Journeys

But who’s counting?
June 8, 2013

A Mid-departure-land date has been set - June 24. It is amazing how much the spirits are lifted when an end is in sight. The limboness of unknowing is often more stressful than the difficult situation itself; at least that’s how it plays out for me.

Chris has given his notice at work; he will work through the 21st and then we will deliver Ruby, our trusty Four-Runner, into the safe-keeping of my brother and sister-in-law in southern Arizona. We are relieved at their offer to keep the car while we head east. A friend also offered to house the car in Midland, but this way, she will be closer to home.

Chris’ work ethic and knowledge is highly valued by his survey crew members. His employer said he has a job with them anytime he wants to return; however, I’m thinking that won’t be any time soon, at least not with wifey along.

We had not yet given formal notice to the RV park about our departure date, but as soon as Chris inquired about prorating our rental rate for our last partial month, the management was on the horn to the next person in line salivating for our spot in the trees. I hope they don’t sit nearby revving their engine in anticipation of our pulling out.

The boy . . .

Rowdy once again descended into pancreatitis. By the time we found another, more competent veterinarian who would take us, he was not eating at all and so weak he could barely stand, necessitating hospitalization, a fate worse than death as far as he is concerned, my little joined-at-the-hip pard.

Rowdy shows off what looks like a fur boot after his upper leg was shaved.

No help for it, though: the staff at this wonderful walk-in clinic learned the truth of what I said. Mild-mannered, normally docile, often playful Rowdy transformed into a monster as soon as I left him. These folks were up to the challenge, though, understanding about the boy’s distress.

Two days later, he is still weak but much improved. It was a very helpless feeling not knowing what was wrong and not being able to help nor to find someone to help; I was really missing our wonderful Dr. Frank at home, especially when I thought Rowdy was leaving us.

Hotter than Hades, snakes, frogs . . .

Mercy, two days of one-hundred-scorching-nine degrees had me pining (pardon the pun) for homelands. Now the thermometer is back to more sensible 80s. Who can guess what tomorrow will bring. An evening breezy walk in the I-20 Preserve yesterday was almost cool and it brought us a fabulous new trip bird - painted buntings, a male and a female feasting on grass seeds.

Lots of the Preserve's plants are in various stages of flowering and seeding, including willows that are preparing to "snow", much like our cottonwoods at home every May.

While watching at the pond, I noticed something swimming. Closer inspection revealed a snake gliding across toward us. It was intent on a dinner of some of the hundreds (thousands?) of frogs that inhabit that small bit of water, but was never successful as far as we could tell.

We watched it emerge onto land and take refuge under a rock. A bit later, another smaller one of the same ilk wandered the pond’s edge as
unlucky as its larger companion; the small orange-eyed frogs leaped in a continuous wave to safety just ahead of it.

Runoff from a previous sprinkle refilled one of the ponds at the Preserve. It was evaporating quickly in the heat until last night’s real rain, a most-welcome drencher.

Big Dawg doin’s, touring the rig . . .

Rexanne informs me I ought to be using the local vernacular to refer to my friends over to Big Dawg Drilling and so I shall. A while back, we met up with two of the fellers from the neighboring rig. The crews have been curious about the Preserve that they see from their working vantage point, so Jimbo and Allan were dispatched after their overnight shift to check it out.

They questioned us about the Preserve and we questioned them about the drilling, a mutually satisfying gab fest. Jimbo is a senior worker, began in the business on an off-shore rig and has been a driller but now working as a derrick hand at this location.

As they sipped their 8 a.m. Bud Lights and enjoyed their smokes, we learned lots. My biggest question was about touring the rig; they opined it might be possible and told me where to show up and who to ask.

Waiting a few days for the correct person’s availability, I began to cower at the thought, but when the time arrived, I found that the probability of appearing a fool was not nearly as daunting as I first considered.

I trudged on up their roadway, located the fourth trailer per my instructions, mounted the steps to the porch and rapped on the door. A bit anticlimactic, my prepared plea/speech was for naught. No one was at home. Now unconcerned about appearing foolish, I simply hung around on the porch and took some pictures until someone showed up.

Sean seemed perfectly willing to stand out there with the crazy old lady from across the road while answering my zillion questions. After a bit, the sought-after Joseph noticed the confab on his porch and emerged from somewhere in the machinery. He, too, was as cordial as could be while answering my many times repeated question to tour the rig in the negative, always polite, always firm.

The quest was likely absurd to begin with but you can’t say I didn’t try. I did get an up-close look at the workings and even better, I had a thoroughly enjoyable conversation with two of the Big Dawg hotties.

The Dawgs have completed drilling at the first site, 12,900 feet horizontal. What an experience to watch them dismantle their operation and to move it to a second adjacent pad! This one directly adjoins the Preserve property. Even the building of the pad and the fracking pond was amazing to observe.

Digging a fracking pond . . .

The derrick is laid down before being loaded onto trucks.

