Settling in
January 21, 2012

The dust has settled, figuratively at least, as our life in Midland acquires its own day-to-day rhythm.  We learn more daily about the area, about the oil & gas industry, about the city itself.  I have put on my big-girl panties and tackled things I didn’t necessarily want to, and I am feeling pretty good about it all.

There’s something so nice about comfortable routines, weeks filled with knowns and ease.  In contrast, it is those things we like to avoid that are the catalysts for gaining confidence and personal growth, for getting that little giddy sense of doing something that was a bit difficult, that was not something we wanted to take on, but did because it was there or because we had little choice in the matter.

Now I’m not too sure about how much personal growth is occurring because I’ve ventured out driving in the city at night by myself or because I’ve switched out propane tanks or because I’ve opted to explore and find my way around in traffic that I abhor; nevertheless, there is a certain satisfaction in being more self-reliant. 

As most couples do, Chris and I have developed an unspoken agreement about who does what (well truthfully sometimes I assign him a chore with the reminder that “You’re the dad”).  This period with him working very long hours has changed that; I am the one with the available time to get ‘er done, so I do.

I jump on Loop 250 and zip around town with the best of them.  I know the city well enough now that I can take alternate routes or make wrong turns and still arrive at my destination without panic welling up at the thought of being lost.

Traffic flow here is quite different from Arizona’s and requires vigilance to heed what seem like oddities.  For one thing, most (but not all) frontage roads carry two-way traffic.  This requires us to yield to vehicles turning right in front of us, to vehicles speeding toward us onto the frontage road at 50-60 mph and to traffic turning left in front of us as it accesses the freeway.

In my driving experience, it has always been the left-turner who yields; the opposite seems odd.  On surface roads, though, the left-turner still yields.  A very nice feature here is that most signaled intersections have left-turn arrows, surely a great collision reducer.

It is very tricky when a freeway ramp is bringing traffic in the same direction I am traveling on the frontage road.  I must yield to vehicles that I see as I peer back over my left shoulder at a 75-degree angle and attempt to determine if they truly are on the off ramp or if they are right next to it on the freeway - this as I proceed at 50 mph . . . or stop. 

The whole of it does not allow for daydreaming.

A life saver, water and wells . . .

Hot diggity!  Much to my delight, the I-20 wildlife preserve across the road has officially opened to the public; I no longer need to wait until workmen are present to get in there to stretch my legs.  I avoided the crowds of opening day and spent three hours hoofing it the next day.  One turn around the perimeter without stopping and then another tour to check out the birds.  A bobcat was spotted that day but not by me.  The only animal I saw was a little cottontail bunny, evidently before the bobcat saw it. 





Additional Midland/I-20 Preserve birds to date: northern shoveler, American coot, lesser scaup, mallard, roadrunner, blue-winged teal, black phoebe and a third life bird since we've been here: a green-winged teal. 

Lots more water in there since the rain.  It will be interesting to see how the bird population changes as the season warms.

The boardwalk sections of the preserve remind me of our walk out through the Jean Lafitte swamp in Louisiana - a far more alien atmosphere for us, but similarly, the boardwalks allowed foot access to areas that would be impossible to experience otherwise.

Water here is interesting in several ways.  First, it doesn’t soak in as it does in our decomposed granite soil at home.  That characteristic has allowed the lake that pooled and blocked off most of the end of our road to still exist after more than two weeks.

Agua is obviously in short supply here, a situation doubtless worsened by the hordes of immigrants come to work (like us).  Lawn irrigation has recently been limited to once a week; the restriction now softened to twice weekly.  Some properties have irrigation wells with the right to use them as they please.  Those residences or businesses must post a sign indicating that right or they will be cited for irrigating outside the allowed times.  Those wells succumb to the scarcity, too, and run dry periodically.

I think I have mentioned the non-potability of water here, thus bottled, imported and/or filtered water is huge business.  Kiosks to dispense water are dotted everywhere; stores have machines for refilling one- and five-gallon bottles and bottled water fills aisles in the grocery store.  I refill our one-gallon jugs for 20¢ apiece.  The boughten water is tasty, but I miss Chino Valley's wonderful well water straight out of the tap.

Hydrogen sulfide, lift rigs . . .

