Behind the Console: The Great Flood

 

Pre- and Post-show ruminations from Executive Producer, Brent Clanton

Houston recently went through a deep freeze of Biblical proportions: If there had been a 13^th Plague, the polar vortex that hit Texas in mid-February would have been it. The Big Chills—there were two cold-events--arrived just in time for my birthday, which was spent assembling pre-recorded “Blizzard Edition” shows. We knew that with the city’s freeway system iced over, Lance and I wouldn’t be able to get into the studio. The effort would have been moot, anyway, as the building we’re in lost power, and thus internet. The following week, with the Texas Thaw well underway, we looked forward to a mid-March vacation, thinking the worst of the elements was behind us.

But, no…

Four-days into “Spring Break,” I was awakened by a phone call from our building’s manager, who reported a burst water pipe on the 10^th floor had unleashed a flood of water, flowing two floors down, directly into our studio, and “could Lance or I maybe come down and take a look?” I was 20-miles east of Nashville, and Lance was getting his chill thrill on in the Utah Tundra. My wife and I cut our visit short, and immediately drove back to Texas to see what awaited us.

I wouldn’t say the studio was a total loss, but it was clear there would be no live shows originating from our besoddened room without a lot of quick action. The deluge had spilled directly on top of our audio console—a beautiful, 22-channel Audio Arts Engineering D-76 “hybrid” analog-digital beast that was the workhorse of our room. Also lost were microphones, cameras, switches, keyboards, power-supplies…the list was exhaustive—and fatal for the studio.

Our broadcast engineer, Chuck McLeod met me the next afternoon (Friday) and we began to assess the loss--and more importantly, determined what still worked that we could rebuild upon. The power supply to the console was sitting in a puddle of water on the bottom shelf of an equipment rack, 6-inches off the floor, a victim of the splash over from the torrent from above. Removal of some of the audio console busses revealed a hopelessly befouled mother board.

We removed the damaged gear and set about determining the minimum needed to put a show back on the air. McLeod and I spent the entire next day (Saturday) building connector cables and re-engineering our audio chain around a borrowed 8-channel Mackie club mixer. I sent a photo of the Mackie to Lance and said, “this is what happens when you rinse your console in cold water: shrinkage.”

I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch for Chuck and me, and we continued into the late afternoon, removing damaged equipment, tracing circuits, and re-routing and reconnecting what we could salvage.

On Sunday, we completed the work-arounds, contriving a make-shift monitor mute out of a spare headphone amp Chuck had sitting on a shelf. If there was a beauty to be found in all the mess, it was that our original design concept, utilizing analog match boxes for the console output, made it relatively easy to “patch” microphones, audio sources, and other essential gear into our replacement mixer.

We finished up around 7pm on Sunday evening, and I gave the water-stained console a once-over with countertop polish, confident we would be “live” the following morning. To reiterate the obvious, we could not have gone from water-logged to air-worthy in three days without the able assistance of Chuck McLeod!

This writing concludes our first week back from vacation, and our first week doing the show with duct-tape and baling wire. In the coming weeks, I will be reporting to you our repair and reconfiguration of the studio, our new gear installation, and perhaps, a sneak preview as we test the “new & improved” Real Investment Show Broadcast Center & Deli.

Lizards and Watermelons in Texas

It’s 105-degrees on the back fence of The Clanton Hacienda, according to the analog thermometer that’s hanging from a loose nail on the weathered fence.
I believe it.
It’s hot.

There are usually a pair of yearling lizards basking on a wire enclosure for the family mascot. They’re missing this afternoon, otherwise they’d be baking instead of basking.

The siblings are less than two inches long, and if they survive the coming winter, and don’t get crushed in the backdoor slamming, they’ll make a fine addition to the family of Brown Caribbean Anoles that have adopted my back yard.

An article in Texas Monthly a few years back reported the browns were chasing out the green variety of Anoles. The greens have taken the high road, however, and are now residing in nearby trees and bushes. My resident clan of browns can be seen peering out from between the weep holes in the brick walls of my house. In the shade.

