R&R: Revived & Refreshed
February 22, 2012

Rush hour, prices, cowboy poets . . .

Leaving behind the Midland/Odessa morning rush hour, our destination is Alpine for a much-anticipated weekend off and away.  My stomach can unclench now that we are beyond that jockeying of monstrous vehicles.  It is finger-nail gnawing to see those lines of trucks and cars backed onto the Interstate highway waiting and waiting to exit.  One can only hope a wool-gatherer does not join the back of the line at a high rate of speed.

We just saw gas advertised for $3.79 and a Motel 6 starting at $80 - for that, they should leave on several lights, turn down the covers and put a mint on the pillow.

This weekend, we will attend the Cowboy Poets Gathering in Alpine: it should be a fine time with room to stretch.  We are lodging in Fort Davis about a half-hour away because even more than a month ahead, there was nothing at all available in Alpine.  I’m thinking one might need to reserve about a year in advance to obtain lodging there for this busy weekend.  We will stay right in Alpine another not-so-busy time.  We have previously toured Fort Davis (the historic fort) and driven through Alpine; my list includes more time in that country. 

The Marfa lights . . .

On a previous trip, we stayed in nearby Marfa so we could look for the fabled lights of Marfa.  We were joined in that attempt by a large number of folks, some of whom inexplicably got pretty excited when they saw distant car lights coming through a mountain pass, but the real deal, if there is one, did not make its appearance that night. 

In fact, it seems it is either a most rare occurrence or a hoax.  The lights of Marfa have never been explained; the first reported sighting might have been in 1883, depending on who you believe, so we can be fairly assured they were not the result of a Mustang convertible winding down into the valley.

Rowdy rides, statistics . . .

Our furry boy is with us on this foray, alternating lying down in his carrier and popping up to the front seat to chastise us for torturing him with another car trip.

We just saw an electronic sign that informed us there have been 211 deaths on Texas highways this year, not even to the end of February.  I knew from the newspaper that Midland County alone has so far averaged one fatality per week.  Those are some fairly daunting statistics.

Selling again, packing . . .

Noticing that the date is 2/22 reminds me that this was the closing date for the last sale of our house, a sale that failed because the buyer could not pull off their financing.  That realization started a whole line of conversation about what the past 14 months were like for us.

In that time period, we sold our house and bought another.  When the first buyer backed out three days before moving, it created quite an unpleasant series of events.  Our purchase was contingent on the sale, so we had to cancel our contract after having put money into inspections and so on.  Then there were attorneys and mediators involved to sort out the legalities, more time and money expended, not to mention the emotional aspects.

That was followed by unpacking our belongings to sort out necessities and then repacking about half the house to await a future move, and cancelling all the things that had been scheduled in anticipation.

Then a new listing and much more paperwork, followed by another sale: the one that was to close today, and all the back-and-forth negotiating and paperwork.  That seemed to be a go until it wasn’t.

And now our big news - the third sale that is the charm, finalized yesterday and set to close March 27.  Inspections done to a fare-thee-well, some work done, other work arranged to be accomplished next week and then we return for a week of packing and putting all our stuff into storage.

More paperwork, more phone calls, more emails, more signing, scanning and sending and then our home of more than 36 years will bring shelter and joy to someone else.  We are relieved and grateful to turn it over as we relive in our minds decades of life lived fully there.

Rememberies, blog . . .

The home place is unrecognizable from its birth as what was referred to as “the little house on the prairie”.  We added a second story, planted and tended extensive organic gardens, trees galore, shrubs and vines, much designed for bird habitat - evergreen, decidious, flowering, fruiting, berry patches. 

Looking back at photos of gatherings over the years, we remember reunions in the barrenness, no shade, no shelter, but love shared through all of them anyway.  We moved in a mobile so Dad and Pat could be near at hand.  Dad with us for just about 25 years; Pat's terminal illness and death transpired there.

Chris and I were married in the house; two of our children were born at home.  Sara’s wedding and reception were held in the back yard and her massage therapy school held its graduation ceremony there.  Chris’ retirement party filled the house and grounds as did both Dad’s and Pat's memorial service gatherings.

Friends and kin have come and gone through there, holidays and birthdays celebrated.  There have been hard times, those that wind through all lives, but we release this home that is now infused with positive energy, prepared for new residents to revel in the morning birdsongs, the sunlight greening through the leaves, the exquisite flavor of sun-warmed strawberries.

My last blog post brought lots of welcome response, everything from offers to send mountain photos to quench my thirst to queries about Chris’ work to sharing of remembrances provoked by my musings.  Each response, small or extensive, is truly a warm fuzzy for sappy sentimental me.

Oil field surveying . . .

As we have driven southeastward, we have come in sight of distant mountains that lure us on.  Chris’ work mostly takes him far from the city; he sees the Davis Mountains often.  His work day begins at 7 a.m. and ends about 12 hours later, giving him an average 60-hour week.

