Mexico is working hard to replace produced petroleum.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

http://www.ericwilder.com

I began watching Steve McQueen on TV in the 60s.  He played bounty hunter Josh Randall in the series titled Wanted: Dead or Alive.  McQueen was one of a kind.  There has never been another leading man before or since that could portray his depth of emotions with little more than a blank expression that conveyed more depth in silence than any other actor can summon forth with every word and gesture they have.

McQueen never appeared in a bad movie but my favorite is The Great Escape.  He has the courage to defy the Nazi’s and escape from the concentration camp on a captured motorcycle.  When he jumps the tangle foot wire, the evil Nazis in hot pursuit, you know without being told that this is a man of substance.  Hopelessly tangled in the wire, he awaits the hoard, still defiant, playing with a baseball, the silent symbol of American resolve.

Tonight I was listening to Dusty Springfield, my absolute favorite diva.  She was singing her cover of Windmills of Your Mind from McQueen’s film The Thomas Crown Affair (watch the original and not the remake).  The song is pure poetry with words and music by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Michel Legrand.

Here are the lyrics and I beg you to listen to Dusty’s version.  If you’re not yet a fan, you will be.  Hey, and please take my advice and catch a few old McQueen flicks.  You’ll be hooked too, I promise.

WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND

Like a circle in a spiral,
like a wheel within a wheel.
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever spinning wheel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on it's face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of it's own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on it's face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly
Was it something that I said
Lovers walking along the shore,
Leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand

Pictures hanging in a hallway
And a fragment of this song
Half remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever spinning wheel
As the images unwind
Like the circle that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Pictures hanging in a hallway
And the fragment of this song
Half remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever spinning wheel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

http://www.ericwilder.com

This is a very interesting comparison between the price of gasoline and the price of ethanol.

MarketBeat : Kernels From AAA Show Ethanol's Costs To Drivers.

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This is a very interesting and informative article.

MarketBeat : Big Oil and the Big Three.

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While browsing through a local used book store I came across a cookbook titled Simply Creole Cajun by Floyd J. Babineaux (Cookbook Publishers, Inc. 1986).  The lucky find was signed and inscribed by the author and it contains many wonderful recipes.  Chili might not seem like a Cajun dish but I assure you that it is eaten all over Louisiana, and this recipe might just change your mind about its origin.

CHILI MADNESS

(Original bowl of blessedness)

Whenever I meet someone who does not consider chili a favorite dish, then I've usually found some one who has never tasted good chili.  No other food has inspired the passionate following that this dish has.  Chili lovers come from every walk of life.  This recipe is straight from the Cajun and a very proud chef who modestly claims it is the world's greatest.  It is unusual, containing no onions (you may add onions, if you care to), but instead ingredients like gumbo file and chicken fat not ordinarily associated with Chili.  Try it sometime, when you are in an exotic mood.

This brew simmers for a total of 12 hours so as the Cajuns say, “You be sure and have plenty of cold beer on hand.  First off, before anything, open yourself, a few beers.  Now you know you can start.  Good luck Neg!

6 lb. beef brisket, coarse chili grind                   4 ground hot red chili

1 Tbsp. ground mild red chili                             1 tsp. cayenne pepper (Rex is the best)

2 Tbsp. dried oregano (preferably Mexican)      8 medium cloves garlic, crushed.

4 bay leaves, crushed                                        1 tsp. gumbo fillet (ground sassafras)

3 Tbsps. ground cumin                                      3 Tbsps woodruff or 2 oz., unsweet chocolate

1 tsp. paprika (you can add more to make        1 Tbsp. salt or salt to taste

chili a darker red)                                            

1/3 c. bacon drippings                                      2 Tbsp. lemon juice

2 Tbsp. lime juice                                             1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard.

2 Tbsp. Masa Harina (corn flower).                  4 (12 oz.) cans beer

1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce                           1 Tbsp. sugar

1 Tbsp. chicken fat                                           Liquid hot pepper sauce (Tabasco a must)

Okay Neg, time for another beer and get the pot out and call the friends.