There is one good antidote for the Texas heat in July, and that’s a chilled Texas watermelon, fresh of the truck. (My cousin, Sue, treated me to a dandy over the weekend, buying one for each of us. Mine hibernated in the “back refrigerator,” along with assorted soft drinks and bottles of drinking water, for which the temperature control is set to icy slush. I sliced it up and set the chunks in a giant Tupperware bowl—what I didn’t eat while I was carving.)

You know a watermelon is going to be good when you set the knife in the rinds, and the melon opens along its natural fissures in the meat. The red is a tempting complement to the stripped-green outer shell, especially when it’s nearly the same temperature as tundra. This one was obviously one of Wharton County’s finest for the season.

We bought the melons from a father and son at the traffic light in Boling, Texas. FM 447 intersects FM 1301 at that light—the only one in town. There’s a fine pecan orchard just to the north of where Caney Creek languishes under the asphalt, one of many in the region famous for nuts.  I’m pretty certain that watermelon was picked that very morning, because of the way it naturally gave up its goodness when the first slice was made.

I traveled to the Holy Land with my father a few years back, and the one thing that impressed me most—besides trodding in the footsteps of The Savior—was the amazingly fresh food we ate at every meal. Farm to table in a matter of days, if not hours.

We’ve got that in Texas, too—those pecans that fall after the first frost in November, and that delicious, crisp and sweet Wharton County watermelon.
That’s a slice of heaven.

Cousins

“God made us cousins because He knew our mothers could not handle us as siblings.”

Cousins are the collaborators in the petty crimes of our youth. They are the brothers and sisters that siblingless children didn’t get, the Confessors to our untold sins, bridesmaids and groomsmen at weddings, and bearers of the pall at funerals.

Cousins are who you call as a last-minute “second” to an event for which you have no legitimate date. Instead of friends with benefits, they are friends with no-strings-attached, no judgement with which to reckon, and little remorse when things blow up, because you, as cousins, are their entertainment.

Rebecca was my cousin.
She, of raven hair and fair skin that browned and freckled in the summer, was three years older, and always two-steps ahead. She spoke fluent Spanish, lived in Mexico, and was seen only once a year at family Christmas gatherings (we were convinced she was a CIA operative working the drug cartels.) She was a teacher to many, a mentor to most, and was forever posting corniness on the internet—the usual tripe about puppies and kittens, John Wayne and Jesus—but those were all a true reflection of the genuineness in her heart. She loved animals. She adored John Wayne. She loved Jesus—and that was the source of her eternal lightness when all around her was dark.

Becky would greet me on Instant Messenger, early on Saturday mornings, as I prepared for an airshift. No sane civilians were ever up at that hour—but Becky was—posting clever platitudes and encouraging words to her newsfeed. Always a source of positivity—that was my cousin Becky.

Despite setbacks that would overwhelm any of us—the early passing of our Aunt Shirley, a foundered marriage, the untimely death of her brother, Bill, battles with cancer, the death of a beloved brother-in-law, Russell, and most recently, the passing of her father—Rebecca’s faith kept her going. Her compass always pointed true north. Her Faith gave her traction when everything else seemed to be slipping away. And when that car swerved out of the fog and into her lane on Wednesday morning, Becky faced a final test—and passed—into the arms of Jesus, and Shirley, and Bill, and William, and Russell, and other of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents who have already gone on before us.

To the students Ms. Harlow touched, remember: Her kindnesses to you all, regardless of what was going on in her life. Remember how she treated you all, regardless of skin color, language, or social status. All were beloved by her. Emulate her example with everyone else that you touch. Honor the memory of Ms. Harlow by serving others as she served and taught you. The world will be a better place for generations if you do this simple thing.

Marion Garretty once wrote, “A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” Perhaps so. But a portion of my childhood has passed from this playground to the next.
I shall miss her.