Through Chris’ training and job, we have acquired additional knowledge about H2S, a gas that is sometimes released from an oil well that is being drilled or worked on, but not typically from an established well.

The surveying crew is equipped with detectors of the electronic kind, hopefully substantially superior to the canaries that hard rock miners of old utilized to detect the presence of poisonous gas.

The strange characteristic of the gas is that in safe quantities, it is apparent because of its distinctive odor.  The problem arises when it reaches lethal levels; at that concentration, it shuts down the olfactory capacity. 

Quite a dilemma: when you can smell it, it’s safe and when you can’t, it isn’t, thus the electronic canaries.

The workers are told that if the detector alerts, they are to hightail it crosswind, upwind or to higher ground; the gas is heavier than air, so higher ground would be safe if there were any ground not flat as a tabletop, which is pretty unlikely in these parts.

Well rig workers at all times carry emergency five-minute masks to allow them time to get away in case of hydrogen sulfide being released.  I expect I could move pretty far in five minutes should the occasion arise.  In addition, they also have regular masks nearby.  For the purpose of a close fit, they are required to be clean-shaven or at least to have no facial hair that would interfere with the mask’s fit.

Additional instructions are that if someone collapses due to poisonous gas, they are to leave them lest there be more people succumbing because of taking the time to carry someone away.

Okay, now I get why all those well pads are posted.  It makes me wonder just how many people were stricken by this gas before all this was known and of course before the detectors were developed.  This electronic device and all that goes with it is just one of zillions of examples of peripheral industries that exist in support of oil and gas extraction.

This photo is of a lift rig, not a drill rig as I would have supposed prior to my oil field “education”.  It is located very near our abode so that I can clearly hear it working.  Unfortunately, my knowledge does not extend far enough to understand exactly what is happening there.

This much I know: a lift rig is employed to extract pipe or sucker rod from an existing well for various reasons.  Something down in that very deep hole needs repair or an item has fallen into the depths and will interfere with pumping, so must be brought out.

In this photo, there is a feller way up top who is unhooking each 33-foot pipe length as it is pulled out of the well.  His job does not look like one to which I aspire. 

As the pipe is pulled upward; it makes a very loud kind of grinding noise.  The crazy guy up there then releases the hook which drops back down and another pipe is extracted.  This procedure can go on for extended periods of time considering that wells can be 8,000 feet deep or more.

Fire, trash. . .

Last Sunday, a nice fifth-wheel trailer in our campground burned up.  Very sad and scary, too - could have been even more disastrous considering the congested quarters here.  The City of Midland responded with more emergency vehicles than I could have imagined were in existence here.

There is a shocking amount of garbage in open areas along main roads and in our industrial neighborhood.  I have never seen anything quite like it; I'm sure it results from the influx of transient workers, the amount of construction and copious quantities of wind.  Just recently, I spotted two "litter lifters" plucking and bagging debris along I-20 - what a never-ending job that must be!

Etcetera
January 16, 2002

Exercise . . .

Most anyone alive on planet Earth at this time knows the importance of regular exercise to maintain a healthy life.  I thoroughly believe in the concept and therefore make every (well, some) effort to insure that I engage in exercise on a regular basis; however, my current living conditions require that I make adjustments in order to do so.

In my opinion, it is far more conducive to success to have a plan of action.  Mine is as follows.  It takes 7.5 steps to traverse the distance in the trailer from the foot of the bed at one end to the kitchen sink at the other end; I do that many times a day.  Another three steps to the left takes me to the door.  Out the door to deliver the garbage to the dumpster daily is an approximate three-minute round trip.  Another three-minute round trip in the opposite direction allows me to pick up the mail from the office.  If I have outgoing postal pieces, I even make a second three-minute trip.

And there you have it: regular exercise: not exactly aerobic but it is regular nevertheless, so ought to keep me fit well into my 60s.  And since I am already 66, it must be working.

Now for the confession.  There is an exercise room in this campground.  I went so far as to pay my $5 deposit to obtain a key to said room and peered inside, but have yet to utilize it.  Somehow, I just can’t bring myself to go into that tiny free-standing locked building to use the equipment with the anticipation in the back of my mind that an unknown-to-me male person of oil-field-worker stature would avail himself of said room at the same time as I am availing myself.  Color me chicken.