Combine the beef with the ground chili, carib, cayenne pepper, oregano, garlic, bay leaves, gumbo file, cumin, woodruff, paprika and salt.  Heat the bacon drippings in a large heavy pot over medium heat.  Add the meat and spice mixture to the pot.  Break up any lumps with a fork and cook, stirring occasionally, until the meat is evenly brown.  Stir in the remaining ingredients (including the chocolate), if used, and the chicken fat and liquid hot pepper sauce.  Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, uncovered for two hours.  Taste and adjust seasonings.  (Add onions, if you like. I do.)  Simmer uncovered 10 hours or longer, adding more beer or water and stirring as need.  Skim off fat before serving.

Cajun tips: brown meat to gray-looking before adding any spices.  You can also add a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes.  Talk about good!!

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All geology students are required to take a course called Field Geology.  I took mine near Batesville, Arkansas where I learned how to use an alidade, brunton compass and map surface formations.  The real purpose of the course, I learned much latter, is to immerse aspiring students of geology in the sight, taste, and smell of the earth.

Like every other profession, geology is mostly male dominated.  That said, there are many excellent females in the business.  Geologists are all a weird bunch (myself included) and female geologists seem to take this trait at least one step further.

What I mean is, don’t argue with a female geologist about anything unless you have your facts down pat.  If you don’t, be prepared for an ass kicking.  All female geologists have minds of their own, and beware the fool.  Here is a story told to me by the former head of the University of Missouri geology department that exposes my point.  Well, something gets exposed here.

Missouri’s field camp one summer had twenty-five males and only one female geology student.  The camp was in the foothills of Colorado where the summers are always hot.  Mid-afternoon, all the male geology students would doff their shirts while out in the field, mapping the local geology.

This went on for a week or so and it apparently played on their female counterpart’s psyche.  She must have thought about it because one day when they began taking off their shirts, she doffed her own, bra included.  Did I mention that she was quite attractive? 

The students were spread out across the mountainous terrain, but news of their female counterpart’s topless display spread quickly, resulting in lots of ogling, staring at her through their alidades, and moving their stations closer to get a better look.  Lady Geologist didn’t mind the attention and continued doing her job as if nothing had changed.

Once wasn’t enough but the novelty of Lady Geologist’s nudity wore off with her male counterparts before very long.  When summer camp ended, she had a pretty good tan, and all the male students had new respect and understanding concerning the weaker sex. 

Geologists, as I’ve mentioned, are a strange bunch.  Nothing was ever said, or made, of Lady Geologist’s nudity and none of the professors running the camp reprimanded her for her actions.  They already knew about female geologists and realized that she was just demonstrating that she could do anything that the boys could do. 

 http://www.ericwilder.com

Here are two very interesting charts.  While the graphs only show data into the fourth quarter of 2007, they very clearly indicate the relationship between the price of crude oil and gasoline, and the effect of rising crude prices to the Standard and Poors 1500 Retailing Index.  The source is Reuters.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Oil prices can’t seem to find a ceiling, or a floor.

Oil waffles on competing demand, supply concerns: Financial News - Yahoo! Finance.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Several years ago when my step-daughter Shannon was living with Marilyn and me, she brought home a big black Rottweiler.  She is a sucker for animals and according to Marilyn, was always bringing home a stray dog or cat, or bird with a broken wing when she was young.  She hasn’t changed and now has many dogs, cats, guinea fowl and horses on her eleven acres in Logan County.

The Rottweiler’s name was Chuckie.  He was big and black with white and tan markings.  He was around ten years old and had belonged to an old woman that was going to a nursing home.  There was no one else to take the dog and if Shannon hadn’t come along the only other option was the pound.  Shannon moved to other digs shortly after bringing Chuckie home.  Even though she dropped by regularly to take care of him, much of the feeding fell upon Marilyn and me.

Chuckie was old but he was an imposing animal, weighing in at well over one hundred pounds.  We have a large pen on the north side of our property and Chuckie took to it right away.  I was a little afraid of him and we sort of got off on the wrong foot.  The first week that he was here, I went into his pen to fill his water bucket with the hose.  It was after dark and I’d had a few toddies.  After filling his bucket, I turned to leave the pen only to find my way blocked by the big dog, his teeth barred as he emitted a low-throated growl.

I thought that I was a goner but walked slowly toward him and said, “No Chuck, you sit,” as sternly as I could muster.