The firm he works for is a small long-established family-owned and -operated surveying and engineering company.  It seems there are many positions in the oil fields that are jobs we had never heard of before and that are specific to these activities. There are land men (one woman who attends church with us is a land man), derrick hands, floor hands, pumpers, tool pushers, gate keepers and on and on.  Chris is a rod hand; he assists the surveyor or crew chief, and does it most ably.  His work ethic is most appreciated by the people he works with.

Because they are surveying to site new wells, pipelines, powerlines, roads and properties, the work involves lots of “windshield time”, sometimes driving more than 100 miles just to get to the job.  The work is of course all outside, which he enjoys, and quite varied.  The technology they utilize is all new to him and fascinating to learn.  The work brings into play his extensive conceptual and mathematic skills, keeping him interested and learning.

Typically, a crew will consist of two people who will often meet in the field with a land man representing the oil company or the firm doing the drilling.  That confab will determine exactly how the survey is to be done to accomplish what is wanted while avoiding conflicts with existing or proposed wells, power lines, water lines and roads.  The process is quite complex because of extensive oil field development here.  They might be surveying for rights of way, titles or well pads, to name a few.

He has found his co-workers to be pleasant, having ample time to get to know them.  The company was substantially larger during the last boom and is set to expand some now, although they are taking a more conservative approach this time.

Boom/bust, an Arizonan, poison gas . . .

One sees the effects of boom/bust economics here at every turn.  Abandoned, closed businesses and residences side-by-side with new.  I can’t imagine trying to determine the demographics that would warrant the expenditure necessary to open a business here, gambling the start-up with the possible longevity.  This is doubtless what causes a lack of retail/service facilities to cope with a population jump of 60,000+ additional bodies and their needs.

Although the majority of our neighbors are Texans, we have an Arizonan right next door.  Yesterday, he and Chris were both home a bit early, so I pushed the señor out the door to query our fellow Grand Canyon stater.

A nice young man, he is from Yuma (I see Carol’s ears perk up), heard about the oil boom much the same as we did and moseyed on over to check it out.  His story is fascinating.  He has a family in Yuma and previously worked full-time in billing for a medical office.  How unlikely it sounds that he would now be employed on a fracking crew in Midland! 

This is a fracking operation at work.

Like many hereabouts, he is on the job site for extensive periods, in this case, he works for two weeks and then has a week off, which he uses to return home.  Men on his crew are allowed to stay on the site 24/7 and be paid for those extended hours.  Those who do that sleep in their trucks in between tasks - good money but ultimately pretty exhausting.  They have the option of being put up nearby in a hotel; occasionally, but of course they don’t get paid for that time.  Our neighbor comes home to his trailer to recuperate for very short stints, usually just one sleep shift.  Some men who work in this way share a trailer with others of their ilk, a situation that works well because they are seldom in residence.

We heard of a recent case of three men on a drill rig being poisoned by a sudden burst of H2S.  They were rushed to an emergency room in the nearest town, of burg proportions.  For reasons that are beyond us, the doctor quickly evacuated the E.R. except for a skeleton staff to treat the men.  The word is that they were okay, but we’re still wondering if the doc was prone to panic and decided the patients might be radioactive!?

The journey, The Veranda . . .

A highway-side historical marker tells us that our road to Alpine, U.S. 90, follows the approximate route of the Overland Butterfield stage road.  I am excited as the landscape evolves into rolling foothills backdropped by mountain ranges and peaks, reminscent of home.

Bliss today as we drive along: little traffic, green creosote on the plains instead of Midland’s brown mesquite, brown sky, brown everything, which is fine if you happen to like brown . . . a lot. 


Our weekend lodging was chosen in (large) part so that the boy could go with us.  The Veranda Inn, an adobe built in 1883, is operated as a lovely bed & breakfast.  We reserved the garden cottage, but I had time to peruse the rooms and suites in the main building, too.  The place is decorated with period furniture and has nicely updated bathrooms and amenities.

We enjoyed good morning meals with other guests in the dining room; however, we spent most of our time away at the gathering or poking around the interesting little town of Fort Davis.  Backdropped by fascinating volcanic cliffs of pipe-like columns, many of the buildings are historic.  It is a quiet dark-sky spot near to the McDonald Observatory.  The large grounds of the interesting fort are right in town.

I would love to have gates like this!

 

Rowdy checked out his new digs. . .

. . . including drawers . . .

And settled down to wash off the road dust. Pretty adaptable for a 16-year-old.

I'm thinking this is Fort Davis' original main street.

The Masonic building.

Mountains, elk, Boers, audads . . .

In our drives between Alpine and Fort Davis, I was constantly fascinated to be back in the mountains.  As I am wont to do, I scanned the passing countryside, alert to anything that would elicit my cries of “Stop, stop, stop; go back, go back, go back”.  I was not disappointed, finding much to delight.

