Month: October 2025

In Spanish, casa means “home” or “house.”  Hundreds of restaurants in Texas use the name Casa this or that. Casa Mañana in Fort Worth is likely the most famous theater in the state. Its history devolves on the rivalry between Dallas and Fort Worth, typified by the Centennial State Fair in 1936. A friend wrote a fascinating scholarly paper on the matter.

CASA, or Court Appointed Special Advocates, is something quite different. In 1977, a Seattle upper court judge felt that children in foster care needed more attention than a caseworker could provide. He appointed community volunteers to help the children and to provide the court with information. Dallas CASA was among the first three local nonprofits established in 1979 and has over 1000 volunteers serving more than 2000 foster children. These amazing people learn about children not only from their extensive case files but also from personal meetings. When I worked all those years for Children’s Protective Services, I saw how judges listened and appreciated their non-biased opinions on the needs of children in their caseloads.

This holiday season, Light the World Giving Machines in the metroplex are including CASA for Kids of East Texas. This video shows the reveal.

Saturday, I went to the First Methodist United Methodist Church Duncanville for their fundraising arts and crafts fair. I thought I might spend a little personal money, and I did. But more importantly, I met several women who make quilts and crocheted throws for CASA. They were taking donations for the work on display—no prices posted. I saw a fresh $100 bill in the jar.

Three women had work at the table—Joyce Gregory, Diane Baxter, and Susan Watts. A fourth, Sue the crocheter, came along later. I’ve known Sue Clark through PIP Days, the twice-yearly house rehab program at First UMC; she was lovely, all dressed up and not in work clothes.

Joyce explained the beginnings of the CASA Quilters, dating back to 2011 when a child preparing to go to court was comforted and calmed by the gift of a homemade quilt. As she shared that story, women from her church wanted to help. Others, like Diane, heard about their work and joined. Diane was an educational instructor at the Dallas Zoo in this photo with an African painted dog. Sue, a former weightlifter with a combined three lift total of over 600 pounds. That puts her in the elite category.

The numbers are astonishing: 5000 plus quilts and throws since the Quilters group started. And of course those quilts took work–hours getting fabric, planning, cutting, piecing, sewing borders and sashing, sandwiching, and, finally, quilting—that’s a lot.

There were other people there, too—a Ukrainian woman who does exquisite beading, a man who learned watercolor during COVID, and, of course, Jerry Bair. I also talked to the bakers and the book sellers. And Eddy who sells “vinyl” out of his house. Some grandkid may want to go visit. All in all, a lovely Saturday…sweeter than staying home where I had less productive tasks to do (ironing!).

Susan Watts

 

Minutes after deplaning in Los Angeles, I had this week’s title: “Stop Bashing California.” I was getting on a parking elevator when two young women complained about the impending doom of driving in LA traffic: “Yeah, those Houston drivers are mean, but in LA, they’re crazy!”  My brother wince-laughed. They were being obnoxious, considering they were guests in his town.

My visit was for an anniversary party—10 years! Congratulations! —but coincidentally, my son and daughter-in-law were closing on their first house the same day. Yes, California house prices are high. According to this report, 5 of the highest housing markets in the country are in California.

So, everyone I talked to about the purchase gasped, “What!?! They can afford a house in California?” The kids were lucky to find something affordable though it’s true the purchase price is far above the $420,000 average house price in Dallas. And no, the kids are not millionaires, not even close. It’s a small 2/1 that was built decades ago. A dirt backyard, a massive tree six inches from the foundation. It has its charms: new appliances, a lovely front yard with established roses, other interesting plants, and a lovely, beveled glass window.

But are the drivers crazy? No. For every car trip I took but one, we were honked at, usually for staying too long on a green light. The other one involved a white Tesla crossing two lanes to grab a parking spot—uncanny, really—and we honked at that. My first thought wasn’t about crazy California drivers. It was How Texas Is That!?

At this point, I might share lots of juicy statistics, quotations from popular figures, images of homeless encampments, and more. I’m not going to. My thesis was simply not to complain. California has great beauty. It was my first (well, second) impression out of the airport. There are banks of fuchsia bougainvillea, orange birds of paradise, blue plumbago—still in full bloom. Our trees are beginning to lose their leaves not out of magnificent photosynthesis fading into golds and crimsons: The poor things are just tired and fall off. I saw the sea in Hermosa Beach, a deep deep blue that was almost black. Galveston Bay might be light blue or even gray. I drive over rivers that are various shades of brown. The weather can approach perfection 300 days a year. We have 5 or 6.

Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t live there. I cannot afford it and do not desire it. Why live anywhere but Texas? Bashing is rude, and lazy. If the people are happy there, let them be. Bashing won’t change minds. Lots of other factors might, so be consistent if they move here. You can welcome them without bitterness.

Among the several conditions from which I suffer is “Egg Cup Brain.” One task, one message, and I’m done. You’d think I might be able to anticipate such a thing but no. It’s probably not just me—conditions rarely are—but I’ve named it.