I have walked a few times on our calichey-dusty road, mostly uninhabited except for industrial yards.  Once while so engaged, I was accosted on a particularly lonely stretch by a man in a pickup truck; that encounter thoroughly convinced me to cease that pastime.

How odd to use this blog to blurt out any old thing that wends its way through my brain and then to actually post these musings as if they were appropriate fare for the casual reader.  It somehow relieves the pressure in my mind, though, and it’s my blog, so blither I will at times.

RV “parks” . . .

I want not to malign our campground, as it calls itself.  It’s not much to write home about; however, it is established, has a nice office with congenial staff and work campers, sports the afore-mentioned exercise room (which is being expanded, by the way), a laundry room and is sheltered by trees.  This is in contrast to a plethora of RV parks around the area which have been installed in response to the gigantic demand of the oil boom workers’ need for housing.  They are here, there and everywhere: dirt or parking lot spaces basically with zero amenities.  I count myself fortunate.

Wildlife preserve . . .

While I’m on the subject of exercise (or perhaps I’ve strayed), I will write about the I-20 Wildlife Preserve.  It is right smack across the road from our campground.  It is not yet open to the public, but Chris and I have moseyed on in there several times when we found the gate open because of workmen building a visitor’s center.

I must say this seems like an “only in Midland” kind of a deal, but I am quite impressed by it.  I say only in Midland because I cannot fathom a wildlife preserve surrounded by oil wells, mountains (true) of trash, industrial yards filled with ever-beeping front-loaders, a busy railroad and an interstate highway, but such is the case.























It is an interesting and welcome respite from its environment - 86 acres of brushy wetlands.  Ingenious blinds have been constructed with clever hinged slats that open to a sufficient size for peering out with binoculars and spotting scope  They are situated to allow entry and viewing of waterfowl and wildlife without disturbing the viewed.  Trails meander through the area; some are sturdily constructed boardwalks where necessary to cross the waterway.  The waterway was mostly dry ground until recently when we had a rain of gargantuan proportions.  I could tell it was a lot of rain when I crawled into a wet bed after the window casing leaked.

Because we have been in the preserve at relatively inopportune times (the only ones available to us), we have not identified all the birds we have seen, but have started a bit of a bird list, including a life bird: a Wilson’s snipe (shades of teenaged snipe hunting).

We have also seen: American widgeon, Brewer's blackbird, red-winged blackbird, ruddy duck, house finch, gadwall, red-tailed hawk, killdeer, northern cardinal, northern harrier, northern pintail, northern shoveler, chipping sparrow and yellow-rumped warbler.

Naturally, being us, we have explored off-trail in there, too, something that would have been impossible in summer chigger/tick-filled months.  We did a bit of bushwhacking trying to sneak up on whatever might be lurking thereabouts and found only raccoon tracks, although other residents evidently include porcupines and bobcats in addition to various assorted denizens.

To date, the gate has been open only sporadically, although the working men have been gracious about allowing us access.  The official open date is sometime this week, I think.  I look forward to bundling up (no, not really that part) and striding out a bit more than my current ten minutes or so to the dumpster.

I can’t resist offering a few photos of the scenes that lurk on the other side of the preserve’s perimeter fence, although mostly the trails are more interior and are not too much intruded on by what’s on the other side of the fence. 

The noise, though, is another matter.  Despite the intrusion of industry and traffic, I am thrilled to have this so conveniently nearby.










Church, organization . . .

We have been attending Sunday services at Unity of West Texas, the smallest congregation I have ever seen. Last week was a red-letter day: four regulars and five visitors.  Diminutive it may be, but we have been welcomed whole-heartedly and it has given Chris an outlet for playing the keyboard.

Cold and dust are insistent deterrents for him to set up outside to play; lack of space precludes making music very often within our confines, so we both have missed having him play.  It has been the longest stretch ever in our marriage that I haven’t gotten to enjoy his live music.

Plenty of room to play keyboard in the trailer (as long as no one moves).

And then there’s that space thing again.  A few days ago as I dug through a pile of debris looking for something for the thousandth time, I decreed that I couldn’t take it anymore and went on an organizational bender.  My battle cry: “I CAN’T STAND THIS CLUTTER!”