An adobe ruin was preserved by a modern roof and identified as to its origin.  It is located on Calamity Creek with a wide grassy meadow running along the bank for about a half-mile.









































This was a double-whammy stop: we viewed the ruin, read the marker and were thrilled to see a herd of elk out for a graze.  Later, we saw deer there also.  It is Texas, after all - deer are everywhere, even saw one grazing on the lawn in front of the hospital.

This view shows a remnant of the 1854 adobe house of Manuel Musquiz with elk in the background.

Upon one particular scan of a mountainside, a series of UWOs (unidentified white objects) caught my eye; Chris obligingly pulled off the road so I could satisfy my curiosity.  They were what I later tentatively identified as African Boer goats gone feral.  They have white bodies and brown heads.

That was fun, but even more exciting, when I trained the binoculars on them, I saw other animals in the vicinity, game that blended so well into their environment that I would never have noticed them had I not been looking at the goats.

What we would have said were mountain goats turned out to be another native African that I had never heard of: audads.  They were not wearing identification; without the knowledge of a couple of young men who also stopped, we would not have known.  There were ten or so of them - very hard to determine exactly because they were practically one with their background.

Pioneer cemetery . . .

We wondered about a sign that pointed to a “pioneer cemetery” but could never in passing see to what it referred, so as we departed, we made it a point to stop for a look-see.  Turns out there is a weathered old sidewalk that leads from the road and between two homesteads back to the burying ground.

 It is fairly large with few gravestones remaining.  The ones that are there are mostly very old and interesting.  Some effort has been made to identify graves and to preserve what markers remain.  I photographed most of the tombstones and the efforts not to lose any more. 

Wild Rose Pass, Balmorhea . . .

As we left Fort Davis, we took a different route and were thrilled with the vistas in this direction also.  I had to stop atop Wild Rose Pass for a walk-around and to have a last opportunity to enjoy the wondrous mountain expanses.  I have no idea if the numerous artificial flowers festooned on the native brush in one spot was in honor of the pass’ name or for another reason, but I appreciated the look just the same.

As we left the high country and neared the small town of Balmorhea, the countryside evolved from thorny plains to agricultural pursuits.  Many of the previously cultivated fields lie fallow now, but some are still being farmed, mostly in alfalfa.  I saw much evidence of earlier cotton farming through here in the form of four derelict cotton gins in the area.

The incredible water springs of Balmorhea are the source of this agricultural ability.  We have twice before come here to swim in the amazing pool, and certainly will do so again at a warmer season.  Tooling along nicely, we whip a quick right turn at the sign indicating Balmorhea Lake.  Funny that we haven’t visited that before, an oversight we are quick to remedy.




A posting tells us we are in some sort of citation peril if we don’t obtain a day pass at the rickety wooden store, so of course we stop in to chat.  The friendly proprietor answers our questions about RV spaces, fishing and birding.  The latter two sound stellar.  The RV spaces are on the low side of so-so, but would certainly suffice for a couple of days stay-over.

He kindly allows us a half-hour (but who’s counting, he adds) free pass to drive around the lake.

The reservoir is fairly large, the unattractive shore line barren of vegetation, but surface water in this country is a major attractant for birds.  Both the lake itself and the canals and irrigated fields are at least seasonal homes to a huge assortment of wildlife.

The day is very windy and we are on our way home, so we take time to identify only the most obvious birds: mallard, American coot, swan goose, pied-billed grebe, muscovy duck, ring-billed gull, white-crowned sparrow, double-crested cormorant, great-tailed grackle, raven and astonishingly - a raft of American white pelicans that treated us to the fun of watching them ascend en masse and twirl prettily in the blue sky before descending to skim the water’s surface as they settled back.

Cowboy poets . . .

We have previously admired the town of Alpine, situated at an elevation of 4,475 feet - nearly as high as home.  Sul Ross State University anchors the small city; its attractive campus perches on a hillside just above downtown.

We navigated campus easily to find where to obtain our Cowboy Poets Gathering tickets, signed up for two evening shows and Baxter Black’s afternoon hour.  All the other performances were free.  Not being able to check in to our lodging in Fort Davis until later, we abandoned Rowdy in the car (the telling sounds worse than the act) and enjoyed an opening show in the impressive Marshall Auditorium. 

Sul Ross State University hosts the gathering.  Its classic architecture, beautiful campus and friendly helpful students and staff enhanced the experience.  Performances were throughout campus; some in the auditorium that is filled each time to the tune of about a thousand seats, and others in various classrooms for a more intimate setting.

I can count no one poet or musician as a favorite.  Each told the story in such a heart-felt personal style that they must be accepted in the same way.  This was the finest in entertainment - musical and storytelling both.

