A thought from Stan Raines

I was standing in line at HEB yesterday and the man in front of me, someplace in his fifties, mustachioed and trim asked me how I was and I gave him my usual non-commital “Doin’ fine” and returned a “How you doin’?”

“Ah, you know,” he said, “another beautiful day in Brownsville.” Then added, “At least it hasn’t rained,” which, at that point, it had not.

He paid up and left and I took care of my business and stepped out, first-time re-used green bag in hand full of lemons and bananas and cilantro and was struck with how blue the sky was. Apparently I hadn’t noted it that well on the way in. It was a beautiful day in Brownsville. Glad the guy had pointed it out, I was. It’s good to be perked up from time to time. The phrase kept turning over in my head, looking for a melody that expressed the idea properly and led to a plethora of ideas for other lyrics that could explain such an outburst. it has a nice rhythm, “Another beautiful day in Brownsville.” There certainly ought to be such a song.

Then today, another beautiful day just like it, although I had to note that the grass was getting unacceptably taller and, further, two of my neighbors had already mowed theirs back to the desired evenness. Worse: the switch had gone bad on the electric mower we had bought a year ago in May and I could not lay hands on the receipt for the puchase, without which, the stated two-year warranty wasn’t worth a damn. Worse again: after a two-day Web search last month when the switch first failed, I discovered that the part, made by Briggs and Stratton, was no longer available.

So for the last two weeks I’ve attempted communication with the Home Depot in Harlingen, spending much time on hold, often only to be thrown off the system and told by AT& T that if I wanted to make a phone call I should “please hang up and dial again.” This morning, however, the lady who is the bookkeeping department took my cell phone number and promised to call back right away, as soon as she spoke to the home office. It was the third time she’d promised such, but, as they say, the third time is the charm. And I was headed to Harlingen anyway to lunch with a pal and, who knows, she might even call me while I’m in the neighborhood.

Of course, the call didn’t come and now son Joseph is flaked out after having gone over the back yard pushing around the manual mower I’d bought three or four years ago in a fit of concern and which son Thomas declares is too much work, with which I do agree except that five days of rain makes for mighty tall grass.

Ah, beautiful days in Brownsville.