Global warming, my ass. Texas is suffering from the lowest temperatures in thirty years. Our heating system can’t keep up with the cold and it’s currently 56 degrees Fahrenheit in our living room. Luckily, upstairs is nice and toasty. All the pipes in the house are frozen, so we have no water.

On the positive side of the ledger, our little guest house is sauna-like, and its pipes are gushing with plenty of hot water. Unfortunately, we moved all the furniture out of the guest house because we’re planning to remodel.

How the hell did pioneers survive this kind of weather? Their houses were drafty. Their clothing wasn’t made of modern miracle fibers. They had fireplaces, but had to go out into the cold to cut fire wood. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m suffering because I have to walk twenty feet from the house to the guest house to take a nice, long hot shower.

Just got an email telling me that Anchorage, Alaska is 10 degrees warmer than McKinney.

Pass the whale blubber.

I never realized until this week that I could find stats that tell me all sorts of interesting information about visitors to JimandJamie.com and their reading habits on the site. Here’s what I found out:

Despite the availability of hundreds of stories about our travels, Google searches lead the most people to two specific stories day after day after day. Let’s be clear here. I’m not saying they were the most searched, most read stories yesterday. Nor last week. Nor last month. I’m saying that these two stories are the most searched and most read every single day of the year. They’re not, as you might reasonably assume, stories that show beautiful scenery from around the world. They are not stories about the interesting people we’ve encountered on our journeys. And they are not stories about unusual or exciting experiences. No. Not at all.

The all-time most popular story is something I posted from South Africa five years ago. The title of that article is “They will bite you on the balls.”

The second most popular is something from Tahiti almost eighteen months ago titled, “Quinn’s Bar and the Trans-Pacific transvestites.”

In the words of Joe Biden, “C’mon, man.” Are there really that many people around the world interested in South African honey badgers? Or long-gone bars in Tahiti?

Or is the internet just crawling with folks who are inordinately interested in transvestites and being bitten on the balls? And is there some kinky connection between the two?

I don’t know what key words these people are searching, but I’m willing to bet that neither “honey badger” nor “Tahiti” was among them.

We got up early this morning and drove over to Texarkana, Arkansas. Put a check in that box because we have now visited our 43rd state.

The twin cities of Texarkana stretch across both sides of the Texas-Arkansas border. Texarkana, Texas has a population of 36,688 and Texarkana, Arkansas is called home by 29,901. As you might expect from its name, State Line Avenue delineates the border between the two cities and two states. Stand on the eastern side of the street, you’re in Arkansas. Toss a rock across the street, it lands in Texas. Apparently thousands of people cross back and forth to live in one state and work in the other.

Each city has its own mayor and its own city council and, undoubtedly, its own unfunded municipal retirement benefits. But they share a federal building, courthouse, jail, post office, Chamber of Commerce, water utility, and some of the shabbiest streets on which I’ve ever had the honor of driving.

I learned a new word while we were there: portmanteau. A portmanteau is a word that combines the sounds and meanings of other words, such as motel (half “motor” and half “hotel”) or brunch (half “breakfast” and half “lunch”). In this case, Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana were combined to create Texarkana. Whoever created the name Texarkana was fudging a bit because it’s thirty miles down the road to the Louisiana border.

Turns out some famous people hail from Texarkana: Dan Blocker, who played Hoss on the old Bonanza TV show. Mike Huckabee, former governor of Arkansas and one-time presidential candidate. Parnelli Jones, the Indy race driver. Scott Joplin, the King of Ragtime music. Eddie Matthews, former slugging third baseman for the Braves. Legendary golfer Byron Nelson. Ross Perot, another former presidential candidate and legendary businessman.

Unfortunately, I can understand why they left. Texarkana is the one of the most depressing places we’ve ever visited. Its downtown is filled with beautiful old buildings, but many of them are boarded up and abandoned. The streets were empty. It was as if Texarkana was ground zero for the first neutron bomb — the buildings were still standing, but there were no people. It was eerie. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say the death of this once vibrant city was probably caused by the construction of the freeway miles away from the downtown. Lots of great American downtowns were unintentionally killed off when new freeways changed the traditional traffic patterns of the cities they bypassed. Texarkana grew up around the intersection of two railroads. It looks like it died when the importance of railroads was supplanted by freeways.