Many began their sharing by explaining they had heard a particular story from someone they knew well or someone they met in passing, and then retold it in their own way - isn't this the very height of oral history!

Some were side-splitting hilarious, a la the one who portrayed himself as the old-time cowboy just off a trail drive from Texas and who was was having dinner at a fancy Denver restaurant.  When he was offered a bowl of matzo ball soup, he turned up his nose, stating in a most poetic way that he might return another time to try a different part of the matzo critter.

Prescott’s own Gail Steiger brought tears to my eyes with his recitation of a Mary Oliver poem and his lady, Amy Hale Auker, shared her love of ranch life in a way that evoked gasps of appreciation at how the words created their own beauty while conveying it.

Two days and evenings filled with the finest kind of entertainment: the type that draws you in to share in a beloved lifestyle, that beckons you to share the reverence for the land, to appreciate the humor in the human condition, to feel that catch in your throat as you gaze in awe at the nighttime sky, that understands the bond we all share.

The poets and musicians freely offered us humor, music and their authentic open honest cowboy hearts.  They laughed at themselves and at the foibles of us all.

One poet mentioned aged withered hands gnarled from decades of hard work.  That reminded me of Dad’s cowboy hands, toughened from his life of working outside, the strongest hands I’ve ever felt, hands that right up until his end on this plane could knead the knots from my shoulders like no others.

I am steeped in cowboy, filled to the brim with a pure clean stream of reality, the same feeling I remember when drinking out of high mountain streams: dropping down on my belly and scooping a handful of crystal water to my mouth.  It refreshes beyond description, as nothing else can. 

The cowboy poets’ sharing stirs awakenings in the depth of me, the rememberings of all who came before.  It evokes the knowing of that connection through endless ages.

From this I came; of this I am.

Boiling over
February 18, 2013

Oh boy, this has been brewing for a while, so now that fingers are once again to keyboard, there’s no telling where it might end up.  To begin at the end, this morning was that straw that did the number on the camel.  Circumstances in my life have been other than what I desire them to be, pretty substantially other really, and today was a culmination.  Nothing world-ending, nothing that can’t be dealt with one way or t’other, it’s just that occasionally, a person gets tired, thus I shall vent, rant and ramble as it suits me.

Being a relatively bossy personality, I am of a mind to tackle a situation and get it taken care of.  The challenge is not in needing to take action.  For me, the challenge is in dealing with not being able to deal with things.  Far more difficult to sit and wait for others to do whatever others need to do than it would be do it all myself.

So . . . little sense can be made of that and no matter.  Amidst a minor loss of stoicism (okay, so I cried a little - big deal), darling daughter dispensed a dab of motherly advice.  “Go for a walk, Mama”, she said, and so I did, despite Midland’s incessant wind and the resulting gritty eyes.

Wind, like most things, is far worse for the resisting of it.  It howls and whistles and sounds cold whether it is or not.  I find the being out in it and letting it rip is much easier than listening to it sneak in around the windows.  I am happy that I heeded darling daughter’s admonition, especially after two hours in the wildlife preserve.

For most of the time, I was the only person silly enough to be out in the less-than-pleasant conditions and I reveled in the experience.  This time I abandoned the trail and found a nice patch of dirt on which to plant myself, relaxed back against a tree and watched the water.  Missing this connection with the earth is most of what is wrong with me.  I have a deep need to be in contact with the Earth and when deprived of it, I always languish.  I do have a strong preference for the dirt to be attached to Terra Firma, not mixing with the ethers.

Rejuvenated, I determined to wend my way through the wetlands along routes that are now available because of the dropped water levels.  Climbing over downed trees, ducking under low-hanging branches, pushing through brush-choked sections, I proceeded where no man has gone before.  Well, that was a bald-faced distortion of reality, but I did explore places I had not gone previously, working my way around ponds, through reeds, up on banks and through grassy open areas.

In the process, I saw a chattering belted kingfisher to add to our bird list here and a wonderful little ruby-crowned kinglet.  He was hunkered down below me hiding from the wind and not about to move from his haven because of my presence.  I tried to photograph him but the camera wouldn’t focus right because of the brush.

Along the same slough, I also spotted big fat tadpoles; I expect we will be hearing the roar of bullfrogs before long.  Others have reported seeing turtles in the area; I finally spied two sliders out for a sunning.

When I finished scuttling around in the vegetation, I climbed back onto the trail and encountered my only companions in the preserve: a young man with his two small sons. 





























As I turned, I was astonished to spot a red-shafted northern flicker staring out at me from a nest box, one of several installed in the area.  He had a comical air about him; truthfully, he was so still I thought at first he wasn’t real.  It was fun to be able to point him out to the family and share the sight.

Other birds we’ve added to the local list recently are black Phoebe, blue Jay, pyrrhuloxia and bufflehead.



