Worry not, friends - not that kind of clinic! I woke up this morning and in what seems to be a repeat performance of the eye infection I had several months ago, I had what my mother politely called, "sleep" in my left eye. This is that crust that seems to form when something is going on.
So, I got ready for work then called the appointment line to get a same day appointment. Being retired military, I usually go right out to the base and see a provider there. Today's spin of the wheel of appointments landed me on, "Maybe we can see you next week". I sort of pressed the issue and they kindly authorized me to go to an off-base clinic and pay the $12 co-pay (I normally don't pay anything), but they couldn't give me a specific appointment time.
So, the lady gave me the address of the place and when she said it was off Highway 90 and 36th Street, I knew exactly where it was. But then she told me the address as 720 Pleasanton, and the name of the place, Gonzaba Medical, something seemed strange.
I called into the office and gave them the story and then grabbed the book I've been reading for about four months, Comanche Moon. It takes me forever to read a book when I don't fly often. Without an appointment, I figured I ought to be ready for a long wait.
Anyway, I drive over to the first place over on 36th Street and walk in to ask the people if I am at the correct place. The shrugged shoulders when I said "Gonzaba" were enough to have me get back in the car and call my wife. You know, I own a Garmin, but never thought to take it with me. Thankfully, my wife looked up the address on Google Maps, and much to my dismay, and as I pretty much expected, I was way off.
I have been down Pleasanton Road many times, and I was hoping that perhaps there was another Pleasanton, perhaps an Avenue, or Court, or Drive or Lane or something. Nonetheless, I was out of coffee and already a little irritated.
So I get to this place and walk in, and honestly, the building looks nice and clean and much to my surprise, it was not filled with screaming kids and their 15 year-old mothers and 30 year-old grandmothers, and there weren't a bunch of creepy looking people like I expected. I don't know what I expected, but the place looked fine.
I walked in and saw a sign that said, "Walk-Ins", so I figured that was me. After I signed in, a man with one fake leg and another leg cut off at the knee wheeled up in a wheel chair and signed in. I started to tell him this line was for walk-ins, but figured he might not appreciate the humor.
I took a seat in front of the desk where two ladies were chatting and generally ignoring everybody who signed in, and I started to read my book. It was actually sort of nice to have a few minutes to catch up on Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call. But as is my nature, I looked up every half a page to see if anything new was happening, and even though I had only been waiting for a few minutes, it was starting to irritate me that the ladies behind the desk had not snapped-to and called my name.
The place has a definite Mexican and Spanish feel to it. In fact, the seat I was sitting in was the spiffy hand-carved design that looks really good but is totally uncomfortable. It was getting impatient and the fact that I had been there for a solid fifteen minutes was wearing thin on my nerves. Seeing the two ladies at the desk giggling and whispering wasn't making me happy.
Finally, after several chapters and probably twenty minutes, a lady from another desk walked over to the clip board where I had signed in and called my name. Oh, I guess those two girls sitting around ignoring the patients were actually doing their job. Sorry.
The lady took my information, filled out some paperwork and politely asked me for the $12.00 in advance of seeing the doctor, then told me I would be called in a few minutes. And sure enough, it was just a few minutes.
A technician called me in for the standard weight, height, blood pressure check and such, then asked me why I was being seen. I pointed to my eye and she made a few notes and told me the doctor would be in in a few minutes. Once again, I pulled out my book thinking this would be another half hour or so, but I kid you not, a nice nurse practitioner named Barbara came in within a minute or two. 
She gave me a good looking over, peered into my eye with some periscope sort of thing and hooked me up with some lubricant that is supposed to fix things up.
And that was it - everything was fast and relatively pain-free considering I didn't have an appointment. Of course, I had to go back to the base to get my prescription filled and that was about an hour long process, but I was truly pleased with the people at this Gonzaba place.
The thing is, even when I do have an appointment with the regular clinic at the base, I am never seen in under 30 to 40 minutes from the time of my appointment. I just expect it to be worse without an appointment. I guess paying that $12.00 co-pay makes all the difference in the world. It almost makes you a customer!
How are your appointments? Got any complaints? Tell me about it.
