Sum-sum-summertime

March 16, 2013

It doesn’t seem as if the date, March 16, and summertime should go together; however, in Mid-hot-land, evidently, they do.  It was 88 degrees yesterday, but my friend, Jean, assures me there is “always one more cold spell before Easter”.  I’m thinking Jean’s idea of a cold spell and mine are widely divergent.

Chris utilizes our fancy tailgate grilling platform

So now that we acclimated to the warmer climes of Mid-le-of-nowhere-land, we are headed back to our higher elevations at home for a week of packing.  I am told that it is currently “nice” there, so perhaps we won’t actually freeze our tushies off.

Our house is sold, so we will pack up our belongings and put it all into storage before returning to Mid-now home-land.  I typed this while driving toward Prescott, at least I typed until the computer ran out of juice.  A good thing it did, too, because I would not have run out of words.  At any rate, this blog rambles back and forth between trips, not for the first time.

The kids are getting a little weepy about letting the house go to someone else.  Lewis is the only one nearby and he has been doing his walk-through farewells, but the other two won’t have the opportunity. 

It is the end of an era during which extended family and a multitude of friends have contributed to the energy that permeated the place; each tucks their own memories into their hearts, hopefully knowing the place itself is not important, but that the lives lived there are what matter.

I will indulge myself a bit as I conjure memories of those 37 years, more than half of my 66 years.  Yesterday, I followed through on a plan to purchase a house-warming gift for the new owner.  Lowe’s was my store of choice and because I intended to buy a bird feeder (hint, hint: my birds are moochers of long-standing to such an extent that I have paid someone to feed and water them while I am gone).  I entered the store through the garden section because that is where I expected to find bird feeders.

That is when it became undeniably evident that I am conflicted to a most extreme degree.  There I was wanting to sell my home partially to be freed of the endless toil we have created for ourselves with all our plantings.  That seems like a logical step at my age.

Why then do I yearn to purchase all these wonderful bedding plants and to get right to work on my gardens?  I could barely control myself; it set me to thinking of individual loved plants I am leaving behind.  I am always so excited to see those first grape hyacinths brightening random patches where they have spread with help from the birds.

The creeping phlox is another of the early bloomers with its carpet of lavender blooms along with the fruit trees, the strawberries and the irises.  Also staying behind are the covered wagon irises, the stage stop rose, the giant hosta that everyone admires, the trees we have planted from seed or dug up on ditch banks or traded labor for or that served as Christmas trees.  Soon the lilacs will be sweetening the air.  And how I will miss the huge cypress that Pam gave me when my stepmother, Pat, died.  It was such a tiny little thing; the kids all made friendship bracelets to hang on its branches and bury at its roots in her memory.

We’re saying goodbye to the ruby lace locust that broke its trunk but I saved by bandaging and that is still a little twisted.  No longer will we see the cedar waxwings feasting on the Russian olives nor smell the exotic aromas of the heirloom roses.   Will other folks appreciate the jujube tree that I got from George Nakayama in trade?   Or the maple that came from Marianne?  Or the mulberry that was bartered with Mike & Cathy?

How many years did I stand next to the stick that was my London plane sycamore, scrunching up next to it in an effort to imagine what it would be like to actually have a tree that would shade me.  Now its magnificent branches reach across a 40-foot span, and the paradise trees and many others soar out of sight above the second story of the house. 

I cherish each and every plant (okay, not really the yuccas into which I have backed a thousand times nor the prickly pear that Chris mows right over but is never deterred from living): some are gifts we have given each other; I don’t think there’s a one that doesn’t have a story.  I could go on and on - oh, that’s right - I already did.

May the new owner enjoy them for their beauty.

This will not be my year for gardening, but it doesn’t mean forever, either.

Seasons . . .

Trees are in bloom all over Mid-spring-land; “our” mulberries have just burst forth with nubbins of green buds that undoubtedly will be large welcome cooling leaves when we see them next in a week.  I have no idea what other seasonal changes to expect.  There are grass lawns in some neighborhoods; however, artificial turf appears to be fairly popular.  After all, water is a scarce commodity in Mid-dry-land.  I did read that the city is about to import water via a pipeline from a ranch, so perhaps that will moderate the situation somewhat.  I suspect that at most, it will help to accommodate the boom population.

