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.