Off to the dollar store where I stood before shelves and shelves of plastic storage containers while stroking my chin in deep thought.  What size, how many, will they stack, where will I put them?  Decisions, decisions!  Assorted bins bought, a trip to Walmart for yet another bin not found at the dollar store and then home to bring order from chaos.

Now I am happy.  Now I can answer Chris’ queries: It’s in the office bin (or the paper bin or the game bin or the map bin.)  You name it; I’ve got a bin for it.  Happiness is having a bin for everything and everything in its bin.


Library . . .

My days are marked by visits to the library in search of ancestors.  I continue to work my way through the stacks in a quest for knowledge of Texas ancestry.  The search is being less than fruitful considering the time expended but that is mostly because we have already done such voluminous research on our Texas forebears that there is little left to find in published material.  I continue to hope for a breakthrough on some of those mysteries, so I continue to slog through the large Lone Star State collection.

I have also determined that I can do my clients’ online research at the library where I have a good wifi signal, unlike the one in the campground that bops in and out as if its goal is to insure that I am never able to publish a blog posting (Well, yes, I do tend to take it personally).  This is an ongoing frustration while traveling, one that we talk about solutions for but never conquer.  One idea is to get wifi through our cell phone service but then we’ve been in some outback places that don’t support cell phone service so that doesn’t seem like a viable option, either.

Surveying, petroleum museum, Chaparral Gallery . . .

Chris shows off his super sporty safety goggles.

Chris’ enthusiasm for his new-found “career” of surveying grows daily.  Not surprising to me, he is fascinated to learn the intricacies of the equipment, technology and logistics, in addition to myriad mysteries of the oil and gas industry.

His job is as the entry-level rod man (I should get him a t-shirt with a big red "R"); his sponge-like curiosity is soaking up facts faster than Rowdy senses treats coming out of the cupboard, and some of that new-found knowledge even rubs off on me.  We both were eager to learn all we could about our temporary environment.  Laughably, I had a vision of finding some knowledgeable person who would summarize how oil exploration and extraction worked.  I quickly saw how ridiculously simplistic that bright idea was.  A very long lifetime career could not encompass all of it.

Impressive fossils greet petroleum museum visitors.

In my quest to educate myself, I suggested that we visit the nearby Petroleum Museum.  Actually, my objective was nowhere near that noble, had more to do with getting out of the trailer.  Let’s just say I lacked enthusiasm about an oil museum, an attitude that changed instantly upon entrance.

Early oil-boom chasers knew real deprivation.

Petroleum’s geology, history and technology are the primary focus and this place brings it to life in a phenomenal way.  I seldom find myself unable to express enthusiasm, but words fail to convey how impressive this place is, jaw-dropping, really.

Room after room astonished, educated, demonstrated, illustrated and brought to life what has transpired in such a short time in the oil and gas industry - the Permian sea life that preceded it all, the early inventiveness, developing technology, very real day-to-day dangers and the people who made it happen - men and their families living in the most primitive conditions as they pursued a dream.  This is a museum that deserves to be experienced, so worth the time.

Under the same roof, we were surprised to find a gem and mineral exhibit to knock your socks off - I’ve never seen anything like it - large galleries of exquisite, gorgeous crystals.

Next were two galleries of artwork portraying the history of man in the Permian Basin, intricately illustrating all aspects of life in the oil fields.

Last, and least in my mind, but interesting nonetheless was the Chaparral Gallery, housing Midland-based Jim Hall’s Chaparral racing cars that transformed racing with the science of aerodynamics.  I even learned a lot there, more than I ever thought I wanted to know about racing.


Forty outside acres hold what is touted as the world’s largest collection of antique drilling equipment and modern machinery - an intriguing exhibit but one we saved for a warmer day.

Rowdy relaxes with two of his favorite things: the keyboard case and a sunspot.

Coming of age
Jan. 5, 2013

I see that I wrote the wrong year on the last post . . .  not overly surprising but I got it right this time.  Today is the señor’s 65th birthday.  He continues to try to catch up with me but so far, no luck no matter how much he ages.  I have prepared a nice chicken noodle soup and grilled asaigio cheese bread for our supper and even baked a cake.  Now that there is a bald-faced lie - the reality is that I bought some cupcakes at Walmart, but then who’s to know unless I blog it for all the world to read.