Wink sinks . . .

When we met with cousins Carl and Alice recently, the subject of sinkholes came up because of the news about the horror of the sinkhole death in Florida.  When Carl told us about a sinkhole in Wink, we were intrigued enough to use a day off to search for it.  After all, if we are deprived of the sight of the ground going up a la mountains, at least we can hope to see it going down a la sink holes.

A little research revealed that there are two of them, a few miles apart.  Chris is becoming a Texan in that he seems to think nothing of driving long distances to achieve his destination.  Thus, a day’s drive for an hour or two of experiencing what’s on the other end is just fine with him and since he is the one working, I indulge that without understanding why he wants to drive many miles on his occasional day off after driving many miles on his working days.

Off we go to the boyhood home of Roy Orbison (still haven’t gotten to that museum), Wink.  Mr. Map-wise takes us right to the smallest oldest sink, which is entirely fenced off.  Not to be deterred, we walk along a road closed to traffic until we gain a viewing spot.  It is far more impressive than my imaginings, which visualized a slope-sided dry crater. 

This is big and deep and steep-cliff-sided, with avocado-hued water within.  One of the proposed names for the pit was “guacamole holey” with a nod to the water’s color, and perhaps some still refer to it as such.  A substantial bird population has deemed it home, calling and swirling within the depths.

That sink is said to be stable, not enlarging, although I’m not too sure I believe that.  We saw many ground cracks and fissures surrounding it, causing me to believe more dropping away could occur.

Our quest to see the newer sink hole did not result in a view, primarily because Chris refused to trespass after reading about folks being arrested for that very thing.  Shucks, I thought it was worth a try but he refused to risk detention with me.

This sink is substantially larger than the older one and remains very active.  It also is steep-sided but is in the middle of a huge subsidence of earth with many deep fissures concurrent with the sink itself - gigantic slabs of ground set to fall into the hole.

The danger is so extreme that a fence has been erected for about a square mile around it.  There are some good pictures of it online but dang, I wanted to experience it up close and personal.

It was kinda scary to see how near to the big sink is a battery of large oil storage tanks.  One hopes they don’t take a tumble; nothing around here surprises me.



Oil field tutorial . . .

Along the way, we traversed an exceptionally dense field of oil wells being drilled and/or pumping.  Chris pointed out various types of pumps that I had never seen before, including one that isn’t a rocker at all, but completely upright.

He explained how to identify which of the drill rigs are three-man operations and which are four-man rigs.  I photographed a nearby three-man set-up.  The men work 12-hour shifts and remain onsite throughout the drilling.  The duration varies depending on depth and other factors.  The close-up photograph shows the zip line off to the right that would be used by the man on the high platform to make his escape in case of explosion or fire!!!

As we drive, the statistics spouter behind the wheel spouts statistics pertaining to the oil fields.  For instance, he tells me that the Permian Basin is the site of a full 25% of the oil wells being drilled in the U.S. - 459.  Yikes, is it any wonder the place is bedlam! 


The Berry Scar . . .

On the way to the Wink sinks, we wondered about a large sign posted about the Gardendale Berry scar, so I looked it up later to get the scoop.

I’ve never done this before, but I certainly can’t say this any better than the website, so am including the explanation here.

“Today, an historical marker was erected in Gardendale to commemorate a community that once was.  Until two years ago, Gardendale, TX home to 2,200 plus people was a haven of quiet, country living at its finest.  Horses, dogs, and families enjoyed the peacefulness of their small slice of heaven.  However, Keystone Petroleum, and now, Berry Petroleum have changed all that.

Berry Petroleum has forever defaced the land we live on.  Instead of riding trails, we have pipelines.  Instead of hay fields, we have caliche pads.  Instead of clean country air, we have noxious, poisonous gas.  Berry Petroleum has stolen our future, Berry Petroleum has stolen our quality of life.  This memorial will stand as a testimony of that theft.

The name “Berry Scar” was chosen from a predecessor of even greater destruction, the “Texon Scar” near Big Lake, TX.  The “Texon Scar” is an area of almost 12 square miles (approximately the size of Gardendale) that is essentially a dead zone. Over 2 billion barrels of produced water containing high levels of salts, were dumped on the ground killing every living plant.  After almost 90 years, still nothing will grow there; it is a wasteland.  Drive down Hwy 158 in Gardendale, and pay homage to the community that once was.”