During the drives my wife and I take, we are constantly on the look-out for the perfect little place to stop and grab a bite to eat. We have a few methods of operation for finding places. First, it is not uncommon for us to get a recommendation from a friend to try a particular place if we happen to be in some town. Other times, we find our place visiting a small town and there is only one place to eat - that makes it pretty simple. The third and very often used method of selection is our friend Garmin.
When we made the decision to make our return home from Devine via Hondo, I consulted Garmin to reveal several potential dining candidates. One place that caught my eye was a Billy Bob's Backyard Barbecue. The other place that caught my attention was called McBee's. I recalled the name because we had seen a McBee's down in Pleasanton on Highway 97, and later, my brother-in-law told me that we had missed some good eatin'. There's only one problem; he is a vegetarian.
As it was already close to 2 in the afternoon, stomachs were rumbling and my wife and I thought we would give Billy Bob's a try. As we drove through town, we started to wonder if perhaps we would end up in some good ol' boy's actual backyard with a huge pit and a picnic table.
Well, it turns out, that is sort of close. When we pulled into the place, there seemed to be a regular restaurant called Billy Bob's Burgers, but in the back, there was a smaller take-out sort of place called Billy Bob's Backyard BBQ. It was such a beautiful day and the smell was great. But then the logistics of where to eat came up. There were a few picnic tables occupied by fine upstanding citizens I'm sure, but for my wife, this was not going to be her idea of a good time.
Not to worry - one day we'll try the burgers for sure.
But over two blocks or so is McBee's. As soon as we parked the smell hit us. This place meant business. The place had the look and style of an older Bill Miller's to it.
Everything looked and smelled good. I ordered a two meat plate - brisket and ribs with potato salad and Cole slaw. My wife got a single meat - chicken with potato salad and ranch style beans. As soon as we sat down, we divvied up all the food so we could each have a little of everything.
The sides are nothing to write home about. I'll just leave it at that and let you know that you can order meat by the pound instead of buying the plate with two sides.
You may recall my wife coined her Eeee-yuk rating when we tried Dickey's BBQ. She is a firm believer that good Barbecue must be able to stand on its own without the use of sauce, regardless of how good the sauce is. Dickey's had a great selection of sauces and for good reason; the meat was not that great.
McBee's chicken is pure heaven. The meat fell off the bones, the seasoning was not overpowering - just some sort of pepper and whatever goodness they rubbed into it before smoking it for however long it takes. I didn't even touch the brisket or the ribs until I had devoured ever edible part of the chicken pieces on my plate. I'm telling you, I would drive to Hondo for for a piece of chicken, and that is saying something.
I must comment on the portion sizes. This place does not skimp on the vittles. The single portion of chicken was enough for two people to share. For about a dollar more, the two meat plate was loaded down.
I am fascinated with ribs from the Rib House, but they are a different sort altogether. Those are your BBQ with sauce ribs. These are your BBQ with seasoning ribs. Do not under any circumstances spoil the deliciousness of McBee's ribs with sauce. They were tender and juicy and tasty.
The brisket had a great taste to it and again, they piled it on. I did break down and try out the sauce that was on the table. I don't know if it was some house brand or what, but it had sort of a sweet taste to it. At first, I wasn't sure, but when I took a piece of bread and covered it with the sauce to taste it, I decided I liked it.
Okay, I guess I will tell you about the sides. The ranch style beans were bland. The Cole slaw was passable and much better looking than what I got at the Rib House. The potato salad was dry. My wife ended up cutting up some pickles and mixing it in and sure enough, that was enough to fix it up. I put a little BBQ sauce on mine.
The chicken alone is worth the trip, and gets McBee's Bar-B-Q in Hondo both the Tasty Treats and the Eeee-Yum seal of approval. If you are heading out to Garner State Park but are worried about getting a grill site, just stop at McBee's, order up several pounds of the chicken and take it with you.
It makes no sense to drive all the way to Atascosa County and not stop someplace new to eat, so following our trip to Christine, my wife and I got off Highway 16 and headed East on Highway 97 from Jourdanton to Pleasanton.