Chuck didn’t sit but he did stop growling and let me move past him without tearing my arm off.  I learned the next day that Rottweilers are territorial, and that before being adopted by the old woman, Chuckie had lived with a man that often beat him when he got drunk.

“He doesn’t like men,” Shannon told me the next day as she arranged his food bowl and water bucket closer to the fence so that I didn’t have to go into his pen.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said.

From that point I was determined to make friends with the giant dog.  Every morning when I went for my morning paper, I would stop by his pen and give him treats.  Every day when I got home from work, I would take him treats.  Soon, he would jump up on the fence and let me rub his ears

The first time it rained after he moved in with us, I looked out the window and saw him standing in his pen, getting soaked.  Considering the time that I had spent in the boonies of Vietnam getting rained on, I decided that he needed shelter – the sooner the better.  I had a six-foot length of wooden fence in the yard so I lifted it over the fence and made a quick and dirty lean-to.  I covered the structure with black plastic sheeting to shield it from the rain.  Within minutes, Chuckie got under the lean-to as if he had lived there all his life.

When Shannon visited she would let him out of the pen and allow him to run around in the back yard.  During these times, I improved Chuckie’s lean-to by adding cedar chips.  Before winter arrived I got him a big dog house and he loved it.

Soon, I was comfortable enough with the big dog to let him out of his pen even when Shannon wasn’t there, and I was happy to learn that he was just a big overgrown puppy.  When I sat by the pool, he would rest his large head on my knees and let me rub his ears.  He also liked to swim in the pool.

Shannon often took him with her during the day.  He loved riding in the back of her truck, hiking with her and swimming in the nearby lake.  Chuckie had found a home but that is not the end of his story.

Chuck had lived with us a couple of years when we noticed that he had a tumor on his belly.  We watched it for awhile and could tell that it was growing.  Shannon’s vet finally told her he needed to remove it.  He did and Chuckie was in horrible pain for what seemed like hours.  He wouldn’t lie down because of the pain in his belly, despite the efforts of Shannon and Marilyn to soothe him.  Finally the pain killers kicked in and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

The operation worked, at least for awhile.  Chuckie was more energetic and responsive during this time and I have little doubt that it was the best days of his life.  The tumor stayed gone for around two years before recurring.  This time it was much worse, Chuckie had grown quite old for a Rottweiler and was also suffering from hip problems (a common genetic trait of Rottweilers).

Chuckie’s health soon began degenerating at a rapid pace and it was obvious that he was in constant pain.  One day, Shannon took him for his last ride in the back of her truck to their favorite hiking trail by the lake.  The old dog could barely walk but it enjoyed lying in the shallow water one last time.  Finally, she took him to the vet, gave him one last ear scratch and had him put to sleep.

My big Lab Lucky is also getting old, now eleven.  He lives in a large pen (quarter acre) on our property with Velvet and Patch.  Marilyn and I were considering putting him in Chuckie’s old pen so we had it cleaned out last week and reseeded with grass.  Yesterday, I strolled through the enclosure with my Pug Princess.

The pen is fairly large – twenty by thirty feet, at least.  Several large trees provide plenty of shade, although there is enough sun to lie beneath on a chilly day.  One side faces the road and honeysuckle vines cover the chain link fence.  What I found at the end of the pen was a very healthy clematis plant with eight purple blossoms growing amid the honeysuckle.  The essence of their beauty reminded me what a wonderful dog that Chuckie was and what a comfort he was to have around.

The big black dog was a castoff that had been abused and neglected most of his life.  He was intelligent, had a wonderful personality and had probably dreamed doggie dreams of having a real friend someday.  I am so thankful for Shannon and her soft streak.  Because of her, he got his wish.

Even though Chuck and I got off to a rocky start, I came to love that big black scary-looking dog, and I miss him now.

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World headlines keep oil prices high.

Supply concern holds oil above $133 a barrel: Financial News - Yahoo! Finance.

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Here is a pic I found on the web of Spindletop, one of the largest oil fields ever found.

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Marilyn and I were driving through downtown Edmond when she asked me to stop the car.  She wanted to show me the building where the pool hall and domino parlor was once located.

"Pull into the alley,” she said

The only entrance to the domino parlor was through the alley.  Edmond condoned dominos but not, it seemed, on Main Street.  It was a little different in Vivian, Louisiana where I grew up.