I was put in mind of my brother who collects such when I saw all these old insulators.

Mifi, genealogy research . . .

A visit to the local telephone emporium availed us of a gadget that enables me to connect to the internet without needing to depend on the sporadic signal at the RV park.  Now I can get back to doing some serious genealogy research, impossible before except by visits to the library to utilize their signal.


It’s all over, including the shouting . . .

Rowdy found a use for stacked boxes. . .

. . .  and held down packing material.

Now we are returned to our home that is our only home at the moment - the 25-foot Totee.  I am far too fatigued to write much about the week in Chino Valley.  With little exception, I packed . . . and packed . . . and packed . . . and packed.  Started with the artwork, all of which was going into climate-controlled storage along with our extensive family photos, moved on to the reiki room and continued to work my way toward active living areas.

Chris tended to much of the out buildings and outdoor items and kept me supplied with boxes and packing paper.  I took time one day to see Julie Shapiro for a visit and a haircut, both most welcome, and to hand over genealogy research done for her. 

From there, I walked to downtown Prescott to pretend that I already lived there and to revel in the crisp mountain air and familiar sights like the Courthouse Square.  Chris met me and we indulged ourselves with our favorite Bill’s Pizza before heading back to the job at hand.

I also took one evening off for my mah jong group and Chris disappeared the next evening to do the talk and music for church.  Various friends arrived to take charge of their foster plants, much to my relief - thank goodness for all of them.

Chris had one extremely long day away from the homestead to lead a hiking field trip up Diamond Creek in the Grand Canyon for Yavapai College.  We were happy that could be combined with this trip - one less long drive.

And then I packed some more.  It became quite mind-boggling just how many boxes were involved; it continued until a person could get into any given room only by squeezing between stacks of boxes.  Barbara arrived to help me pack the kitchen, a job that was beyond my wildest imaginings,  I wouldn’t have wanted to know ahead of time what that was going to be like.

And then my nervousness culminated on Saturday morning when the movers arrived.  Keeping in mind that I had not moved for the past 37 years, I was not sure how it would transpire.

The four young men were friendly, professional and strong: all my fears were alleviated.  They managed to put us into two trucks with nary a scowl to be seen and then to put us into storage units while maintaining their good humor despite an unbelievably hard-labor day.

Final clean-up on our part, crashing at friends’ house, departure at 5:30 a.m., an hour visit with brother and sister-in-law in Benson and 14 hours later, we were back in Mid-scary-land where the electronic sign informs us there have been 436 deaths on Texas highways already this year.

The boy is as tired as I am. Here he is sleeping it off in the closet.

It’s called a travel trailer
March 1, 2013

It’s called a travel trailer, not a live-in-it-all-the-time-and-bake-bread trailer.  About this fact I must remind myself.  Just the other day, I ran across a yummy-sounding recipe for honey oat bread and decided I must give it a try; it sounded perfect to go with the soup I was making.  To cut to the chase: the soup was great.

The bread went something like this.  Check the list of ingredients.  Yup, looks like everything is here - whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda, yogurt, canola oil, milk, egg, honey. 

So getting started: remove multitude of pans from oven and put them on the bed.  Realize I don’t have a loaf pan and scramble around for a substitute.  Find an oval glass casserole dish that is close to the right size. 

Assemble ingredients.  Shoot, no baking soda after all - now what?  Google substitutions - no good - the computer tells me I can use three times the amount in baking powder but it will affect the taste.  What to do - scratch the whole idea or drive all the way to HEB where I’ve been already once today?

It is worth mentioning that we live on the south side of Midland; all - and I do mean all - the supermarkets are on the north side.  I did notice a small neighborhood grocery once in my wanderings but am clueless where it is.

Well, feeling a pretty big yen to bake this bread, so HEB bound I am.  But wait!  A brainstorm!  Just on the wild off-chance that the nearby Stripes convenience market might have baking soda, I risk my life zipping across Midkiff right where traffic is zooming down from the overpass at a high rate of speed and not visible until it’s too late.  Manage to dodge vehicles barely.  Sure enough, there is baking soda right on the shelf across from the motor oil.