I use our oven pretty regularly, but what a pain!  This is how it goes: first, I remove from the oven two cookie sheets, one skillet, one saucepan, two baking pans and a splatter screen that are in there because there’s no place else to store them (Chris’ superior spatial skills figured out how to get it all in there).

The pans reside on the bed while the oven is in use so there’s no lying down while the meal cooks.

Next, I get out the butane clicker and get on the floor in front of the oven.  Oops, I have to get back up because I have forgotten to turn the control to pilot and I can’t see it from down there. 

I accomplish that and sometimes remember to take the clicker with me as I get back on the floor.  With much cursing and gnashing of teeth, I manage to ignite the clicker (I confess to being clicker challenged), stick it an arm’s length into the back of the bottom of the oven while pushing in the overhead control that is set to pilot (hopefully) and trying to peer back there even though my arm is in the way because I have to hold the flame in the correct spot.

I then wait none too patiently while the thermocouple (that’s the doodad I am holding the clicker on) heats up sufficiently to remain lighted without the clicker applied to it (a little guesswork goes a long way here).  Once the pilot is burning all by its lonesome, I rise (who needs a gym?) from the floor and turn the oven on.  One wonders who is the sadistic so-and-so who designed the oven with the manual lighter in the back instead of the front.

The good part: the oven is so small that it heats up in nothing flat.

Breakfast . . .

Speaking of cooking: I will relate the story of the little breakfast that almost wasn’t.  It was a clear day in Midland, Texas, the first day of 2013.  Mama in her kerchief (that’s me) decided to fix a holiday breakfast of French toast and bacon.  That’s because: 1. Mama loves French toast and 2. Mama wanted to try out her brand-spanking-new handy-dandy-cooking-bacon-in-the-microwave gadget.  And who doesn’t love a new gadget.  I never cook bacon in the trailer because I don’t want to make a mess, so this gadget is designed to eliminate the mess or at least confine it to the easier-to-clean microwave.

Step 1: Get out the eggs.  Dang!  One is cracked and consequently, they all are cemented to the carton.  No matter, a good soak in the sink and I eventually am able to carefully peel them out without incident, so on to French toast.

Step 2: Get out the bread.  Dang!  The bread is moldy, so there goes French toast.  Back to the drawing board.

I have some non-moldy asaigio cheese bread - sounds horrid for French toast ergo . . . punting . . . Mama sees the handwriting on the wall and opts to whip up some bacon, eggs and toast.  And so she does.  Get out the onion, green chiles, garlic, cheddar cheese and bell pepper; combine with the eggs in a tasty manner.  Top the eggs with Nancy & Jim’s Private Reserve Label Miss Wussy’s Not So Hot Double Flush Chipotle Hot Sauce, spread the toast with cranberry butter, retrieve the perfectly crisped bacon from the microwave oven, and the year is off to a great start, at least the first meal of it.

 









Library, snow . . .

A great discovery - the downtown library has a bang-up genealogy section; I am in hog heaven!  They are proud to have sections for every state in the Union, so I am thinking I must make my way through those stacks.  Have already finished Louisiana looking for my ancestral Wallaces, Means and Kelleys and starting on the Texas section.  As expected, there is a passel of material there.

One day while I was there, a staffer went around telling every patron that it was snowing.  She was practically giddy at the prospect; I confess I took the news without nearly as much enthusiasm, and later felt a tiny pang of guilt at raining (so to speak) on her parade, especially when I saw the entire staff lined up at the window like children watching for Santa’s arrival.

Unsurprisingly, the flakes fell for only a short while; nevertheless, we were shortly informed that Judge Bradford (whoever he may be) had decreed the facility should close early due to inclement weather.  This when the precipitation had already stopped almost as soon as it started and there was no (NO!) accumulation on the ground.  Life would come to a winter standstill if the honorable fellow had any sway in our part of Arizona.

In the night, we did get snowfall enough to cover Ruby followed by a very cold sunless dreary day followed by spring or at least one day to give us hope it’s out there somewhere.

Work station . . .

At my other home, I devised a work station that allowed me to stand while working on the computer.  In an attempt to emulate that set-up and because there is not one place comfortable to sit in the Totee, I opted to try out the stove top for my standing work station.  This is only partially successful; I don’t have my giant monitor with me and this is proving to be a little low to read what is on the laptop screen and when I bend down to peer more closely, I bump my head on the overhead fan assembly.

