"We're not in Indiana anymore, Toto..."

My apologies to Dorothy. But that's how I felt when I woke up to the sound of shotguns going off this morning. Not that I don't hear shotguns in Hoosierland. I do. Fairly frequently at this time of year. But I live on 50 acres of land surrounded by lots of other acres of land -- cropland, woods, lakes, creeks. This morning in Texas I awoke to the sound of shotguns going off while ensconced in bed in my sister's house in a subdivision in Frisco. Surrounded by houses.

"Dove hunting," my brother-in-law reported. Hmmm, at least it wasn't Texas justice gone amok -- posses of cowboys gunning down rustlers.

Actually, haven't seen any cowboys yet. Lots and lots of houses and shopping malls and the like. But no cowboys. Must have moved from Dallas.

The best thing I've seen so far is the sign above. That was at the new Frisco Senior Center. A lovely facility open to people my age (55+) though I do not consider myself a senior. And old boomer, but not a senior! My sister and her husband gave us a tour and it is really quite nice. But I had to chuckle when I saw the sign advertising "Senior Kick-boxing."

Now this is probably a nice form of exercise, but all I could think of was a bunch of grey haired or bald old geezers like me flailing the legs around an panting like a winded cow pony just off the range trying to defend themselves. "Watch out, young 'un. I'm a certified senior kick boxer and these spindly limbs are deadly weapons." Yeah, to me! I'd try to kick box something, break a hip, fall down and die.

What's next I wondered? "Senior Cage Fighting?" Would give "A Grudge Match to the Death" a whole new meaning....

--Brent