Here’s one of the saddest photos I’ve ever taken. “LWORTH 5&10.” It’s one photo that symbolizes the death of a once great American company in the middle of a once great American city

Here in the beginning of the third decade of the twenty-first century, there are probably pitiful few Americans who even remember the once dominant Woolworths 5&10 and even fewer who ever sat down at one of its lunch counters for a milkshake. I asked our 32-year old next door neighbor if he was familiar with Woolworths and he paused to think about it for a few seconds and then slowly shook his head to say no.

I’m getting old.

Luckily, there’s a lot more to Arkansas than the municipal death rattle that is Texarkana. People tell us the rest of the state is beautiful, especially the Ozarks and the northwestern corner of the state.

We’ll come back, but we’ll stick to the freeway and bypass Texarkana when we do.

The question before us today is “Have I been to Arkansas?” I honestly don’t know. Here’s why:

Back in 1959 my family took one of our many cross-country driving vacations. My dad loved long-distance driving. My mom loved seeing places she’d never seen before. And I loved the odd little souvenir stands and quirky tourist attractions along the road. My sister was less enthusiastic than the rest of the family because she had to spend the entire two week vacation in the back seat with her incredibly annoying little brother.

If you were to ask me if I’ve ever been to Arkansas, I would have said no. I have no memories of being there.

That being said, it is possible that we passed through during that 1959 vacation.

I know we stopped at Graceland, Elvis Presley’s new home in Memphis, Tennessee. There’s a famous family photo of my sister standing in front of the estate’s massive wrought iron front gate. She worshipped the King, and attempted to scale the barrier. Ebbis’ security guards immediately rushed out and threatened to arrest her if she didn’t stop. As my sister wiped the tears from her eyes, my dad put the car in gear, and we headed north for my Uncle Pete’s place in Gary, Indiana.

I got on Google maps and charted the route from Graceland to Gary. As you can see on the map above, today’s route turns northwest almost as soon as Graceland fades in the distance, crosses the Mighty Mississip and takes you directly into Arkansas. Then you take a hard right and skirt along the Arkansas side of the Big Muddy for ninety minutes or so before passing into Missouri.

The problem is that I don’t know if that’s the route the main highway would have taken back in 1959 pre-freeway America.

So have I been in Arkansas? Maybe. Do I get to check it off my list of states visited? I’d say it’s probably fifty-fifty, but that’s not quite good enough.

Texarkana is only a couple hours away, so Jamie and I may drive up this weekend, have a quick lunch, and make it official.

This isn’t exactly what you’d call a blizzard, but if you look closely enough you’ll see flakes of the white stuff coming down. The weather’s probably a little too warm for anything to stick to the ground, but we’ll see.

This is the first snow for Meadow, the little girl next door, so we hope it stacks up enough that she can go outside and play in it. Little brother Cooper is only two weeks old, so he’ll probably need to wait another winter or two.

The arborists came out yesterday to remove our third sick sycamore. Whatever killed the tree compensated for its death by making its trunk a little more livable for some other creatures. It was hollowed out like a huge drinking straw, and the empty space was filled with dozens of honeycombs and squirrels’ nests made of twigs, cloth scraps and lint.

It was a big damn tree, wasn’t it? Based on the height of the arborist up in the tree, it looks like it must have been about 60-70 feet tall. Our house is 110 years old, and the arborists estimated that the sycamores were 80 to 100 years old. When the tree was felled, it made a hell of a divot in our front lawn.

We’re sad to lose the sycamore and sorry to see the squirrels’ homes destroyed, but we have no regrets about ridding the neighborhood of the flying insects that somehow end up inside all the homes on the street.

The insects inside our sycamore looked like wasps, not bees, and the arborist said they were wasps. But I didn’t know that wasps made honey, so I googled “Do wasps make honey?” Up came this short article:

Ask anyone the difference between bees and wasps and they’re likely to say something like this: bees make honey, wasps don’t.