Ah, the trials and tribulations.

Into the future . . . and the past
Jan. 2, 2012

Rowdy politely admires Christmas dinner and in case you wondered - no, he's not spoiled in the slightest.

A change in the calendar greets us and with it come introspection, intentions and partying.  In our case, there was precious little partying, okay - none - but still I greet a new year as an auspicious occurrence.  There is no particular reason to think January 1 will bear any variation from the last day of December, but it remains a marker for me, as many others, to strive for improvement in my habits and in my relationships.

I view each passing day in the same way, but with less drama perhaps.  A new calendar year invites questions: have I progressed toward stated goals?  Am I being of service?  Have I turned less toward judgement of myself and other people and more to being the best I can be?  Some I can answer in the affirmative, but always, more effort to be put forth.

As we evaluate progress and look with optimism to what is to come, it seems a good time to honor the ancestors and all those who have come before us, thus a perfect time to revisit the resting place of my great grandmother and those close to her.

We have been before to her homes in Littlefield and have visited her grave previously; now we will take advantage of the relative proximity to do so once again.

Driving in this northward direction, the landscape changes some - we find ourselves surrounded by oil wells to a lesser extent to see them replaced by more agriculture, primarily cotton but also crops of alfalfa and milo in addition to horse ranches.

One approximate quarter-mile stretch is marked along its length by signs showing the names of the thoroughbred race horses that have been bred there.





Tank anyone?

Startled might be too weak a description of my reaction as we come upon Sam’s Surplus, an emporium of military leftovers, but not the usual Jerry cans and ammo boxes.  Sam has one way or the other procured for sale such items as missiles, tanks, helicopters and Jeeps, nothing really for which I am in the market but worth a photo stop.





We pass through LaMesa, a good sized town that evidences prosperity and then Levelland, also bustling and sporting freshly-fallen snow.  I am surprised at the changes in temperature and precipitation across flat plains that display no other particular demarcations.

Cranes!

Sitting in the leisure seat, I had time to gaze across the countryside and wonder at a distant very large flock of birds, curious of course about what they were.  Although Chris is mostly amenable to my flights of fancy to turn off our course, cease forward motion for a look-see or some other detour from destination, he declined to attempt this chase, so we were left to wonder.

Not for long, though: soon we saw other gyrating columns undulating far upward, some veering off into formations and generally filling the sky.  As soon as we stopped, we knew for sure we had encountered thousands of sandhill cranes - their unceasing murmurings sounding for all the world like purring.

How exciting to chance on these beautiful graceful birds!  I tried getting pics of them in flight but without any great success, and the only ones we were close enough to photograph on the ground numbered in the hundreds, not thousands (remember: these pictures can be enlarged by clicking on them).


Honoring ancestors . . .

A most favored subject for me: finding ancestors, mine or someone else’s - it matters not.

I have long intended to put into writing how some of our discoveries have occurred, even saw it on a “to-do” list not long ago and renewed that resolution in my mind; now is the time to take action.  I begin with one aspect of our search for Kelleys, my name of birth.

On a date in 1991, we determined to utilize Christmas vacation for our first trip to the hill country of Texas, birthplace and/or home of our ancestral Kelley, Winans, Owen and Taylor families.  Dad and his parents were born near Barksdale, a burg that earns that description.  We loaded up Dad, two of our children and all incumbent luggage, taxing the springs of Maxi, the minivan.

Not now to go into the many great stories and connections that resulted from that sojourn, I will write only about what transpired after a stop on the way back to Arizona.  My great grandfather, Frank Kelley, and his father, James Kelley, are buried in Barksdale, but we knew from research that Frank’s wife, Julia Travis (Winans) Kelley was interred in Littlefield, Texas, and we wanted to locate her grave.

Time constraints of work and school dictated that we drive straight through to home at the end of our exciting and busy vacation with a late-day stop at the burying ground in Littlefield.  We were surprised by the large size of the cemetery and could see that we might not have enough daylight to locate her resting place.  There were five of us, though, so we deployed in a military-like fashion, each person jogging up and down his assigned rows.  We had just about despaired of success when someone called out they had found her near the back.

