Corsicana — Well, where to begin. As previously noted in this space The Big Kahuna (my answer to The Little Woman) deigned to afford me some rebuttal space to comment on the human condition as it pertains to husbands, so here goes.

To set the tone, here are a few cute analogies I found about husbands in general. Husbands are like: the weather — nothing can be done to change them; blenders — you need one but you’re not quite sure why; commercials — they make unbelievable claims about their usefulness; government bonds — they take so very long to mature; lava lamps — fun to look at but not very bright; and parking spots — all the good ones are taken and the rest are handicapped. Ladies, can you relate to any of these descriptions? Yes, I thought you might.

Now that I have had a little fun with husbands in general, I will make a few comments about one particular husband. I’ve heard it said that everyone has some cross to bear and The Big Chalupa is most certainly mine. Over a half century ago, I went all the way to Germany to find my one and only Prince Charming — a handsome, athletic, young Airman Second Class Platt. When we married, he promised to take care of me, run the family errands, take care of all household and automobile repairs, and do all the yard work if I would cook, clean, and raise our children.

Now I find myself sharing the empty nest with an evolved set of responsibilities for each of us. Our only child is long gone but I am still raising The Big Lummox, I run all the family errands, I take care of the household and automobile repairs, and I keep the house clean. He has taken over the cooking and hired out the yard work. A while back I put my foot down and demanded he start doing some stuff around the house. So he sat around it, walked around it, and laid around it. What was I thinking?

In the beginning, The Big Easy sported an hourglass figure and he maintained it for many years through rigorous workouts and playing a variety of sports. Sad to say that the sands of that hourglass have shifted and his main workout today is working the TV remote and the lever on his recliner. On a very small scale, our refrigerator has become the center of his universe. His version of eating healthy is ingesting anything before its expiration date.

Another name I have for him is The Big Grouch. He bears this title proudly — in fact he has an I.D. bracelet with “GROUCH” emblazoned on it. Actually the name Grouch was laid on him by our son’s little league team which he coached back in San Diego many years ago. Not too many people know this but he really is a grouch. The difference between us is I always try to get up bright and early in the morning while he just gets up early. The idea for “whiskey sours” came from an early morning picture of him.

To say that The Big Recliner is a procrastinator is a gross understatement. His mother told me he never got that strawberry birthmark on his butt until he was eight years old. Much of what he calls “trying to find one’s self,” I call loafing. Once he saw his shadow on Labor Day and quit working for six weeks.

Now that I have had a little bit of fun (and payback) at the expense of The Big Hoss, let me turn this space back to him for closing remarks. I leave you with this heartfelt definition of “True Love” from this mother’s perspective. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it will always be yours. If it doesn’t come back, it was never yours to begin with. However, if it just sits in your living room, drops debris around your house, eats your food, monopolizes your TV, and doesn’t even seem to realize you had set it free...you either married it or gave birth to it.

There now — wasn’t that special? I have no closing rebuttal because what she said is oh, so true! What I do have is a couple “shout outs” I would like to make.

First of all, thanks to Mr. Billy B. Batton for sharing his thesis paper, which he wrote back in 1977 to help fulfill requirements for his Master of Arts Degree from Sam Houston University. This thesis chronicles the rise and fall of a Navarro County oil boomtown by the name of Tuckertown. This town sprang up about six miles east of Corsicana in the Powell Field in the 1920’s and at one time had a population of about 6,000 souls. Oil production in the Powell Field peaked out at 33,500,525 barrels in 1926 and then started to decline. By 1926, Powell had ceased to be a major producing field and by 1931 almost all of Tuckertown’s infrastructure had disappeared. The last building was torn down in 1955 and today there is nothing but pasture land at that site. This work is a bit of local history that should not be lost.

I do not know Mr. Batton, but I am very flattered that he is a fan of my rantings and he took the effort to bring a copy of his work to me out here on Golden Pond. I thoroughly enjoyed the formal paper as well as his personal notes about his life and the historical anecdotes about Corsicana. Thanks again.

Collins Street Bakery often touts their products as “The World’s Greatest.” I am here to tell you that when they say they make the world’s greatest apple fritter — they are not telling a fib. These bad boys are huge and they even have real fruit in them. They are the best I’ve ever had and to quote my niece, Casey, “They are to die for! Yumm-oh!”

See ya...

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Dick Platt is a Daily Sun columnist. His column appears on Tuesdays. Want to “Soundoff” on this column? Email: soundoff@corsicanadailysun.com