Although there are numerous porcupine dens in the wetlands, I have yet to see one of those creatures.  There is evidence of their work, though, in bark-peeled tree branches.




It’s official, valentines, yard work, geni meeting or not  . . .

I am now an official volunteer at the Midland Public Library.  I had anticipated that my offer to help would not be accepted until the genealogy section’s move to a new location, but they have found a place to plug me in to help get ready for the move.  My big contribution so far consists of working on the massive collection of city directories.  For reasons unknown to me, the library’s basement houses directories from just about anywhere you could name in the United States and even other countries.  We are gluing, taping and even ironing (yes, really) the volumes before putting on their catalogue stickers inside, backside and spineside.

I have not been back to Joy’s to help with yard work because first, I have not felt great, second, the weather has been cold except when I didn’t feel well, third, it seemed to require more self-startingness than I could muster and fourth, I have been distracted with other matters.  I hope the remainder of the mustard weed has not gained gargantuan proportions in my absence; I’m sure the dry leaves have not grown.  The original reason I could not finish the job was because I got entirely too carried away the first trip and couldn’t stop moaning in pain every time I moved for three days afterward.

I did not attend the local genealogical society’s monthly meeting because it transpired on Valentine’s Day evening.  Chris and I see little enough of each other as it is, so I hesitated to eliminate one of those few times.  As it turned out, his work ended early enough that day that he wanted us to go out for dinner, an offer I could not refuse.  We tried a Mexican food place I saw that attracted me - I think it was the lighted fake palm trees on the front patio - and were very pleased with the food and the atmosphere.

Hordes, gasoline, furriners . . .

I recently ventured into Ross for a short shopping foray on a Saturday.  Holy mob scene!  It looked like someone had announced free gold bars for every customer through the door.  A mob scene of impressive proportions - 17 people in the checkout line when I walked in.  Giving up all hope of “shopping” in the best sense of the word, I beelined straight to the men’s shoe department, lucked into a nice pair of athletic shoes for C, whose footwear was embarrassing me, and departed after going through the fairly fast-moving checkout line.

These hordes are pretty much the norm in Mid-boom town-land.  I displayed a serious lack of judgement when I entered the HEB grocery store the day before Valentine’s Day at the produce aisle, which locality also houses the florist section.  As in all things at the HEB, the floral department is large and well-stocked, evidently well-known, too.  I was able to get in the door, but just barely; moving further in that direction was literally impossible through the bodies and shopping carts.  I was forced to back up and find an alternate route into the store.

At all hours, traffic congestion is . . . well, congested, pretty crazy really especially with the very high percentage of semis out there vying for space (one tends not to argue with a rushing truck that is several times larger than oneself).  At RUSH hour, however, the rush slows to a crawl at best.  Coming off the Interstate becomes an exercise in patience.  Every day along about that time, vehicles begin pulling off to the shoulder of the highway and taking their place in the line waiting to exit, backing up along I-20 for a goodly distance at every exit.

One oddity I have noticed is that there are very few out-of-state license plates in these parts.  With the boom conditions, I would have expected there to be loads of furriners like us, but that is not the case.  It being mostly Texans who have come here for work would explain why there is so little knowledge in other parts of the country about the amazing employment opportunities.

Now that I’m on the subject of driving, I want to know what happened to gasoline prices?!  One minute, I was paying $3.14 per gallon (whoever would have thought that would be considered reasonable?); at the blink of an eye, it had jumped to $3.45.  That was when I balked, thinking it would go back down.  Strategical error: we just filled up at $3.65!  What happened?  Was it the Russian meteorite that caused this ridiculous jump?  Is it a result of lemmings somewhere not jumping off a cliff en masse?  I must say I am gratified that I am not driving daily between Chino and Prescott, at least; at prices like that, the gas bill would be astronomical.

Chris pumped the gas today (he had another short day - only 8.75 hours) and actually washed the windshield.  I’ve given up bothering with that; everything - and I do mean everything - is SO dirty, dusty, bird-dropping-streaked.  I have lowered my standards, although Ruby does get a touch-up now and then, and I try to keep the big pieces picked up in the trailer.  The dust, however, is so pervasive as to be unbeatable.




Love is in the air, the campground . . .

Ma & Pa Sparrow are taking up residence in the open bumper compartment of the trailer next to us and I've noticed a good bit of eyelash fluttering in the neighborhood white-wing doves.  Dad, a Texan by birth, called them Mexican doves.  Our friend Buddy, also Texas born, calls them something rat-ish if I recall correctly, which I occasionally manage.  Evidently, they are about as popular here as grackles.























I have mentioned other RV parks in the vicinity, but not said much about ours.  The sign out front calls us a campground.  Ours is possibly the longest established RV hooking-up place in Midland.  It has two distinct personalities.