We looked behind the building where the parlor was once located.  It was no longer there, replaced by the back entrance of a gift shop.  Still, it got me to thinking about the domino parlor and pool hall in Vivian.

My grandfather and Uncle Grady were both pipefitters by trade.  The nature of their job often predicated that they were away from home a lot, often in different states, building an electrical generation plant, or such.  When they weren't away from home they could usually be found in downtown Vivian, at the pool hall, playing dominos.

When my grandfather finally retired he spent much of his time in the domino parlor, driving downtown around ten every morning.  He generally stayed there until it was time to eat dinner.

I never saw either Grandpa Pitt or Uncle Grady drink a beer or slug a shot of whiskey.  I think that Grady was a teetotaler but I heard from my Mother that Grandpa was known to take an occasional nip of whiskey.

Grandpa lived to almost a hundred, but he quit driving sometime in his eighties.  It happened abruptly when he pulled out on Louisiana Highway One into the path of an oncoming truck.  Grandpa's Ford Fairlane was totaled.  He was pretty much unhurt except for a few bruises and scratches, but his car was totaled.  By this time Uncle Grady had taken over the reins of family patriarch.  He informed Grandpa that he had seen the last of his driving days and he absolutely refused to let him buy a new car.

Losing his driving credentials did not stop Grandpa from frequenting the domino parlor.  He began walking to town every morning and then back home at night - even until he was almost ninety years old.

My good friend Rod and I visited the den of iniquity one weekend when we were both home from college.  The place reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke.  Old men sat at the table's playing dominoes and they didn't bother looking up when we entered the door. 

Red paint on the floor was almost worn away by decades of work shoes and oilfield boots trodding across it.  The pool tables were probably mahogany but the wood had so many cigarette burns that it was hard to tell.  Red velvet tops were stained almost black.  The two teens with arm tattoos and cigarettes in their mouth didn't bother looking up as Rod I gave the place the third degree.

My grandfather died when he was ninety-seven years old.  He continued playing dominoes until he became a little senile and I think that he finally forgot how to play.

While Edmond is growing - now the third largest town in Oklahoma - Vivian is in decline.  There are no new businesses to speak of, except for the Wal-Mart on Louisiana Highway One.  Main Street Edmond is growing while Main Street Vivian is largely a row of empty buildings.

I doubt that most teens today have even heard of dominos, but I bet Grandpa Pitt and Uncle Grady are playing right now with the angels in heaven.  I don't know if they have old Fords there, but if they do Grandpa probably drove one to the parlor.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Oil is very much a global commodity and keeps trading even during the dearest U.S. holiday.  The price is also affected by events happening around the world, not just in the U.S.  Hang on, because of this we are in for an even wilder ride.

Oil prices rise above $133 a barrel in electronic trade: Financial News - Yahoo! Finance.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Much technological advancement to the science of drilling and completing oil wells has occurred since Colonel Drake brought in the first commercial well in Pennsylvania.  Perhaps the most important was the development of the electric logging tool.  This long, slender device is lowered into the borehole on a cable.  It transmits various signals out into the formation as it is raised from the bottom of the hole and the return signals are recorded on linear graph paper.

By studying this graph known as an electric log, geologists and engineers are able to precisely determine the depth of a formation from the surface, how thick it is and whether or not it is likely to contain recoverable quantities of oil and gas.  This study is called log analysis because, with all the advancements that have taken place since electric logs were first implemented, they still only hint at what a company will find when they actually perforate a possible oil and gas producing zone.  To this day, the most important tool is the geologist’s knowledge of the area and his visual examination of the sample cuttings as they come out of the borehole of a drilling well.

There is no tool that informs a company without reservation that a formation will be productive.  As a result, zones that would be productive are often overlooked and go untested.  In the real world, this is the rule rather than the exception.  I am often asked, why re-enter an old plugged hole?  Didn’t the company that drilled it know there was oil there?  Well, sometimes, apparently not.

One such mistake occurred in Coal County, Oklahoma in 1937.  Conoco, then Continental Oil, drilled the Daniels #1.  The company had originally drilled the well because of information derived from a seismic study and surface mapping.  The resultant well was drilled and subsequently plugged as dry.  In April, 1949, someone had a different idea.