In British films, one does see the occasional egg cup. I own one from my grandmother’s everyday pattern but have never used it. The skill of tapping a knife on the shell and then prying off the top seems just beyond me. Plus, the idea of eating a soft-boiled egg without chopping it up and having some nice, buttered toast to scrape up the yolk is not appetizing.

I chatted this over with ChatGPT to see how it’s going over there. It took the endeavor a bit too seriously. Sadly, I learned it considered this condition a symptom of mental fragility. I disagreed. It changed the subject and introduced me to a source called Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Who could not like that title? The poetic definition provided in that style (a made-up word with real Latin roots) is here:

“solucence n. — from Latin solus (alone) + lucere (to shine): the state of mind in which your attention contracts to a single point of light — one thought, one task, one narrow beam of purpose — and all else fades into the dark periphery. You forget where you were headed, what you meant to do next, who might be waiting. Yet in that small circle of focus, something glows with rare clarity, as if your whole being were distilled into a moment’s work.

You come back later, blinking, the world rushing in again — and realize you have been elsewhere, incandescently alone inside your own solucence.”

That doesn’t really catch the vision of standing at the door to the garage in my swimsuit, about to leave for the gym, with the thought, “Wait. What am I missing?”

That said, egg cup brain is better than its opposite, egg drop soup brain. Too much scrambling around, too many factors, oddly cooking in a salty brother, with a nice sprinkle of green onion. Tasty. However, it’s the equivalent of meeting someone who you’ve met before, somewhere, now out of context, but too fragmented to ask the gracious,  “Have we met?”

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really done anything worth reporting. Don’t worry about talking me out of it. It’s Monday. I wouldn’t believe you today anyway.

Post Script: The dictionary is fun, and more clever than ChatGPT. Here is a little delight that is short and, I think, quite sweet:

Funkenzwangsvorstellung: n.—the primal trance of watching a campfire in the dark.

German Funken, spark + Zwangsvorstellung, obsession. Pronounced “foon-ken-tsvang-svohr-stel- oong.”

You can’t see a person’s talent by looking at them. You can’t see someone’s heart either, though, and that’s where talent lives. Yes, Jerry Bair looks like a Regular Guy, but his art is exquisite.

Today, for example, he finished some hardware on a gate his PIP crew didn’t finish on Saturday. (Here’s an article on the Property Improvement Program and its founder, Betty Dunn, scrolling to the end. It’s where I met Jerry.) It was a good act by a good guy.

Born in southeast Kansas, Jerry’s adventurous parents moved to the Oregon coast when he was 4—without jobs waiting. His younger brother was born there before the family moved to Las Vegas and then to Ozona, Texas, following oilfield work. His dad wanted to become an auto mechanic, which brought them to Dallas and Lincoln Tech when he was about 10.

Jerry served in the Air Force after Skyline High School. At Plattsburgh AFB, he was close enough to the Lake Placid Winter Olympics to watch Eric Heiden set a speed skating record and win 5 gold medals. He retired from SEW-Eurodrive after 26 years. He now does home inspections. He met his lovely wife Julie in Duncanville, where they attend First United Methodist Church.

His history will seem familiar—taking apart broken appliances and building one working bicycle out of 8. He bought a cheap scroll saw and learned how to use it on YouTube. First, he made small ornaments–until he saw the intarsia “Sailing Home” in 2009 and bought the pattern. Weeks later, he finished this satisfying project.

Jerry learned that he can see how things should be sculpted, not just cut and glued. It takes a long time—and the results are unique and set his work apart. Three blue ribbons in 2025!!

Jerry loves intarsia work. It takes hundreds of hours. He has to find or design a pattern, choose woods—often cherry, walnut, and maple—cut out the pattern and then the wood, place them together on a backer board, shift them around until his eye says it’s right, shaping, compensating for blade width, and much more. Gluing can be nerve-wracking, he explained. Danish oil brings out the woods’ colors, as no stain is used, then a spray of lacquer and a buff with a brown paper sack.

Most proceeds from any sales go to Jerry’s church. He’ll watch a bidding war if he has donated a piece to an auction—sometimes amazed at the prices—then do a second piece for the loser, thereby doubling the donation. Once that meant $6400!

Some parts of his story are surprising. Jerry isn’t good at drawing, for example. He makes his own designs using a computer. And he has a spectacular gift for giving back. When his mother was dying of cancer, he was always with her, showing her his art day after day.

Jerry has small wooden “Heart Hugs” that he shares with strangers. Each has a caring message, and he asks only that the recipient share them again. This can bring unexpected reactions. He was having lunch at Love Field once when he saw two tearful women. He went over and gave each two Heart Hugs. One began sobbing, which was startling, but she came over later and gave him a big hug.

This is a lot of words about Jerry Bair. Inadequate words at that. Look at his art, love it, and hope for one of his Heart Hugs, even though you’ll have to give it away.

Jerry’s Etsy shop–

http://www.etsy.com/shop/DediWoodworks