Our section is for monthly rentals only; as a consequence, we are all working folks.  We have previously stayed in parks that were more residential than transient, but never as fellow workers.  In this case, the feel is much different than on the other side where snowbirds and travelers are stashed.  Those spaces are a little larger, but that is a newer section and lacks trees.
























It does not lack a view; however, that particular view is not one I can recommend.  On the other side of the fence lie mountainous acres of debris.  Presumably, there are no restrictions hereabouts to filling one's own property with trash; perhaps we are in the area of town zoned "garbage".  Anyway, neither side is where I care to spend more time than necessary.

The staff and work campers are all congenial and work hard at keeping the place clean and habitable.  Unfortunately, we are surrounded by never-ending noise and dust.

Interstate 20 is a constant background rumble on one side.  The busy railroad cuts across north of us.  Two oil wells are just over the fence next to the landfill.  Our road is a pock-marked caliche dust bowl leading to industrial yards that are a continual source of back-up beeping,

This is our "street".  Note the oil wells just beyond.

pipe-loading clanging, trucks and equipment rumbling.  As I write this, I feel the reverberation of all the heavy activity surrounding us.  I cannot imagine actually living in such incessant noise, although certainly many do.

Because everyone in our neighborhood is working, most very long hours, we don't get acquainted with anyone but the park's staff.

Those working on the oil rigs are pretty much never here.  They and others will occasionally stop by their trailer without shutting off their engine, run in to grab something and take off again.  Right in the park, there is much engine warming up and idling and enough comings and goings to add to the chaos, especially in the close quarters.  The local custom seems to be "why shut off your engine when you are going to be out of it for only 15 minutes?".

Chris mentioned that one place he worked was far from any vehicles, oil fields or development.  The quiet was blissful.  Because of the distances he drives to work sites, he also gets to see mountains occasionally, a sight denied to me.  I am surprised by how comforted I feel to see mountains around me at home.

On a better note: we are not in the flight pattern of the airport.

A broken key saves me $130 . . .

The general  condition hereabouts with burgeoning population versus adequate services extends also to the automotive mechanic world.  As I have mentioned, Ruby began to solicit attention with her “check engine” light staring me in the face whenever I drove.  I solicited mechanic recommendations and began calling.  The quotes were in the $130 range just to tell me what the ol’ gal needed.  Even more daunting was the time factor.  One place provided a shuttle service but would keep my car for several days before they diagnosed the problem.  Well, said I, couldn’t I just make an appointment and bring it in at the time.  No soap: evidently, it makes them feel prosperous to have all the vehicles on-site.  Another place would make an appointment but didn’t have a shuttle, couldn’t get to it for at least several days and charged just as much.

So . . . these and other seeming setbacks remained running around in tiny circles in my mind.  Meanwhile, my plastic-bodied car key gave it up.  One side has been broken for ages; I have superglued and packing-taped it ‘til hell wouldn’t have it (a phrase utilized by my old Pappy, no idea what it means).  So I was without a key that I could put on a keyring for a car that needed work.

Having no idea where I might get a key made, I began a circuit of the city, one eye on traffic, the other eye on the lines of businesses on both sides of the road.  Fortunately, the right eye worked on its side and the left worked on the left side; otherwise, it would have given me a headache.

Having traversed from the city’s south side to its furthermost boundary on one road, I had no luck.  But then as I turned around in a mall parking lot, I saw Sear’s automotive.  “Wow”, thought I, maybe they can diagnose the car trouble.  The very nice young man (funny how they get younger and younger) was most helpful; however, they don’t diagnose.  “Rats”, thought I.  But as I turned to leave, he informed me that Auto Zone does free diagnoses.  “What?” exclaimed I; “the mechanic wants $130 to do it!”  That young feller even gave me directions to Auto Zone and away Ruby and I went to get our free diagnosis, which took all of about two minutes and which they even printed out for me.  Wouldn’t it be nice if medical doctors could plug in a machine and two minutes later print out what ails you?  But I digress.

I didn’t really comprehend the words strung together on the slip of paper but my handy husband informs me the insufficiency is of a non-mechanical nature and will not harm my vehicle by inaction.

Adding to the perfectly directed day, on the way to Auto Zone, I spotted a hardware store that whipped out a great little key for me . . . and has an excellent RV parts department.  Flying high that day!

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'

January 30, 2013

Wind, dirt, spring & Mike Mulligan . . .

Whoosh!  Just blew in from a walk in the wildlife preserve.  If I had had an inkling of how biting that icy wind was, I wouldda stood at home.  By the time I had harnessed myself for the trek and naively stepped out the door, it was too late - I was strapped this way and that way like a pack mule and just as stubborn, so I proceeded.  In my full regalia, I was bound by four straps from the binoculars harness, dark glasses strap, hat strap and bird book pack strap.  In an effort to rid myself of more straps from the backpack and camera, I was wearing my brand new waist pack with various paraphernalia stowed inside.