The derrick base dwarfs one of the 18-wheelers that will two-truck it to its new site.

The pond encompasses about 2.5 acres and must be eight feet deep, judging by the perimeter berm. Because the move was to a contiguous property, the derrick was “two-trucked” over there - the front truck moving forward and the rear truck moving backward, a delicate maneuver for a gigantic piece of equipment.

They have commenced drilling the second well which is slated to be 19,000 feet, a whopping 3.5 miles! I wonder if they will begin the fracking while we are here - it would be fascinating to see that process, too.

Critters, everywhere critters . . .

We were greeted by a burrowing owl that wasn't living up to its name.

Our Big Dawg friend, Jimbo, told us about a place in East Odessa that sounded like a can’t-miss, so on a free day, we checked it out. I would explain it but it seems inexplicable, unexplainable also, and besides that I can't figure it out.

The whatever-it-is comprises a large compound housing a whopping array of exotics - mammalian and feathered. No

sign tells us the purpose of the place; however, it seems perfectly acceptable to drive or walk around the perimeter and to feed any critter that wants feeding. Note to self: next time take food; they seem to expect it.

Because of the large area, we who wonder are unable to see all the animals housed within but there were plenty around the outside. Most are unknown to us so I just took pictures where possible; others included zebras, camels (even a baby) and waterfowl galore. In the latter category, we saw black swan, black duck, bar-headed goose, Canada goose, Muscovy duck, swan goose and Egyptian goose.

Here she goes again . . .

Mid-traffic-land - with me, it’s always traffic. I was absolutely compelled to stop and take a photo of this crushed traffic sign and here’s the reason: That morning I drove by that spot and saw the sign had been run over. Later, it was replaced and when I drove by a third time the same day, it had been run over again in exactly the same way.

Can’t help but wonder how many times they replace it and why. . .

Commemorative Air Force Museum/WWII nose art . . .

High on my list of what to do before leaving Mid-sayonara-land was to visit this well-known museum. It was originally named the Confederate Air Force because the men who began restoring these World War II aircraft as a hobby were all from the South.

The name has been altered: now Commemorative instead of Confederate to suit the sensibilities of companies that did not want to supply it otherwise, so we were told. Next in our quest never to offend anyone ever at any time whatsoever, I suppose we will begin to pretend our country never had a civil war. Again, I digress.

The museum is top quality from beginning to end; all of the various facets comprehensive, educational and interesting with many interactive aspects, such as audios of pilots' and aircraft crew members' remembrances, even video of the rescue of George H.W. Bush after he ditched his plane in the sea. On display is part of the collection of restored World War II aircraft.

I was sorely disappointed when I got to the nose art display and discovered I was not allowed to take pictures. That gallery was fascinating. The airplane sections that had been painted on were cut out and the artwork meticulously restored. Now the panels hang from the gallery ceiling.

Each had as much explanation as could be determined. Most were by unknown artists but where the painter was known, there was information, sometimes photos, about him. Some artists painted more than one aircraft; some were original designs but lots were inspired by popular pin-ups of the era, others were crafted a la Disney cartoon characters.

The nose art was my original impetus for visiting; the huge bonus was the museum which houses an astounding array of artifacts and displays covering every theater of the second world war. An affiliate of the Smithsonian, the facility is as high a caliber of any museum I have visited. We wandered the halls for nearly three hours and felt we could have spent an entire day there if our energy was not flagging.

Maybe this I caught flying over the park is from the CAF collection . . .

Vietnam memorial . . .

Near the CAF museum is a memorial to the veterans of the Vietnam war. We spent some time there; taking photographs of the statuary depicting a helicopter descending to rescue ground troops. The emotions of that era returned overwhelmingly.

Old meets new, orioles, stuff . . .

After a nice lunch with a friend at Luigi’s downtown, I followed my typical Midland itinerary - wandering wherever I am led. I caught sight of a large building of Gothic revival architecture that made an interesting contrast with the sleek office building across the street.

The 1920s structure incorporates the Yucca Theatre, the interior of which is said to be of Egyptian revival style - would love to see inside! It was fun to read on the historic site plaque that the Yucca opened in 1929 with a showing of the musical “Rio Rita”. I have never seen that film but my name insures that I have heard of it.

Years ago, I worked with a woman who called me Rio Rita; she was from the era when it was popular. The younger (relatively speaking) set often calls me Rita Meter Maid in reference to the Beatles’ song. Friend Buddy enjoys referencing the song, “When Rita leaves, Rita’s gone” (hopefully, it’s not a suggestion).

Another wander brought me to an old house that appears to have previously filled the role of barn. It squats within a housing development named Whitmire. No clue at the site about its origin, but I did find that a Whitmire family was early residents, so I surmise this structure belonged to them and the development likely occupies their land.

I am thinking that Midland must be the home of a zillion orioles if the mobs at our nectar feeder are any indication. A steady stream of them makes it difficult for the hummingbirds to get a sip.