Heart of a Dragon

Religious Jewelry: Dragon and Pentacle Necklace

While cleaning out the drawer to a nightstand today, I found a dragon pendant that had been given to me. I remember feeling slighted when I got it. It was so tiny, and X2’s crystal was much larger and nicer. I put the poor dragon away and didn’t see it again for years.

When I found this small dragon today, it started me thinking about a sermon that Rev. Chuck recently presented on the significance of religious jewelry. Religious jewelry has meaning beyond its monetary value. Its value derives from the meaning invested in it by the wearer. It should remind the wearer of some spiritual value or quest.

In this case, the pentacle reminds me that I walk with my head toward Heaven. I have power through the four elements, and I must remember to use that power well and wisely—and to remain balanced.

The dragon is also a symbol of power. It is an emissary of the Spirit to the Material plane. I now see that no gift is small. The dragon reminds me to master my ego and appreciate the things I have been given. I have so much to be thankful for.

Remembering the sermon, I tied the dragon to my pentacle so that they can guide me together. Unlike, Rev. Chuck, I do take off my religious jewelry. I often go for days at a time without wearing it. But when I do wear it, it reminds me to try to be a better person, to focus on the things that I value and to live this life as well as I can.

Guest Room in Progress

Oh, and speaking of the room I was fixing up when I found the dragon pendant again, here is a picture. Suna and I will soon have some art work on the walls to make it feel more welcoming and curtains to make it feel warmer. But the fresh paint and new bedspread are a start.

A Country Boy Can Survive

At 84, Dad still worries about the future.
 

Suna and I went to see my dad this weekend. We drove down to the farm when Suna got off work on Saturday, spent some time chatting, and then took Dad into Victoria for dinner—which he insisted on buying.

We ate at a Texas Roadhouse. Dad and Suna each had a small sirloin, and I had a pork chop. Their steaks were very good. Dad said it was the best steak he had eaten in years, even if it was the only steak he had eaten in years. My pork chop was seasoned as if it were a steak, and the seasoning really didn't work that well. They also brought it out with a dark brown gravy that reminded me of salty ditch water. Luckily, the gravy was on the side.

These sunflowers really are taller than Suna. They’re even taller than me!
 

The roadhouse atmosphere was played to the hilt, and I even got Dad to throw some peanut shells on the floor. That really went against his upbringing. You could see that he was embarrassed but secretly enjoyed it.

After dinner, we drove around Victoria showing Suna the sites. “There’s a car dealership. There’s a car hospital. There’s a used car dealership. There’s another car dealership. Oh, look! There’s another car hospital.”

This morning, Dad had his stomach pain again. He won’t eat at all on days when the pain afflicts him. Luckily, he said it was a very light attack, and we were hoping it would have subsided enough for him to eat dinner.

We sat around talking until we had to leave to check on the kids. One the way out, I snapped a couple of pictures of Suna, Dad, and the farm. The sunflowers shown here are along the fence of a neighboring farm.

Dinner at the Ritz

Chris Gage
(I couldn’t find a pic of Michael Austin)
Photo Source: Albert & Gage
 

OK. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it ends with a Z. We went to Artz Rib House to have dinner and watch a couple of Suna’s friends perform. I had the South Austin Burger, and I have to say that it was the best hamburger I have ever eaten. It had a rich smoky flavor and was onion-licious.

Playing were Chris Gage and Michael Austin. They played a wonderful mix of old-fashioned bluesy jazz with Chris on piano and guitar, Michael on clarinet. I kept thinking that my dad would really enjoy the music, if not the vocals. He prefers more Andrews-sister arrangements for vocals. But I liked it all.

We are going back there soon to have dinner with an old high school chum. I am looking forward to the reunion and the food. I’m sure the music will be good, no matter who is playing. I will talk more about the atmosphere when I post about that dinner.

Box of Rain

Suna and I Play at Church
Photo by: John Montgommery

Guitar Bill asked Suna and I to accompany him in three Grateful Dead songs at church today.

• Eyes of the World, a long song that features a choppy America-esque rhythm guitar line with the Dead’s disregard for key.
• Broke Down Palace, song that I thought was longer than appropriate.
• Box of Rain, the most enjoyable of the three songs—and the most commercial.

Even though I thought the songs were interminable—or maybe just terminal—many of the congregation seemed to enjoy them. They were at least polite. The Choirmaster even complimented me on my bass playing and said I had to do more of it some time.