The trek was a welcome relief from stress; we had learned about a tragedy for someone we love and in addition, Dad was set for emergency surgery this morning.  Hearing that Dad came through in good order, it was time for me to get out of Dodge.

Adding to the neighborhood hubbub was Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel tearing away at what passes for a road by the campground.  I stepped gingerly between the digging machine and the scooping machine that appeared not to care that I was there and away I went.  Somehow, I am not surprised that I had the place to myself; it was pretty dang unpleasant out there weatherwise but nothing like the day before.





For that entire day, we had 80-miles-per-hour-dirt-laden wind that like to knocked me down when I came out of the library.  It was so extreme that when Chris got home, he loaded me in the truck so he could show me a place where dirt was drifting across the pavement as if we were in the middle of a dirt blizzard.

When hiking, I have a habit of touching vegetation as I pass by, thus I am often trailing my fingers along bark, leaves, stems and grass.  Note to self: Cease that particular habit while in desert climes..

There is every indication that spring lurks nearby.  The willows are leafing out and I can notice the greening of various other plants.  This is just about the time of year I begin to notice the barely discernible change of color in the cottonwoods at home.  It is then I know there is hope; winter is on its way out.

Walmart! . . .

Really, we must learn to adjust our activities in compensation for the conditions in this city.  One Sunday night, we bopped on into Walmart because we were in the neighborhood and wanted to purchase some adult beverages.  Quickly finding the appropriate department, we made our selection and proceeded to checkout.  Jumpin’ Jehosophat!  The ends of the lines were lost somewhere back in ladies’ underwear!  One half hour later, we bade farewell to the nice man in line behind us as he wryly smiled and said, “Nice spending the evening with you”.

This was not our first encounter with 60,000-additional-people-meet-inadequate-workforce.  A couple of weeks ago, Chris developed sufficient respiratory difficulty that I trotted him to an urgent care clinic after work.  All went well there - excellent efficient care - and we were out of there by 7:45 p.m.  We asked to have his prescriptions faxed to Walmart because we find that most convenient when we are traveling.  The nurse thought the pharmacy would be closed by 8 and we couldn’t get there by then, thus would have to wait until morning.

Back in the car, I decided to go there anyway on the chance that it would be open until 9 and he could start on his meds sooner.  Yessir, great idea; the pharmacy was indeed open until 9 and we were standing in line for a full one-and-one-half hours just to get to the counter to find out if the fax had come through.  I give full credit to the staff, though; they worked deliberately and efficiently, never impatient nor harried.  They even took the time to research which of the discount cards we had been given at the clinic would best benefit us.

When in an unfamiliar place, it is sometimes difficult to meet people.  Not so here: just line up and wait - instant friends.

Library, Jamie, indecision . . .

I have been spending most afternoons in the downtown Midland library’s genealogy section.  Having worked my research way through nearly all the Texas source material, I am set to embark on another state.  The staff has been most helpful.  That particular very large collection is slated to be moved to another building sometime in March.  Lest I hear about the move and despair of being able to continue working in there, the librarian reassured me that I would be able to continue my research with very little hiatus during the move, a most thoughtful and proactive thing for her to do.

A while back, a friend mentioned a series of historical novels she thought I might find interesting.  Not being in much of a fiction mode these days, I poo-pooed the idea when I learned more about the theme.  Somehow, though, I ended up borrowing the first book of the series and it’s been all downhill from there.  I am fascinated by the story line, by the characters (Jamie makes my heart skip a beat and Claire is my hero), and the history portrayed in 18th century Europe, especially Scotland, and the American colonies, most notably North Carolina, because I can relate it all to my known ancestors in those times and places, and because I have been in many of the localities in North Carolina and the East Coast.  Recognizing places and the history associated with them and real-life people who were a part of it all adds to the interest.

I mention it now only because I was in the grip of the fourth book in the series, a massive 1,443 page tome, when I left for Texas.  That would be no problem except that the book belonged to the public library, so as any good patron would, I returned it.  Arriving in Midland and experiencing Jamie withdrawals, I hurried down to the library, determined what I needed to obtain a library card, fulfilled the requirements and checked out the book. 

All good except that I’m not spending enough time reading to make a dent in that voluminous volume, so renewal time arrived and, again like a good patron, I sidled on up to the counter to make the book mine for an additional three weeks.  “Sure”, the clerk assured me that renewal would be a simple matter.  “Uh-oh” was her next utterance; I hate it when people do that.  Unfortunately, I had already relinquished control of the book or I would have said, “Never mind”, tucked it under my arm and bolted for the door.  Some other Jamie aficionado had put a reserve on “my” book and no amount of cajoling would induce that wicked librarian to give me back my book.

As Chester A. Riley would have said, “What a revoltin’ development this is”.