We all gathered and placed flowers on her grave and for the other kin buried next to her.  On one side was her son, Archie Kelley, my grandfather’s only sibling, who died at age 45. 

On the other side are her sister, Dovie (Winans) Harper and a brother, Doc Winans.



 


Time allotted was short and we were shortly off for the all-night drive home.  Afterward, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Littlefield newspaper (as a newly-retired newspaper publisher/editor, it seemed a natural).  This was early in our genealogy research days when we had little information about the family and were anxious to gather all we could.

In the letter, I briefly explained that I was descended from Julia and was anxious to obtain any information possible about the family.  I was overjoyed to receive three phone calls in response to my query.  Two were from sisters, Janice & Janine:  They remembered Julia from their childhood.  Not only that, they had her Bible!  Piecing together their story and those from cousins later, we found that when Julia died in hospital in Big Spring, some folks went into her house and helped themselves to her belongings before her brother, Frank Winans III, could get there from his home in Big Spring.  Frank looked after her in her later years.

I’m still shocked at the thought but know nothing of the circumstances although I have trouble imagining what circumstance could excuse that behavior.  At any rate, the sisters’ father somehow salvaged Julia’s Bible and displayed it in the front case of his store for many years, waiting for a Kelley kin to come by and retrieve it.  Upon his death, the sisters continued to save the Bible and were most happy to send it to me right away.  Imagine that!  This family saved that Bible for more than 30 years to return it to its family!

Since then, we have become good friends with them and another sister and have visited back & forth in Texas and Colorado.  They are dear people whom we cherish and whom I intend to visit again during this time in Texas.

The other call was from a woman who was a bit older and whose father had pastored the church that Julia and her mother, Martha (Mattie) Ellen (Owen) Winans had attended.

These three people most graciously shared their remembrances of our family, relating things that we could never have known otherwise.  It seems that Mattie was known as Granny Winans.  Because of her toothlessness, she had the appearance of nose and chin nearly touching.  Another inadequacy - hearing loss - was compensated for when the church provided a rocking chair up front for her.

The friend who shared these memories, Omega, was in her teens when she sat up with Julia during the night that Mattie died in Littlefield.  Mattie, my great, great grandmother, was buried beside her husband Frank Winans in Barksdale.  Omega remembered them loading the coffin onto the train to take her there.

Julia and her seven younger siblings were close, often sharing living quarters and employment.  We learned that Doc suffered from Parkinson’s disease and that he also lived and died in that same house; his room was at the northwest corner. 

Dovie, too, died in Littlefield, but I am not sure which house they were at then.  It was just about the time that Julia moved closer to the middle of town.  Their previous house included acreage on which she and Dovie grew vegetables and grapes commercially. 

Later, Julia babysat for neighbors to earn extra money.  We have visited both houses, shown where they are by our Littlefield friends.  The current visit was no exception.  One of the houses was abandoned even the first time we went there, but its condition and that of the outbuildings was relatively good, so much so that we can recognize it in old photos.  This time, though, we see that it will not be standing much longer.  All but the barn and part of the cistern are flattened and the roof of the house has deteriorated to the point that it will not last much longer.

Evidently, Julia also gardened and had a grape arbor, less extensive, at the house in town.  Most of that has given way to an addition on the house, which is still occupied.  My older brother tells me he visited Julia there with our Grandpa Kelley and that her eyesight was very bad; when she first spotted his tow-head, she thought he was bald.  I am sad that I did not get to know her or even that she existed although I was ten years old when she died.

This time and each visit, we remember her and the others by putting flowers on their graves and by trimming the trees that threaten to overtake the family plot.

Out ‘n about 
Dec. 31, 2012

I will write a bit about some of our runnings here & there whilst the señor winterizes our sleeping quarters.  With the exception of running out of propane one night, we have been relatively comfortable heat-wise, but we just purchased a sheet of styrofoam that he is fitting into the window and hatch of our sleeping quarters.  All that stands between us and winter in those spots are single-pane glass in the window and a thin plastic cover on the hatch.  Clearly, the Totee is not designed for cold-weather usage, which we knew, and decided that we could do enough to make up for its deficiencies to get through a West Texas winter.  That winter blanket I purchased as soon as I got here has helped immensely, too.