… the assertion that wasps do not produce honey is incorrect. Most wasps, it is true, do not make honey … But over a dozen species of wasps in Central and South America are known to produce honey, and have long been exploited by humans for this ability. Most well-known among the honey-producing wasps is the Mexican Honey Wasp (Brachygastra mellifica). This species ranges from northern Panama to the southern counties of Texas and Arizona.

I’m not so sure about the “… southern counties of Texas and Arizona” part of that info. We’re in northern Texas, not far from the Oklahoma border, but I’d swear that Mexican Honey Wasps (shown on the right) are exactly what crawled out of our fallen tree trunk. Jamie and I are positive that we recognize the reddish wings and the black and yellow stripes. That being said, neither of us will ever be mistaken for an entomologist, so who knows.

My hero passed away yesterday. Charles Twain “Huckleberry Chuck” Clemans was 86 (born December 27, 1933).

When I was in junior high school I just kinda-sorta thought I’d become an attorney. It certainly wasn’t a passion and it’s not like I put a lot of thought into it. My research consisted of watching weekly episodes of Perry Mason and thinking That was cool.

That all changed in April, 1962.

KMEN 129, a new radio station, had hit the airwaves about a month earlier. I continued listening to KFXM, the original Top 40 station in my hometown, until my sister told me that all the cool high school kids had switched over to this new station. So as I was getting ready for school the next morning I cranked the radio dial from 590 where KFXM was found to 1290 where KMEN was located.

I never switched back. KMEN was frantic, non-stop fun. The DJs were hilarious. The contests were outrageous. They put listeners on the air. It was like nothing I had ever heard. (It was one of the most phenomenal success stories in the history of radio and was actually unlike anything anyone had ever heard.)

The best of those DJs was Huckleberry Chuck Clemans, who made listeners laugh between 6 and 9 a.m. every morning. That means his voice would have been the one I heard that first morning I tuned in to KMEN.

His great uncle was Samuel “Mark Twain” Clemens, one of America’s greatest novelists and humorists, the author of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and so many others, and the funny gene had clearly been passed down to Chuck.

Listening to Huckleberry changed my life because it gradually dawned on me that it might be possible to make a living by amusing people. It seemed like that would be a lot more fun than cross-examining witnesses.

I decided to become friends with this Huckleberry character and learn more about his crazy radio business. I called KMEN’s request lines (Turner 8-1290 in San Bernardino and Overland 6-1291 in Riverside) every morning to tell him a joke. I showed up at all his personal appearances. And he occasionally put me on the air either because I said something funny on the request line or because he needed someone to play straight man during one of his comedy bits.

He created an Indian tribe and gave listeners Indian names to match their personalities. (Probably very politically incorrect today, but pretty damn funny back in 1962.) My name was Smiling Fox. He, of course, was the leader of the tribe and named himself Chief Raunchy Wolf, an appropriate moniker.

He invented a robot named Rollo who became his on-air sidekick. One day Rollo was missing and Chuck explained his absence by saying, “Rollo’s probably out in the lobby caressing the cigarette machine’s knobs again.” As I said, Chief Raunchy Wolf was an appropriate moniker.

He told crazy stories about KMEN’s 314-pound secretary (a beautiful girl named Sheila who didn’t weigh 120 on her worst day). On the other hand, he had a frequent caller he dubbed Mystery Sue. Everyone in town awaited Mystery Sue’s sexy, breathy tones and thought, “If she’s half as beautiful as her voice…” Turns out she wasn’t, but in the Huckleberry’s creative radio world, anything was possible. Like Orson Welles, who had coined the term, Chuck understood that radio was “The Theater of the Mind” and created worlds and people that could only be “seen” through his listeners’ ears.

KMEN held a cake baking contest and I won third place by decorating a cake to look like Huckleberry (that’s Hucky, the cake and 14-year old me in the photo to the right).

As I said earlier, KMEN put together outrageous promotions. One of them pitted all the DJs against each other in the KMEN Walk-Back-and-Forth, a competition in which they had to walk twenty miles from San Bernardino to Riverside and back and forth and back and forth until only one DJ remained. Huckleberry was a gifted athlete, an All American swimmer at Stanford University. I lasted only about ten miles before I pooped out, but he racked up another 90 miles before finally being declared the winner.