I diverted myself from this major loss for a couple of days while schemes revolved in my head like Indians riding in circles around the wagon train in a cheesy old western movie.  I could wait for that mean person to return the book to the library where I had followed suit with a reserve.  No, I didn’t want to wait that long; no telling what will have happened to the North Carolina mountain pioneers forced into duty as Colonial militia by that time. 

Still mulling, I thought I could look for a local bookstore and buy the thing myself but surely a volume that size will be pricey and besides, I couldn’t find a local bookstore.

I could have bought it online: yes indeed, that is what I would do.  I looked up prices, didn’t seem too bad but it was coming up a holiday weekend - I wouldn’t receive it for quite a while.  Maybe I should look for a used bookstore, I thought.  Checking out the phone book, I saw four listed but I didn’t recognize any of those street names, was not feeling much enthusiasm for getting lost in this traffic.

Back to the online idea, then waiting for the library, then more circles of indecision until I finally put my foot down on my own circuitous rambling thoughts.  Back to the phone book: hmmm. . . . seems only one of those addresses was in Midland, didn’t notice that at first.  Now more doubts - get lost, find out it’s out of business, it probably won’t have the right book anyway, could call and ask but they might not want to look even if it really is still in business. . .

All this and more over one lousy book (reminds me of a right venerable gentleman who used to chastise the teenaged me for using that word in place of proper language - “What?” he would say. “Does it have lice?”  Imagine how he would feel about how we abuse the English language now.)  Yet another digression. . .

At long last, a decision made.  I retrieved the map from the map bin and figured out a route to get from here to there (in case it is still open), get in car and drive.  (Is it any wonder that I don’t get the blog done in any kind of timely manner - I do go on and on - at least that’s what Shawna says).

Eureka, Miz B’s . . .

Amazing what effect taking action has - not only did I find the place with ease, but I walked into the most delightful emporium of used books ever and was greeted by delightful young women.  A step into Miz B’s Books is to cross the threshold into a literary wonderland.

Aisle after aisle, room after room, the warren of shelves filled with every imaginable genre of the written word snakes one way and then another, opening into yet another alcove, closet or series of rooms, enticing the prospective reader with visions of endless retreats into realms yet undiscovered.

The proprietor and her enthusiastic assistant welcome their customers with smiles that understand the gleam in each reader’s eye as they survey the stacks and stacks of magical books - the real kind: the kind that tatter at the corner, that smell just a bit musty or dusty, that tent themselves as they are turned upside down to the open page awaiting the reader’s return, the kind that reveal a pressed leaf or forgotten note between inner pages.

This Miz B’s is a Midland treasure, purchased by Alicia last July 1st from her grandmother who opened it, also on July 1st, 33 years previous.  How many of us have harbored a yearning to own a book store?  What avid reader has not at times speculated on the bliss involved with such an undertaking?  Alicia took matters in hand at a young age, determined not to join the ranks of those of us who only wish we had, and is living her dream.  And . . . she wasted not a moment when confronted with my request, but retrieved the ridiculously massive novel from within the stacks, sending me on my way with a skip in my step congratulating myself on finding the best bookstore ever.

The basics, flashes from the past . . .

Two basics I miss most while traveling:  trusted hair cutter and vehicle mechanic.  It seems that all else can be dealt with, although medical and dentistry needs come a close second.  We have been fairly fortunate while traveling in the past to get shaven and shorn and tuned up with little fanfare and no disasters. 

Chris is less persnickety about the end result of his trips to the barber, but I miss Julie!  She has been cutting my hair wonderfully well for years and has become a trusted friend in the process.  In shaggy desperation, I stopped at a salon last week, one that happened to have an opening right then when I inquired about making an appointment - that should have been my first clue.  The young lady gave me a good cut but I have to admit the place seemed not nearly as clean as I would have liked, so I will still be in the market when my five weeks is up.

Ruby also feels the need for attention; although I had her serviced just prior to departure, she has flashed her “check engine” light at me.  A bad haircut I can live with; after all, it will grow out, but I would not dream of entrusting my dependable motor car to just anyone.  Believing we are on the right track after several recommendations and phone calls, I hope to get her squared away this week.

Last week at church, a guest musician from San Angelo mentioned that she originated from Phoenix.  That being my hometown, I began a conversation.  Turns out that Ellen Myers not only attended the same elementary school that I did, we both went to the same high school and grew up less than a mile from each other.  What are the chances that we would happen to meet in Midland, Texas?  It is so fun to discover the connections with those around me.  I am convinced we could find commonalities with everyone we meet; some are just more coincidental than others.

And speaking of connections, I have had the great pleasure to visit with a woman whose brother was my father’s business partner when I was young.  Joy’s niece & nephew read my blog, so when learning that I was in Midland, they told me about her living here.  A phone call later, I was invited to her house and we were reminiscing about her brother whom we both loved.  Another week, another visit - I felt so fortunate to be invited back!

Best business name: Flour Power Bakery.