Methinks they must stock staples because of the dearth of groceries at this end of town.  Hooray for Stripes!

Back to the travel trailer.  Find a bowl in which to mix the dry ingredients and another in which to mix the wet ingredients.  So far, so good.  The problem ensues when there is no bowl that will hold all the ingredients together.  Punt: get down the bean pot.  It works, not well, but it does work.

Mix the dough.  Notice the directions say to put the oven rack at a medium height and notice that there are two levels for the oven rack in my oven - low and high.  The high level has sufficient clearance only for a cookie sheet, so low it is.

Pop the casserole dish into the oven and guess how long it will take in an oven heated by propane at an incorrect distance from the flames in a dish that is the wrong size.  When all guessing is completed and the inserted toothpick comes out pretty clean, I remove the bread from the oven.  Much fussing later, it is removed from the pan only to discover that it has started to scorch on the bottom despite being barely done in the middle.

Chris calls it good, says it is great toasted for breakfast, too, but I am thinking I need to remember this is a travel trailer, not a live-in-it-full-time-and-bake-bread trailer.

March, the preserve . . .

A new month is upon us, a bit closer to spring and it showed this morning when I walked in the wildlife preserve - more leafing out and green growth.  The ponds’ water levels continue to drop and warmer weather is encouraging wide swaths of algae goop around the perimeters.  In places where water used to be, I now see lush spring grass.

Often, I am the only person in the preserve.  The Midland wind was toned down to a cool strong breeze and the sun shone without any clouds - brisk and beautiful.  I had not been there for a week, having been away for a few days and then volunteering in the library.

Over time, I find odds and ends to photograph in the preserve:  a wasp nest precariously perched on a slender twig overhead, red cactus fruit, unusual seed pods.

A curve-billed thrasher blends into its environment.

I added a bird to our trip list, too: a beautiful little verdin.  I caught a cardinal on a suet feeder but before I could photograph him, he spotted me, too.  As I watched through the binoculars, he simply slipped downward into the brush and poof! disappeared as if by magic.  A new trip bird another day: a curve-billed thrasher.  He was exciting to spot - gave me an excellent view of his startling orange eyes.  Other new birds: Bewick's wrens making use of a nesting box, sharp-shinned hawk and mourning dove.

This may be the remains of a hawk's meal.

A pear tree has burst open its white blossoms.

 

An eagle scout project provided the preserve with a number of nest boxes; one of those has been usurped by a hive of honey bees.  Evidently, they are not Africanized; I surmise this because I got close enough to snap a pic.

The powers that be have even equipped the preserve’s viewing blinds with first-aid kits, doubtful that would be of much comfort if a hive of bees took it into their teeny tiny bee heads to attack.

The genealogy library moves . . .

As the genealogy section in the downtown library closed in preparation for its move, I find must occupy myself otherwise.  I have spent part of most days there working my way through the extensive collection without making a dent in the material available. 

Once the move became imminent, I was put to work in the basement labeling city directories.  Later, I was allowed to move upstairs and complete several other tasks that will hopefully allow the movers to transfer all of the thousands of volumes to their proper places in the new facility.  Organizing this endeavor has got to be a monumental headache.  I watch the librarian agonizing over each aspect, working to insure that every need is anticipated, and thank my lucky stars that it is not I with that responsibility.

Tumbleweed house . . .

Evidently, we made the national news with the tumbleweed-buried house.  Someone in Arizona told me about it, which is a little odd but then I’m not up on Mid-local-land news, so I googled it and found a photo to use here in case I’m not the only person in the country who didn’t see this place that was covered up by wind-borne Russian thistle.  I just hope he clears them away before someone tosses a match in there.  Those things flare up like nobody’s business.

Long, long ago, when Marianne and I owned Ladybug Landscaping, we used to fight over who got to do weed burning jobs, but again, I digress.

The storm that created the tumbleweed house was the one that induced me to buy a vacuum cleaner.  I had been talking about doing it since I got here but could no longer put it off; the little hand vac just was not up to the task.

When were were able to write in the dust on the stove top with the accumulation between breakfast dishes and supper preparation, I knew I could no longer stand it.  Truthfully, something snapped for me when I went to flick something off my pant leg and a large poof of dust exploded.

I don’t care what anyone says about Arizona’s dry - it doesn’t hold a candle to the way they do it in west Texas.