J.A. Roberson, et al re-entered the Daniels #1 in 1949.  The company perforated zones known as the Basal McLish and the Oil Creek and completed them for 203 BOPD and 2 MMCFGD.  This became the discovery well for the East Oconee Field that has since produced more than 4 million barrels of oil.

Two companies had arrived at very different conclusions after careful analysis of the exact same data.  The company that committed the multi-million barrel mistake was none other than Conoco, not some fly-by-night mom and pop organization.  It was, in fact, a mom and pop oil company that made the correct interpretation of the data and brought in the discovery well.

Big oil may rule, but it is the little independents that keep the bulk of the oil flowing in the heart of America.  As in the case of the East Oconee Field, one man’s trash became another man’s treasure.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Here is a pic taken near Trees City, Louisiana.  It shows several old metal derricks through the undergrowth.  These derricks were built specifically to drill one and only one well.  They were left standing over the well after it was completed and used for any subsequent remedial work (parted rods, repair downhole pump, etc) that needed to be done.  Such structures are still commonly seen in northwest Louisiana, but they are no longer used to drill a well.

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High gasoline prices are finally beginning to change America’s driving habits.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

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Gas advances, following the lead of crude oil, and the indication that we aren’t filling storage fast enough to meet winter demand.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

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Demand is weak but supply is tight, constraining growth in developing countries.

Oil hits $135 a barrel on new supply concerns: Financial News - Yahoo! Finance.

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I found this report on the Department of Energy website.  Read it and you may be shocked.

www.netl.doe.gov/publications/others/pdf/Oil_Peaking_NETL.pdf

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Another commentary on fault finding.

http://finance.yahoo.com/tech-ticker/article/18396/Oil-Crisis%3A-Blame-Failure-of-U.S.-Leadership%2C-Not-Big-Oil

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Natural gas prices follow as oil rises over $130 a barrel for the first time.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

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http://biz.yahoo.com/ap/080520/oil_prices.html

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Many memorable characters searched for black gold in early-Oklahoma, but none more colorful than Tom Slick.  Slick came from the oil fields of Pennsylvania to drill for oil in Oklahoma.  He was a true “wheeler dealer,” finding new and innovative ways of securing leases from reluctant mineral owners and raising money from investors.  Most of all, he had a special knack for finding oil.

Tom Slick, Sr. earned the title, King of the Wildcatters, when he drilled the discovery well for the giant Cushing Field in 1912.  He died at the age of forty-six, but not before selling his Oklahoma holdings to Prairie Oil and Gas Company for – what was at the time – a vast sum of money.  He left fifteen million dollars to his son, Tom Slick, Jr., who by all accounts was perhaps even more colorful than his father.

Tom, Jr. also led an interesting life and knew many celebrities on a first-name basis.  Among them were Howard Hughes and Jimmy Stewart.  During his life, he founded Slick Oil, Slick Airways, Texstar, Transworld Resources and two research institutes.  His passion, however, was the study of cryptids – creatures unknown to science.

Tom, Jr. financially backed expeditions to find Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, though perhaps his search for the Abominable Snowman is the most bizarre.  He financed an expedition to Tibet, supposedly in search of Yeti.  The expedition coincided with the invasion of Tibet by the Chinese and the ouster of the Dalai Lama.  Supposedly, Tom, Jr. worked with the CIA and helped spirit the Dalai Lama out of Tibet before the Chinese could capture him.  Tom, Jr. died in a plane crash in 1962 after losing most of his fortune.

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A pic of Eric Wilder and Velvet.

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An almost frightening report issued by the Centre for Global Energy Studies.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

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I ran track in high school and continued for a while during college.  When I returned from the Army I kept doing it.  As I got older my running was more like jogging but I kept it up – at least until the oil boom and bust of the late seventies, early eighties.  It was then that my weight ballooned past two hundred pounds.

This pattern continued and I did little or nothing to correct the situation.  By the time my little oil company went belly up, I weighed two hundred and forty pounds.  Fiscally broke and mentally broken, I languished through the days and nights, searching for motivation to open my eyes and get out of bed in the morning, and get off the couch during the day.

Anne and I took a trip to Vivian for a family reunion and one of my cousins filmed the affair.  During a question and answer session, he asked Anne what was the one thing that she wished for.