I judge these two weeks since my arrival as decidedly atypical because of work stoppages due to holidays.  Chris did not work on Christmas eve or day nor is he doing so for the new year holiday, allowing us time to do a bit of wandering.

Water or not, birds, poisonous gas . . .

Driving away from the highway and the city, we found ourselves on dirt roads that accessed cotton fields, some harvested and some that appeared to have made a crop but lacked enough height because of the drought to be harvested.  Those have been disked in, but from a distance, the unharvested cotton makes them resemble a body of water.

And speaking of water, we had in mind to search out that commodity thinking to do some bird watching.  The majority of time we found any, access was denied by oil lease holders.  The oil fields are dangerous in many ways and the owners do all they can to insure that casual snoopers like us do not fall afoul of the hazards.

The pumping machinery itself is dangerous to be around.  Even the ones that appear not to be operating start pumping spontaneously when the pressure builds to a sufficient level.  And then there is the di-hydrogen sulfide, H2S, gas that is present in many fields.

When Chris’ employment takes the crew into a functioning oil field, they always carry detectors.  He explains that H2S is not harmful in small quantities, but is fatal at certain levels.

We checked out Boggy Lake, Red Lake and Roberts Lake.  The only one we could get to was dry as the proverbial bone.  The others had no access that was not posted and/or locked.  We did find a draw with water that we can return to when we have time to hike in.  Even with the scope, we were too distant to identify the birds, although surprisingly, there were gulls at the shoreline.  One wonders just why those gulls have chosen the West Texas plains on which to reside.

Not many folks have chosen to remain on the farms in these parts, hence lonely buildings that once housed families now stand desolate awaiting their inevitable deterioration.

Notrees, murals, soreheads, Big Spring . . .

Our wandering took us through towns interesting or not.  I thought Notrees was aptly named: seems they tried for a moniker that the post office vetoed as being similar to a place that tagged it first and requested something that reflected the area’s appearance.  After claiming Notrees as their official title, the few residents got right to work planting.

Stanton’s soreheads got my attention as did this great mural.  I had to photograph it in sections to do it any justice at all. 

As we neared Big Spring, we saw the escarpment that looms over the town, visible for a great distance across the surrounding tabletop flatness.  We have been there previously, even have kin there as well as in Midland and dear friends in Littlefield, none of whom we have contacted, but surely will now that we are settling in.

Big Spring takes advantage of its unique position at the elevated land mass by plunking a park up there.  It allows some awesome views and I am also awed by the road to the top that would easily allow a vehicle to dive over the edge.  I surmise that has occurred at times.




Sadly, we are anal enough to even be intrigued by the fossils in the WPA-constructed limestone block restrooms, one in the shape of a heart.

The vast majority of the settlements in this region seem not to be benefiting in the slightest from the oil boom.  Even Odessa, our neighbor city, consists of depressed, deteriorating neighborhoods and a mostly boarded-up business section.

Midland alone is exploding with primarily industrial and business construction everywhere.  Residential development does not seem to be growing apace; however, I’m not sure I have a good overall feel for it.  The industrial growth has nearly filled in the entire 20 or so miles between Midland and Odessa, leaving their boundaries questionable.

Chris is employed . . .

I haven’t talked about Chris’ job and am getting many questions regarding it.  The first week he was here, he worked through a temp agency installing computers in a hospital.  For a spell, it was thought that might lead to more permanent work, but for various reasons, it did not.

It took him just one more week to find a permanent job and one that we think is just about perfectly suited for him and he for it.  It remains to be seen if the salary and overtime will suffice for our purposes; at this point, we are feeling extremely grateful for his position.

He is working for a long-established engineering & surveying company, family owned and operated.  It suits nicely for a number of reasons.  First, the owners and fellow employees are to a man (and woman) easy to get along with, helpful and just good folks.  Second, he is in a position to learn all kinds of interesting things about the surveying profession and the oil industry, so it is very interesting to him.  And third, he will likely be able to earn some kind of survey certification that might be useful elsewhere.

After only a week on the job, we both were welcomed to the company Christmas party/dinner at a Mexican food restaurant.  Despite my penchant for timidity in such circumstances, I was not only put at ease, I had a fascinating long conversation with the owner of the firm, with whom I have much in common.