My Dad Away From Dad

Mr. Dick Cheatham passed away Wednesday at the age of 80. I met his son Richard in the first grade at Roscoe Wilson and we grew to be best friends. Richard is the fourth of five children born to Dick and his wife Joyce. They lived on 25th Street, just two doors from Roscoe Wilson, and all through elementary school, I spent as much time at their house as I did at my own. Once we matriculated to Hutchinson Jr. Hi, where I lived two houses away, Richard reciprocated at our house. Mr. Cheatham served in the Army in WWII and Korea and taught at Texas Tech for some time. That is not what I remembered about him.

Dick was an artist. That's all I ever knew to call him. His house was a strange and magical place, filled with artistic objects of all types. Dick worked with watercolor, oil, wood and bronze. He had a kiln in the back yard, guarded by his yellow lab Gunny, and on a lucky day, you would catch him casting sculpture. When he wasn't creating works of art in paint and bronze, he was creating them with feathers and string, as he tied some of the most fantastic fishing flys you had ever seen. I remember him coming to my house once to teach watercolor to a bunch of snot nosed Cub Scouts. He told us..."If you can feel, you can be an artist." Sadly, my sense of feeling must have been buried at birth, as I never developed any artistic abilities of my own. Dick gave me a watercolor for High School graduation and he drew a personal cartoon for my graduation from A&M. Both are proudly displayed in my office. I also have one of his watercolors, a wedding gift, in my living room.


Mr. Cheatham died Wednesday in that same house on 25th Street, after a long battle with Parkinson's. His funeral was yesterday, and was attended by so many people, they had to set up chairs in the entryway. The tables at the reception were adorned with dozens of carved wooden birds. Birds Dick had carved over the years. At one point, Mrs. Cheatham asked for everyone's attention. She announced that we were all welcome to take any of the birds we liked. She then pointed out two huge boxes in the back of the room, filled with even more birds. It was an unbelievable selection.

I selected a couple that struck my eye, made my way to give Mrs. Cheatham a hug and wish her the best. I then turned to find Richard, one of my oldest friends. Now, I am not one who cares much for the "man hug". But, in this case, it seemed appropriate. Afterwards, we stepped back, and he made some comment about my bald head, and I reminded him even without hair, I was still smarter and better looking than him. That seemed to get us back on the right footing.

Farewell, Mr. Cheatham. Scratch old Gunny behind the ears for me.

Storm Chasers...Blow Me!!!

Well, it's tornado season again...otherwise known in West Texas as Spring. Having grown up here, and witnessing 49 tornado seasons, I have to say I am annoyed at the annual influx of legal aliens chasing storms. Returning to the home on Maniacal Lane after having acquired a Blake's Round Hot Dog and tater tots from Christaki's tonight, I was slowed dramatically on the Interstate by an antenna laden vehicle, as they checked their mobile computin' machines and the closed circuit TV cameras searching for the next great storm to strike.

As I passed, I politely informed them it was just another storm cloud, and if they would only wait a few minutes, another one would come along directly. Admittedly, it may have actually come out as, "Get the fuck out of the way, you goddamn yankees, my cholesterol bomb is getting cold!"

Every year about this time, storms come and storms go. The local weathermen interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to tell us storms are coming, and storms are going. Call me jaded if you want, but I really don't give a shit about the comings and goings of storms, unless they have the potential to affect the comings and goings of an 8:30 tee time on Saturday morning.

It's the weather folks...and it has been around for several centuries. In the words of the late, great Clayton Williams, "...there ain't a damn thing you can do about it, might as well lie back and enjoy it."