Shows what I know.

So what were we doing playing these tunes at church? Search me. The only thing I can figure is that they all have at least one vaguely spiritual moment without ever mentioning God or any other divinity, power, principality, essence, or spirit by name. They were not inconsistent with the sermon, which was about how an atheist came to join a Christian church.

Adios, Ladybird

Ladybird and Lyndon Johnson (1968)
Photo Source: LBJ Library

Today we lost someone who has done great things for Texas and the country. Former first lady Ladybird Johnson died at her home this afternoon at the age of 94.

In spite of all the controversy that surrounded her—Viet Nam profiteering, her involvement in high finance, the expansion of the first lady’s role in government—I always thought of her as a kind, gentle figure. But the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center in Austin remains her greatest legacy as far as I’m concerned.

Chattanooga Choo Choo

Cannon from the Battle above the Clouds
Photo by: Beccano

To avoid some of the traffic problems I encountered on the way up to North Carolina, we decided to go home through Tennessee. We stopped at the Hayward Rest Area near the gorge that divides North Carolina and Tennessee. Unfortunately, the view from the westbound side of the freeway isn’t nearly as pretty as the one from the eastbound side. But we got to go through the tunnel, both sides of which are now open.

We ate lunch in a Krystal burger joint just outside of Knoxville. It was the first time I have ever had such tiny burgers. They were a novelty and tasted OK, but I wouldn’t want to eat them regularly.

Then we stopped for a while at Cloudland Canyon State Park, just south of Chattanooga. This was the site of Battle of Lookout Mountain—AKA, “The Battle above the Clouds” because it was fought above a semi-permanent fog bank. The Union Army overran the Confederates who were stationed in Chattanooga. One of the final straws was the Union Army got inside the range of the Confederate cannons on the mountain. When the Rebels tried to aim at the advancing union army, the cannon balls rolled out of the muzzles before the powder could ignite.

I bought a commemorative T-shirt. (I love T-shirts.) And we took pictures of Suna, Beccano, and me standing by a cannon. Suna has photos of her standing by or on the cannons at every stage of her life. (Note: the cannon is not the same one. This is a Union cannon that is being used while the Confederate cannons are out being refurbished.)

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7/13/2007 Update

I wore the T-shirt today. One of my work buddies saw it and told me that his family once owned much of the land that the park now occupies. Georgia condemned it when his grandmother refused to sell. His great grandmother’s family owned the land before the war. His great grandfather was a Union officer who fell in love with the country side and moved to the area after the war. The rest, as they say, is history—or biology.

Spill the Wine

Suna and Becano dance in one of the reception rooms

Prince and Flo took us on an outing to the Childress Vineyards. The vineyard has an impressive main building built to resemble the great house on a traditional European vineyard. Its huge rooms are available for confrences and weddings.

The vineyard cost tens of millions of dollars to get started. It produces only a fraction of the grapes needed for the bottling process. Additional grapes are purchased from other local growers as part of a program to ween the North Carolina agricultural economy from tobacco. According to the tour guide, wine production must at least double for the winery to be profitable. We bought several bottles of delicious wine to help with the effort.

Stand by your pig
Photo by Suna

Suna, Becano, and I had a wonderful time touring the production facilities. When you drink a bottle of wine, you don’t realize just how industrial the bottling process has become. There are tons of equipment and storage tanks holding thousands of gallons of grape juice. The smell is amazing, not at all like the chemical plants of my youth.

After the tour, we had a bite to eat and took a tour of downtown Lexington, where the picture of me and the pig was taken. Apparently, pigs are big in Lexington.

Old Man

The Prince Relaxes in the Garden

Old Man, look at my life. I’m a lot like you were.

—Niel Young

Today, I met Suna’s father and his wife. My first impressions of them were all positive. The Prince and Princess are very nice, and the Prince genuinely cares about his daughter, who has forsaken her royal titles. They are a very active couple in their eighties. Something was always happening in the household.

I had been a little worried about sleeping arrangements as Suna and I are not married and I knew that the Prince was an officer in his church. (It turns out that he was retiring from a global leadership position in the church around the time of our visit.) But my worries were for naught. On our arrival, he cheerfully helped us carry our bags into the guest room, where we were greeted by two twin beds on opposite walls.

Even the step walls were home to flowers in pots.

