Music, Please."

 Good "I hate the f%@*king Eagles, man!" Saturday Morning, y'all.

Well, ya know, it's one of those pre-programmed stations whose playlist just overplays certain songs and certain groups.

Big Al and I arrived at the counter to the mellow sounds of "Take It To The Limit" to order some coffee. Al always gets a small expresso cappucino. He normally stays only long enough to finish his morning jolt, but today was a bit different.

"Mary, can you change the music. I hate the damn Eagles," I said rather irritably since I hadn't had my first cup yet.

"Dude, exclaimed Big Al, The Big Lebowsky!"

"Hey you mean like the Dude, his Dudeness, Duder, um, the effin El Duderino?"

"Yeh, man, Al said, that line is from the movie,"The Big Lebowsky!"

"Oh man, Mary jumps in and says, I love that movie!"

Next thing you know, we three are recreating our favorite scenes like bowling alley confrontations, the sweater, the rug, the Dude's penchant for a white Russians... stuff like that.

Al and I got our coffees, sat down and for another twenty minutes or so, we're mixing the movie with other subjects like the finer points of welding (Big Al's a metal sculptor) and my Air Force paintings in the Pentagon.(I had just received my new copy of ASAA's "Aero Brush" magazine and brought it along to read.)

His cappucino finished, Al gingerly extracts himself from the leather sofa and as he heads for the door, Al turns and stops, smiles and points to the heavens and says, "I hate the f%@**king Eagles"... Ha!

"Take It Easy" was playing on the radio.

No cups, yet...

 Copyright 2023/Ben Bensen III

"He Liked The Photo Better"...

Old West Altar

Last night, while having dinner, we watched a PBS series called, "Iconic America" where the reporter wanted to get to the bottom of the lore of the real cowboy vs the TV hero. Being a baby boomer, we could relate to the questions the reporter was asking of real cowboys about how TV heroes like Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, Gene Autry, and Hopalong Cassidy was distorted even more by the movie industry.

 What's the real story!

 

So funny, are my latest connections to the story because just three weeks ago, some artists from the Lacombe Artist Guild came to the coffeehouse, Giddy Up in Folsom, to sketch and nosh a bit. We picked a saddle seated atop a wooden bannister as our subject, but it wasn't a great saddle and it wasn't well lit.

I mentioned a saddle I sketched a few years back and liked it enough to add some color to it, and post it on Facebook. Well, a friend of Karen Kuchar, Linda and David Weirather, saw it and thought it would fit right into the extra bedroom they had. It was turned into a western theme.

 

The room originally belong to their daughter who passed away a few years back. Having lost our son in 2013, we had a lot more in common then just the old west. So, as requested, I tore it out of the sketchbook and sold it to them.

 

About a week ago, looking for something interesting to sketch, I saw this rusted old spur that broke away from the other half on the wall and rested behind the original saddle I had sketched years ago. How appropriate... kinda like an omen of sorts!

 

 

 So, I sketched it as is on one of the Giddy Up coffee tables and posted it. David saw my post and loved it. He thought that the real rusted spur sitting on the table in front of the Giddy Up branded logo was gonna be a nice edition to his collection. So, he asked to purchase just the photo... How could I refuse him.

 

Check's in the mail, man...

Second cup!

 

 Copyright/2023/Ben Bensen III

"Hey Coach... Remember Me?"

Bluetail Medical Group, Chesterfield, MO

 

Good Throwback Thursday Morning from St. Louis, MO.'

 

Lots of reflection going on here currently. 

 

So funny. I overheard a conversation one man relating his upbringing to a teacher he fondly remembered. It was weird because last week on Facebook, someone I now from the old neighborhood was talking about meeting one of his high school teachers after all those years. 

 

It was one of those, "Hey there sir, do you remember me?"

 

And, of course, the friend was positively affected by the teacher's response. I tried to relate a similar story to this friend in an attempt to continue the conversation passed the "like button" or some aggravating emoji, but I couldn't find the blog story I wanted to use.

 

This morning, on a TBT day, I moseyed through my memories notifications and found the very post I created years ago but couldn't find last week... 

 

Freaks me out...

Third Hampton Inn cup...

 

3 Years Ago

See your memories

Ben Bensen III

otSoesnrdpmc511ft057740a93cc5fat1iMfa5,8 652c591lyc0 u214m7a  ·

Shared with Public

Good Monday Morning, all bodies.

Yeh, it's a Monday again... Second cup!

"Hey Coach!"

When returned to Southern California, after being away for about five or six years, my wife and I visited a local restaurant that at one time was owned by Dodger manager, Tommy LaSorda.

Of course, it was an Italian restaurant. But, while eating there, a former Little League team mate who was with his family dining, saw me and called from across the room, "Hey Coach!"

 

I always loved that.

 

I remember a coach as a young ballplayer who directly and indirectly taught me a thing or two.

With "ducks on the pond" and probably nobody out it was a definite bunting situation, but I struck out swinging. The next time at bat, I was given a signal, but never got it. After a swing and a miss, the coach called me over to third base for a conference.

 

"You see this bat?" he said pointing to the bat with his right arm around me.

"The next time you miss a signal, I'm gonna wrap that bat around your head... Okay?"

 

"Uh, okay, coach!"

 

This was my coach almost all through my little league days. I read online that he just recently passed away. This scenario was the first thing that entered my mind. I shook my head and chuckled. As a coach in South Pasadena for over 12 years, I remember vowing to never motivate a player in such a way.

I also remember that same coach escorted me to the St. Claude Hospital when I snapped the ulna and radius in half on my glove hand just before a game. I don't recall being too upset as a twelve year old though I didn't look at my forearm much. The coach could never have been so attentive. He stayed with me long after my mom arrived and the arm was reset and put in a cast.

 

I only remember hoping to get home in time to watch the first episode of Combat! on TV.

 

Coach always gathered the team together before each game, and sometimes, before each practice, to pray for a good game, sportsmanship, and give thanks to the Lord for our parents and teachers. Maybe, he started a prayer at practice after my accident... I wouldn't be surprised.

 

Many years later visiting home, we attended Mass at St. Raphael, in Gentilly and was surprised to see and hear the man read the sermons. His voice was very 9th Ward as he had a tendency to speak through the side of his mouth.

 

"Therese, remember that guy I told you about that coached me all those years at Bunnyfriend Playground?"

"Yes, what about it," she asked.

"That's him on the podium. I haven't seen him in twenty years or more," I said.

"I gotta see him after Mass, okay?"

 

Immediately after the blessing, I dragged our son and my wife to the parking lot to intercept him and capture a moment from my past.

Walking away from a few Mass celebrants, and as he headed for his car, I yelled, "Hey Coach! Remember me?"

Gotta be a special place in heaven for coaches like Firmin Simms!

 

https://www.dignitymemorial.com/.../firmin-simms-9178646

 

Copyright 2023/ Ben Bensen III