I confess, I have never been to Pleasanton before and I was surprised to see how city-like it is. We stopped in the Tractor Supply Co. so my wife could purchase a few discounted Christmas items - 75% off! 
Once done, I had thoughts of driving back to San Antonio so I could throw some fajitas on the grill but it was already getting to be mid afternoon, and stomachs were growling. So, I clicked on the ol' Garmin and saw a restaurant called Fat Cowboys. How can you go wrong?
We whipped into the place and I found the parking situation to be entertaining. They have a few handicapped slots and a specially marked, Sheriff Only slot.
You know I love this sort of interior design - where friendly animals can observe you while you eat them, along with nostalgic items of interest for observation.
We looked through our menus contemplating how we might get an appetizer or perhaps try a steak or something when a group of teens seated at a table near us got their orders. Several of the kids got these huge baked potatoes loaded with things and I pretty much made up my mind, I was going to try that.
I will tell you that a few of the items on the menu were quite pricey. I don't recall exact prices but the Catfish was at least $15.00 and that is more than I'm willing to pay for something that may or may not be good. But don't let that stop you - they have lots of reasonably priced meals to choose from.
My wife ordered up a chicken sandwich with fries. She took about a bite into it and was already making her signature "Eeee-Yum" sound. I didn't try the sandwich, but I did inspect a few of the fries to confirm tastiness. My baked potato was huge. I ordered mine with chicken, something I would have never thought of, and of course, asked for it loaded with whatever else they wanted to throw onto it.
As much as I love baked potatoes, there was just too much of it and I ended up taking almost half of mine to go. It was good eatin' though.
One thing I noted about the menu was that they made note of the fact that they need time to make your order right. I expected we would be waiting a while considering the place was mostly full. Surprisingly, our food was out quite quickly, and that made me pretty happy. I'd certainly recommend this place if you happened to be in the area but like many other places we visit, I wouldn't drive an hour just to try it out.
Do you have a place you would drive an hour just to eat at? Tell me about it.
My late father-in-law, Scobey as his friends called him, worked for over 30 years out at Lackland, mostly in the transportation department. He actually drove the bus I took from the SA airport to Basic Training, and I remembered him years later when I met and married his daughter.
During his years working at Lackland, he had quite a few friends and co-workers, but one man who stood out was named Jim Parker. When Mr. Parker retired and got to be up in years, it was not uncommon for Scobey to help him with work around his house or taking him to doctor appointments and such. Other than a sister in California, it turns out that Mr. Parker had no other family to speak of. But he had always relied on his pal Scobey to help him out.
When Mr. Parker's health was failing and it was apparent the end was near, he asked Scobey to take him back to the town where he was born and raised, Christine, TX. This is not hardly the dramatic task as Augustus McCrae asking his friend Woodrow Call to haul his body all the way from Montana to Texas in a cart; Christine is only about an hour south, and in the case of Mr. Parker, he would be cremated, thereby lightening the load considerably.
In a handsome wooden box that was big enough to hold the urn containing Mr. Parker's ashes with the letter from his high school letterman's jacket, it was a pretty day in a very small town cemetery, when my in-laws, the sister from California and a preacher returned Mr. Parker to Christine. Not a whole lot of fanfare I suppose, but he was home.
I had never been further down Highway 16 than the Poteet Flea Market, not even to the Strawberry Festival. But I wanted to see Christine, and say howdy to Mr. Parker and perhaps get a feel for what the area was like. When my wife and I take drives out of San Antonio, she is constantly on the hunt for that piece of property that we will surely purchase if we win the Lottery, in spite of the fact that we never play. Texas has so much wide open and inviting land that it feels like a crime to sit here in 78250 with the traffic and the shopping centers and the houses popping up like mushrooms, but then I remember that I'm not a rancher or a farmer, and there was a reason Mr. Parker left Christine in the first place. Work.
But we can dream.
We drove down Highway 16 south of San Antonio and I finally got to see Poteet. The drive is quite nice once you get past the trashy frontage just south of Loop 1604. They never seem to show these parts when you see San Antonio featured on national television for Spurs games or the Alamo Bowl.
But looking south, you can understand why some people stay out there and not succumb to the comfort of a job in the city.
And so you know you are in Poteet when you see the big strawberry.