One year KMEN staged what it called a Talk-A-Thon. Huckleberry’s assignment was to sit in a motor home in San Bernardino’s Perris Hill Park and blather non-stop until he broke the world record for continuous talking. For reasons I cannot explain except for the fact that they also thought Huckleberry was funny, my parents allowed me to spend all night in the crowd outside that trailer. It was the night of my sister’s wedding and I showed up in my rented tuxedo. Huckleberry invited me inside and said, “If you’re gonna dress like an emcee, you’ll need to act like one.” He thrust his microphone into my hand and continued, “I get a five minute break every hour. I want you to sit here and talk to the crowd while I rest.” I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything more intelligent nor more intelligible than “Uhhhhhhh” for the next five minutes, but he told me what a great job I’d done. It was the best compliment I had ever received.

“You weren’t like the other kids,” he once recalled. ”They just wanted free records, but you were interested in the performance.”

I’ve often thought that great radio stations are like meteors that flash through the night sky. They’re rare and beautiful and light up everything in their path, and almost before you’re aware they’re there, they’re gone. It’s an especially appropriate metaphor for KMEN. The station was a special combination of the right people in the right place and at the right time. It blazed brightly, but briefly, and then, like those metaphoric meteors, it started to break apart as it fell to earth. Other DJs began leaving for better gigs in bigger markets, but Huckleberry understood the magic that was KMEN better than most and was reluctant to leave. He turned down offers in San Diego, San Francisco and Seattle over the years. But it eventually became impossible to remain blind to the inevitable. Brian Lord, one of his original KMEN cohorts, recalled a downcast Huckleberry forlornly lamenting that “God doesn’t live here anymore.”

One of the worst days of my life came during my senior year in high school. On a chilly January morning, my hero announced near the end of his show that he was leaving KMEN that day after four incredible years of #1 ratings. I mourned as if a family member had died. Many years later I stumbled across an old reel-to-reel tape of the last few minutes of his final show on KMEN. It was both funny and poignant and he had trouble getting through it before choking up and fighting back the tears.

As successful radio personalities do, Chuck moved up to a larger market. In this case, he became the new morning man at KCBQ, the number one station in San Diego. But it proved impossible to recreate the magic that had been KMEN and he eventually left the radio business in an effort to deal with his own personal demons.

No matter where life took us and no matter what endeavors we attempted, Huckleberry and I stayed in touch. I’ve often said that his words of wisdom led to whatever success I’ve achieved. After he became a stock broker in Phoenix he wrote me a long letter that among other things said, “Take my word for it, there’s no room in radio for tenors.”

I had already realized that I was no Huckleberry, that I didn’t have whatever magic combination of ingredients it took to become a successful radio personality. I had figured out that I was much better at writing material for other people to deliver than I was at delivering it myself. I changed my college major from radio to advertising.

Huckleberry and I remained friends to the end. I tried to see him every time I found my way to San Diego and oftentimes went far out of my way just to get there. Between visits we stayed in touch via email and phone.

Huckleberry never lost his great sense of humor. I’d say, “Tell me a radio story,” and he could always come up with one that made me laugh.

Oddly enough, our roles completely reversed over the years. For the last few years, he always made a point of telling me that I was his hero. It boggled my mind every time he said it. How could that possibly be?

Marvelous athletes like Chuck always seem to find a way to defeat every opponent except one — time. He had become increasingly frail over the course of the last few years. He hated the twice a week dialysis sessions he was forced to endure. Then he suffered a severely broken leg and went through a long, painful recovery and rehab. Finally, just a few months ago, he underwent heart surgery. I called him in the hospital and somehow, after all these travails, he sounded stronger, younger than he had in years. “Jesus, Clemans,” I said, “you’re one tough son of a bitch.” He just laughed.

Here’s the last photo of me with Hucky. It was taken in his living room in San Diego. Look just to the right of the lamp and you’ll see a small framed photo. Look closely enough and you’ll discover that it’s same one found in the middle of this story — the 1965 shot of me, my hero, and my third place-winning Huckleberry cake. I can’t tell you how honored I am to know that Chuck hung it on the wall right above his favorite easy chair.

Thanks for the laughs, Huckleberry. Thanks for the memories. Thanks for the wise counsel. Thanks for the friendship. I’ll miss you.