Seating . . .

Another thing I have procrastinated about - seating in the trailer.  There is not one single place in the Totee in which to be comfortable.  Sure the bench seats and the couch are fine for short sits; however, longer sits that do not make my back hurt are not to be found here.  And then there’s the bed: a short mattress that causes upturned toes to be mashed horizontal by tucked in covers, and inadequate support for backs all contribute to a lack of long-term relaxation.

I’ve tried a springy doo-dad for lower back support and a portable heat-massage thingy.  Both helped but did not alleviate the difficulty. 

Sometimes, he prefers just to play with the back support.

Now . . . my solution is to bring a camp chair inside, taking up most of the pitifully small remaining floor space, but it’s helping.  It is helping, that is, when Rowdy allows me to sit in it.  Instantly, upon its appearance, he determined that it was his domain.  If I dislodge him, he retreats to the springy doo-dad, albeit a little grumpily.

These seats were never adequate when we were traveling for months at a time; however, on those trips, we were seldom inside, being either out exploring, visiting or sitting in the camp chairs outside, none of which are happening in the present circumstance.

I smugly think I have found the solution for back support; we will just have to stumble around one more thing in here.

Midland’s snow day, yo-yo weather . . .

Pat sent me the best Midland story after the last blog posting and promises more from the time she and John were here. 

She says, “I am having a great time re-living West Tx in winter through your blogs!  Did I tell you about the time they had SNOW?  New Year's Eve and it had the audacity to snow!”

This was in the 80s and the party town did not want to shut down for the big holiday.  So in order to clear the streets of the scant half-inch of snow that fell, the water trucks came out and yep! poured water on the streets!   Not surprisingly, by 10 p.m. every street in town was an ice slick!!!

I would place this exercise in the “It seemed like a good idea at the time” category.  Thanks for the laugh, Pat!

I have seen some extreme temperature changes within a day at home, but I have never seen anything quite like we experienced in Midland recently.  During the previously mentioned storm, we endured winds up to 70 miles per hour (yes, indeedy, this little trailer was rockin’ and rollin’) and the day’s temp topped out at 37 degrees after the breezes transported a whale of a lot of dirt from one place to another.  Within that same week, we warmed up to 87 degrees.  I even shot a pic of electronic proof of that early March summer day - still 80 at almost 6 p.m.

Tall city on the prairie . . .

Midland is sometimes referred to as Tall City, a reference to its abrupt high rise out of the prairie.  Upon approaching from the east, one sees nothing but highway and mesquite-choked plains until suddenly there is a city.

We saw evidence recently that prairie dogs remain unimpressed by the municipality.  We spotted several blocks of vacant lots filled with the critters, residing within short walking distance to downtown.  These guys are definitely urban dwellers, so accustomed to the big-city life that they entirely ignore displaced small-town women shooting photographs of them.

Cousin Carl said there is even a place hereabouts where they are protected and fed and watered.  We will have to look that up.

 





Kin and more . . .

And speaking of cousin Carl, we had the distinct pleasure to meet again with him and his wife Alice for an evening of conversation.  We first met them years ago after becoming acquainted from a distance because of our common interest in our ancestry.  Carl and I are related via our common ancestors, Major Ezra Madison Owen and Lydia Vance.

Ezra is a fascinating character: born 1770 in Halifax County, Virginia, he married Lydia in her home-state of Georgia when she was but 13, ten years his junior.  Twelve children later, they had resided in Kentucky, Illinois, Arkansas and Texas. 

Their grandson was David Owen Dodd, known famously in Arkansas as the boy martyr of the Civil War.  He is memorialized by a statue in the State House yard in Little Rock.

Ezra attempted to establish a college and the state capital in Collegeville, Arkansas.  His children followed in his ambitious footsteps, becoming military officers, Indian agents, sheriffs, judges and legislators.  One son, Thomas Jefferson Owen was the president of the first village board of trustees of Chicago in 1833, essentially the first mayor of Chicago before it was an official office.

Another visit to my new-found friend, Joy, was great fun because I was privileged to meet her sister, Ruth and Ruth’s family, all here from over Dallas way.  Like so many others of us, some of that family are hoping to find employment here.

Rowdy enjoys a new sun spot when the door is open.