Further south on Highway 16 is the town of Jourdanton where there seemed to be a bit more to look at.
Though the water tower did not have a paint scheme resembling fruit of any description, an older castle looking building caught my eye warranting a quick investigation. Turns out this was the old jail house. My guess is, not a lot of folks busted out.
This huge building is built with a round-about type road around it making the traffic smoother, I suppose. And of course, Jourdanton has a post office if you need to mail anything.
When we got to Christine, my wife told me to slow down. It wasn't for fear that I might get a speeding ticket, but she didn't want me to miss it. That population of 436 must be pretty spread out because we only encountered maybe a dozen people during our visit.
In spite of the few visible residents, Christine does have both a fire department and a post office.
They also have a City Hall and a museum, though I confess, neither seemed readily identifiable to me.
What we did see was a shocking amount (shocking to us anyway) of just busted up and abandoned dwellings. Was there a tornado I missed?
The few unpaved roads we traveled down contained churches or seemingly abandoned homes. I can only guess we didn't find ourselves in the Alamo Heights section of Christine. And it seems a shame to see a place like this. Because after all, we had come to see Mr. Parker and I suddenly wondered how long it had been since he had visited his hometown, if there was anybody for him to visit. Would he have recognized the place and still desire to rest there?
I feel bad saying it, because I'm sure if anyone from Christine were to read this, they'd wonder why I would be so down on their small place in Texas. I can only confess that I was disturbed by the sights. I probably wouldn't do well on a trip to some impoverished third world nation, though I suspect the people of Christine have a much greater opportunity to change their situations.
Thankfully, the Christine Cemetery seemed to be, dare I say, one of the brighter spots of town. We drove up and after my wife got her bearings (she's made the trip to visit Mr. Parker a few times before), we stopped and paid our respects to the man. 
The cemetery is fairly small but full of names from the handful of families that once made the town what it was. Interestingly enough, I stumbled upon what seems to be quite the controversy brewing within the tows people. This marker posted above the grave of Christine Andrews Paul explains how the town derived the name, Christine. (Click on the picture to enlarge it, and you can read the story yourself.) Well, this seemed like a pretty official looking monument to me. But as I was looking to find more information on the town, there is a different Christine wanting a little credit. Apparently, a land developer named CF Simmons had two daughters, one named Imogene, and another named Christine. It is said that Mr. Simmons developed the town of Christine and named it after one daughter, then named another nearby town Imogene, though that town never really made it.
So, decide for yourself. I suspect Mr. Parker doesn't care either way.
Worry not, friends - not that kind of clinic! I woke up this morning and in what seems to be a repeat performance of the eye infection I had several months ago, I had what my mother politely called, "sleep" in my left eye. This is that crust that seems to form when something is going on.
So I get to this place and walk in, and honestly, the building looks nice and clean and much to my surprise, it was not filled with screaming kids and their 15 year-old mothers and 30 year-old grandmothers, and there weren't a bunch of creepy looking people like I expected. I don't know what I expected, but the place looked fine.
I took a seat in front of the desk where two ladies were chatting and generally ignoring everybody who signed in, and I started to read my book. It was actually sort of nice to have a few minutes to catch up on Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call. But as is my nature, I looked up every half a page to see if anything new was happening, and even though I had only been waiting for a few minutes, it was starting to irritate me that the ladies behind the desk had not snapped-to and called my name.
The place has a definite Mexican and Spanish feel to it. In fact, the seat I was sitting in was the spiffy hand-carved design that looks really good but is totally uncomfortable. It was getting impatient and the fact that I had been there for a solid fifteen minutes was wearing thin on my nerves. Seeing the two ladies at the desk giggling and whispering wasn't making me happy.
A technician called me in for the standard weight, height, blood pressure check and such, then asked me why I was being seen. I pointed to my eye and she made a few notes and told me the doctor would be in in a few minutes. Once again, I pulled out my book thinking this would be another half hour or so, but I kid you not, a nice nurse practitioner named Barbara came in within a minute or two. 
She gave me a good looking over, peered into my eye with some periscope sort of thing and hooked me up with some lubricant that is supposed to fix things up.