“I wish Eric would lose some weight and get his old spirit back.”

The words hurt but I knew that they were true.  Upon returning to Oklahoma City, I started jogging again.

I was grossly overweight and none of my running clothes fit me anymore.  We didn’t have a lot of money to buy togs that fit so I made due with a tee shirt and pair of cut-off blue jeans.  First I started walking laps through the house.

Eighty-five circuits through the kitchen, den and dining room equaled a mile, as best as I could determine.  I was soon walking a mile a day, and then two.  It was then that I took to the hard pavement.

Oil was selling for twelve dollars a barrel and no one was drilling for it or buying prospects.  I had drilling ideas but no one to sell them to.  The years that followed were bleak, but Anne and I managed to make ends meet – somehow.  Along the way, I got physically and mentally stronger.  I was running three to ten miles a day and my weight down to one-hundred-seventy pounds.

Oh yeah, I was going to tell you about running my first ten K.

It was the Quail Classic 10K in 1986.  By this time, Anne and I had lost our house to foreclosure and we were living in a rent house in Quail Creek.  Okay, not much of a come down for those of you that know Oklahoma City real estate.

I finished the race in about sixty-six minutes and everyone along the way was supportive.  This was much different than a few months before when a car filled with teens passed and yelled, “Don’t have a heart attack fatso.”

I kept running 10K’s, finally getting my time down to around fifty-one minutes.  I would always run alone on Memorial Day to remember and commemorate my fallen friends and comrades, and all the heroes that continue to battle cancer and other dread diseases everyday without a whimper.  I quit running when Anne lost her battle with cancer.

Late last year I made it back up to two hundred and forty pounds.  Since January I have cut my calorie intake drastically but I have only managed to drop down to two-seventeen.  Anne died ten years ago and I am finally finished grieving. 

Tomorrow I am going to start walking laps through the house and weekend after next – Memorial Day – I promise, as I live and breathe I’m going to run a mile on hard pavement to commemorate once again all of those that have gone before me.  I don’t know if my body will make it back down to one-seventy again, but I’ll bet my brain will be rejoicing.

http://www.ericwilder.com

2007 was the rainiest year in recorded Oklahoma history.  This year is also stormy and the Edmond Sun reports that local weather expert Rick Smith, meteorologist with the National Weather Service, predicts a continuing stormy weather pattern in 2008.

According to the article, Smith says that Oklahoma has an average of fifty-three confirmed tornadoes every year.  We have already had forty this year, including the one that severely damaged the ailing town of Picher, and it is still only May.  Eighteen of these tornadoes occurred in May.

Not only are these storms dangerous, they often adversely affect business.  Last year, many oil and gas projects were put on hold, waiting on the weather.  This year is already proving to be more of the same.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Here is a slightly doctored pic I took while in Noble County, Oklahoma last week.  All the creeks are currently filled with spring rain but they are usually dry during the long months of summer.  The root system of this tree has grown disproportionately large because of seasons of prolonged lack of rain, and is twisted like masses of wrestling boa constrictors.

http://www.ericwilder.com

We have heard all week about the cyclone in Myanmar and the earthquake in China.  Death tolls have exceeded 133,000 in Myanmar and as many as 50,000 in China.  Still, these staggering numbers have little meaning until someone puts a face on the tragedies.  Tonight, as I drove home from visiting my father, I listened to a report on National Public Radio that ripped my heart out.

Melissa Block, an NPR reporter, was in China at the time of the “big one” and has been reporting on the catastrophe ever since.  She was on the ground of a Chinese city whose name I can’t remember when she encountered a married couple leading a bulldozer to the site of a wrecked building where they had left their two year old son just before the 7.8 magnitude earthquake.  Block’s voice quivered with emotion as she delivered the story.

Two days had passed since the quake and the couple had been trying the entire time to get heavy machinery to dig for their son and parents.  The man spoke good English and stated firmly that he believed his son had survived.  When they reached the building, he couldn’t contain himself and began digging through the rubble with his hands.  When he reached a dangerous overhang, his wife begged him to wait for the heavy equipment.

Like the results of many earthquakes, the destroyed building sat alone amid others that had received little or no damage.  Chinese military police arrived and began digging, looking for survivors.  Soon, one of the policemen returned to