I believe the house was built in the 1930s or earlier, but it was well-maintained and improved. It was in much better shape than my house would have been had I already finished all of the renovations I planned but never got around to. There was a substantial addition, central air, nice bathrooms, and hardwood floors. Really lovely.

Speaking of air conditioning. You could really tell that we weren’t in Texas. The nights were cool enough that I would have turned off the air and opened the windows. The days were warm and pleasant. The only complaint I heard was that the air conditioning couldn’t get the house down to 70 in the daytime. I would never think of running the air that cold; I couldn’t afford a bill higher than my house payment.

The Princess is a retired photographer and active gardener. She kept the grounds lovely and always had fresh cut flowers for every room. She has a quick laugh and a wonderful sense of humor. Can you tell that I got along with and liked them both?

Good Ole Boys

Police at Play
Photo Source: Legacy City

This is the first post as I try to recapture the events of the past week of wonderful vacation. I am back-dating the posts to keep them in some semblance of the correct chronology.

One thing this vacation reminded me of is that I hate—let me emphasise the word hate—driving in Georgia.

I made good time on Monday, in spite of having left the house much later than I wanted. I ended up stopping within fifty miles of the designated midpoint and was able to eat dinner and get to bed before eleven. I am not one of those who advocate driving for twenty hours or more, even though I have driven big trucks—maybe because I have driven big trucks.

So I woke up Tuesday morning, ate breakfast, and started driving with the stated intention of not hitting a major city at peak traffic. The second half of Alabama was fine.

Then I hit Georgia. I stopped for fuel at Exit 8. I had not even got back up to highway speed when I saw a sea of blue flashing lights coming at me in the oncoming lanes. I started slowing down, knowing something stupid was bound to happen.

The Chrysler 300 is too awesome a car to destroy
in a random police chase!
Photo Source: Auto Online

Sure enough, it did. About a half-mile in front of me, a silver 300 attempted to cross the median. That move almost never works. Medians tend to be softer than pavement. Plowing into them at highway speeds usually ends up being just that—plowing. Not only did the bad guy plow new furrows in the middle of I-20, so did a dozen of Georgia’s finest. Someone even managed to start a grass fire in the process.

So the traffic stopped. One trucker put out the grass fire with his federally-mandated fire extinguisher while we waited for the cops to sort things out. We sat there on the Interstate, waiting for what seemed like hours while cops came and went.

Finally, they opened up one lane. Then the other. Traffic crawled past what was left of the crime scene. The 300 was up on a flat bed wrecker. The car had some damage to the front end and at least one flat. I counted three (maybe more) cops changing the tires on their cars after crossing the median in hot pursuit.

But that wasn’t the end of the fun in Georgia. Traffic came to a stop again at the Atlanta by-pass. Rather than risk having my ass kissed by a dump truck, I detoured a couple of miles through a slum and caught the by-pass from the opposite direction.

The by-pass turned out to be the smoothest sailing in Georgia.

Once I turned onto I-85, traffic was just stupid. Speed up. Stand on the brakes. Ensuring that this idiocy was maintained, the Georgia Patrol had a car stationed under every second or third underpass. Literally, traffic was smoother driving through the part of Alabama where construction had closed all but one lane than any part of Georgia.

Within five miles after I crossed the South Carolina border, traffic had smoothed out. People started driving sanely again. It was as if we had passed out of the influence of the intelligence-dampening ray that covered Georgia. And it’s not that there were fewer people or more lanes. Once they got out of Georgia, everyone breathed a big sigh of relief and started thinking again.

I won’t be going back that way unless someone pays me a lot of money to drive that route. From now on, when Georgia is on my mind, it will bring with it more than just a little apprehension.

Although to be fair, it was in Georgia that I came up with a name for the triangle of interstates that connect Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio—The Texas Traffic Triangle of Torture. But that’s another story.

Homegrown Tomatoes

Home grown tomatoes, home grown tomatoes,
What’d life be without home grown Tomatoes,
There’s only two things that money can't buy:
That’s true love and home grown tomatoes.

Photo by Suna

Guy Clark said it, and he was right. This is a picture of the first of the crop. I’ll let you know how it tastes later. I’m pullin’ this baby off the vine and tossin’ it in a salad. Hopefully, there’ll be more. The trees are shading these plants a bit more than they’d like, so they are protesting by not putting on more flowers.

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Ummmm. Delicious.