Rest in peace.

This is Tinker, our little MaltiPoo. She’s the happiest, friendliest, most affectionate dog you’ve ever seen. I walked into the bedroom the other day and found her lying on the bed with a soft stuffed kangaroo dressed in a sweater that says, “I LOVE AUS.”

I don’t want to push my luck here, but I believe Jamie said, “Maybe we can take Tinker with us next time we go down under.”

Now if we can just get Oz to eliminate all its harsh restrictions on foreign visitors, Jim and Jamie and Tinker can head down under again.

(Good thing we don’t live in Pennsylvania or a big box of late votes would have been mysteriously discovered in the trunk of a car sitting in a parking lot across the street from Democrat Party Headquarters and the final tally would have been 100,000 votes against Oz vs three votes in favor.)

God daughter Tatum is about to graduate from the Physician Assistant program at Chapman University (also Jamie’s alma mater).

Tatum called Jamie very excitedly the other day to announce that she had just delivered her first baby. The first of many, I’m sure, because that’s what she wants to specialize in.

How is that possible? It seems like she was a baby herself not that long ago. But look at her now — beautiful and smart as hell and ready to take on the world.

But what, pray tell, is a physician’s assistant? I had to look it up.

PAs are medical professionals who diagnose illness, develop and manage treatment plans, prescribe medications, and often serve as a patient’s principal healthcare provider. With thousands of hours of medical training, PAs are versatile and collaborative. PAs practice in every state and in every medical setting and specialty, improving healthcare access and quality.

PAs are educated at the master’s degree level. There are more than 250 PA programs in the country and admission is highly competitive, requiring a bachelor’s degree and completion of courses in basic and behavioral sciences as prerequisites.

Incoming PA students bring with them an average of more than 3,000 hours of direct patient contact experience, having worked as paramedics, athletic trainers, or medical assistants, for example. PA programs are approximately 27 months (three academic years), and include classroom instruction and more than 2,000 hours of clinical rotations. A PA’s medical education and training are rigorous.

The PA school curriculum is modeled on the medical school curriculum that involves both didactic and clinical education training. In the didactic phase, students take courses in basic medical sciences, behavioral sciences, and behavioral ethics.

In the clinical phase, students complete more than 2,000 hours of clinical rotations in medical and surgical disciplines, including family medicine, internal medicine, obstetrics and gynecology, pediatrics, general surgery, emergency medicine, and psychiatry.

Congrats to Tatum. It was a tough program with lots of sleepless nights and endless days and there must have been plenty of times that she thought it wasn’t worth it. But she’s this close (imagine my thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart) to finishing it all up.

It is, perhaps, another mere coincidence that all five of our god children — Tatum, Jack, Avery, Stella, and Kendal — are so smart, so accomplished, so good-looking, and so hard-working.

We have clearly been huge influences on all their lives.

Cadillac Ranch, a truly iconic American landmark, sits just off Interstate 40 a few miles outside Amarillo, Texas. It’s one of those places you see photos of and think That’s kind of cool, but wouldn’t go too far out of your way to see. Luckily, our route took us right past it.

It consists of ten Cadillacs buried nose-first in the ground. If you’re a car buff, you may notice that they show the evolution (and growth) of the brand’s tail fins between 1949 and 1963.

You can see Cadillac Ranch from the highway, and a convenient off ramp leads directly to it. Or them. Whatever.

The cars still had their original factory colors when they were installed. But those colors are long gone thanks to the spray-painted graffiti that now embellishes every square inch of their surfaces.

Every once in a while the cars get a professional paint job. They were once painted white for a TV commercial. Another time they were painted pink in honor of the birthday of the artists’ patron’s wife, then flat black to mark the death of one of the artists, and then rainbow colors to celebrate Gay Pride Day. Once they were even restored to their original colors as part of a series of Route 66 landmark restoration projects. But those new paint jobs and even the brass plaque commemorating the project were graffitied over in less than a day.

In June 2020, the cars were painted solid black with the words “Black Lives Matter.” Here we are just four months later and there’s nary a hint of that black paint remaining.

Clearly, black lives may matter, but black paint does not.