WHERE DO GECKOS GO IN THE HEAT?

Part of my nightly routine is to shut off the kitchen light and turn on the outside back porch light. Only for awhile. To see and count the geckos on the underside of our covered back patio. I can't remember the record number of geckos; it may be 14, but it's at least 11.

None quite as colored as the tokay pictured here. I like the transparent ones that reveal what they've encountered during the day or early evening hours. I don't know what they eat that makes them red, but some are. And some only red in the tail.

Except for three big artistic ones place on a wall and over a door leading to our garage, we haven't had a gecko in the house for awhile. I guess that means we don't have any scrumptious bugs. The first one we encountered in another house made me freak. I had to catch it in a Dixie cup and free it outside, but I did not want that thing crawling up in bed with me. Since then, no worries. I think they may look at me in the same light.

But since it's gotten very warm, ok real hot, I haven't spotted a one. Tonight I'll go walking outside where our roof line wraps around and see if maybe they've found a cooler place to hang out. It may even be a cool spot I've been missing.

TIME TELL FACE

Ok, it doesn't have quite the ring to it as A Tell Tale Heart. And no, it's not another blog entry on getting older. Well, at least not a lot about that.

What time would it be on your face it it didn't have a clock? Huh? How old would you be if you didn't know how old you really were? How old do you feel? Finally, what is the fondest memory from your chilhood? What is your fondest memory of last week? Year? Your life?

If you're expecting answers from me, sorry, you're not getting them right now. I think these are too hard to answer. But they are fun to ponder.

Ok, I'll answer the first. Since I haven't shaved yet, it must be early morning. There's coffee by my side, so that cinches it. My hair is "Must up". I'd guess 7:04: nope, it's 7:02. Now if I were younger, I'd get out my gel (would Butch wax do? and do they still make it?) spike up parts of my hair, wad up other parts, put on a baseball hat, maybe wear it backwards, and start my day. But something tells me I'm older and that would look stupid. I know, it looks stupid anyway(s), but those looking like that don't have the benefit of time to draw on. They'll have to wait for styles to change. Or maybe when the clock on their face strikes 13.

"DRIVE FOR SHOW AND PUTT FOR DOUGH, BABY"

That's a favorite saying in golf. One of my old foursome, Coach Mike, used it often. It is so true. It's probably what separates the good from the very good.

To me it's the most boring part of golf. Especially to watch on tv. But by the very nature of the sport, it's the easiest to televise. What I like about the putting green is the long putts. And I must love them, because it seems I'm never close enough to the hole on my approach. But reading the greens, picking out a spot, and letting the lag putt go is fun. I wish I had the same attitude for the five to eight footers that I routinely miss.

In the 1920's Tom Thumb Golf began the miniature golf rage. Putt Putt took Tom Thumb to new heights and used to have a tournament for the best Putt Putt putter in the land. I wonder if their champions were as astute on actual putting greens or if they could only putt on artificial surfaces with windmills.

The last time I played miniature golf with my son and his older son I got a real good look at Grant's putter. On a longer putt he reared back and was prepared to take a full swing, like he was driving the ball. I bobbed and weaved like Cassius Clay to avoid the gold colored putter taking aim at my nose. Fortunately, the swing missed both nose and ball.

Our family on vacation in Florida one Spring Break met St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Cris Carpenter and his wife at a minature golf course. Cris and I tied that evening. We still exchange Christmas cards and a rare phone call.

Now, as far as I know, there are no Chip and Golf. That's an area that I need help in. All you would need would be a little more acreage and some plastic grass. And a lot of insurance for shanked shots.

"IT T'S Webdings

IT'S GETTING HOT OUT HERE

Webdings is a bad font to type in. That's what all the little pictures and characters are at the start of this blog. It says "It's webdings".

Now about this flower. Or petal. I know it's not a stamen or pistol. Those are flower parts I learned in grade school. Notice I didn't say grammar school--that would mean I was an old dude.

You see I picked this flower and then carefully tore out the center and held it to our bright blue cloudless Summer sky. Ok, I didn't. But that's what our skies generally look like. Not many clouds. But it rains here. I think we've had 1.7'' of rain this whole year. I think we were gone for about half that amount, but hey, that's why the Lord placed me here. He knows I don't care for rain and steel gray skies.

But it's not even Summer yet and it's getting hot out here. Days of 106 degrees are getting common. I'm having to awaken my wife at 5:30 for her daily walks. One of these days I'll join her again. 110 degree days start this weekend. Residents are taking off in droves. The Phoenix metropolitan area is shrinking, relatively speaking.

We had neighbors over for pizza last night. I went to get takeout from Oreganos, one of the most popular places in town. In fact, unless you have lots and lots of time to wait, you can't even get in the place unless you go around 4:30 PM in peak months. Last night, no problem. Not many there. The staff was overly nice to me--a customer. I wasn't sure they weren't going to comp my pizza. They didn't: it was great.

So all's not bad in the Summer solstice of the Southwest. At least I keep telling myself that.

A LITTLE BASEBALL STORY

When I encountered the picture of the braille flag (right, autographed by Martina McBride) it brought to mind a little baseball story from years past.

Earl Weaver, former manager of the Baltimore Orioles, could raise a ruckus with the best of them. He'd argue with umpires and really put on a show. Nothing like the Braves' AA manager--now that was classic. When he crawled on his belly to get to the pitcher's mound where he took the resin bag, pulled the pin acting like it was a grenade and tossed it in the direction of the home plate umpire, well, that was just the best of all time. But Weaver could incite the ire of the boys in blue back when Robby, Brooks, Palmer, Cuellar and others played for him.

Arguing a controversial call over a rule, he said,"Wait right here. I'm going to get my rule book."

The umpire in question said,"Here. Use mine."

Weaver's response," I can't read braille."

Classic. I don't know how much is true, or if I have relayed only partial truth here. But if it's not true, it should be.

VOILA

Mostly a European term voila is like the lightning strike. It's the epitome. The exclamation mark. Usually coming quite suddenly.

When I saw the picture of the lightning bolt splitting the saguaro cacti, I thought of a referee with arms uplifted indicating a successful field goal or extra point attempt. Then I thought of Lou Christie's classic "Lightning Striking Again".

But after those initial reflections, I was reminded of an interview I heard with heralded science fiction author Ray Bradbury. Author of hundreds of short stories and I'd guess 35 novels, Bradbury is close to 90 years of age, I believe. And his history as a writer is inspiring.

For 25 years he wrote in a journal on a daily basis. Ten pages a day. None of it was any good. Finally, he wrote a short story entitled "The Lake". It clicked. It was good. He wept. After all that effort, he had finally succeeded at something he loved. It was a voila moment.

While it seemed sudden, it wasn't. All those years of effort, all that dedication to his craft finally paid off handsomely for him. I've known quite a few authors and author wannabees. Including me. So as we continue in our pursuit, we wait for the lightning.