Fate will sometimes deal you a hand of Texas Hold’em that defies knowing which way you might choose to play in the game of life.  True, my hand did feature a pair with promise, and they were aces, or perhaps jokers.

I buddied up with Harvey Martin and Don White whilst I was doing time in Odessa—AKA the Sand Trap.  They were wood butchers by profession and conducted business under the slogan “A job done right by Martin and White”.

We passed the winter months as bowlers, and along with Gene Underwood, Mel Maynard and John White we blistered the lanes of Busby Lanes and amassed a collection of trophies that would bring a smile to most any countenance.

Don, Harve and I shared the rent on a single hangar for our sixteen pound missiles of Brunswick manufacture.  We three also managed to conceal a bottled beverage that was verboten at that bowling establishment in our locker and to my shame I will admit that with a dollop of orange juice as a thinner we managed to keep our spirits soaring.  Mel, Gene and John shook their heads from time to time and tsk–tsked at our conduct.  Those three had deviations from proper decorum, but we forgave their trespasses and seldom was heard a discouraging word.  A good time was had by one and all.  Our team did not strive to humiliate our opponents, since a manageable average is advantageous in the long haul.

Don was a Louisiana escapee and he buoyed our spirits when the chips were down.  He fled the bayou state under pressure from the web footed populace of Louisiana, culled due to his beliefs.

“I believed that all them chickens belonged to me,” he’d confess after a pensive pause.  “It was definitely not due to any religious affiliation, as one might surmise.”

In a telephone conversation, just lately, I managed to re-establish ties to those days of yore in a conversation with Don White and learned that he is still able to take nourishment and put a projectile in the pocket of pins.  But, he also passed along the news that a gathering of our old team would not gather much of a crowd.  Harve, John and Gene have racked their balls and Mel has vanished from Ector County.

Harve and I did not pursue the trade of the others in their summer time activities of the softball trade, but we forgave their warm weather competition.

“What became of all your trophies?” I asked Don, and he did not respond, but he asked about mine.

“I put mine in storage,” I admitted, “out in the tool shed,” which is semi-true.  I did not add that time, tide, grandkids, and the aging of the glue had reduced mine into their integral components of shinny metal, allowing me to assemble them in a tow sack—but I think he knew.

Don’s good wife, Jeanette, tolerated our childlike prattle a heap longer than you’d expect, but patience is not unlimited when old bowlers are not on a time clock.

And, I never did get around to one of Don’s stranger adventures with the King and His Court when they came to town and opposed the Odessa Merchant’s team in a titanic showdown back in the ‘60s—or there about.  I’ll get back to you when my investigation is completed.

It’s a tale worth the telling, but I’ve used up my allotted space for this week.  Old Geezers relive the past and improve on it.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at Charles@CharlesChupp.com.

By Charles Chupp, Copyright ©2008 Charles Chupp