bugscufle
06-01-2008, 02:37 PM
It is ten o'clock in the evening. Do you know what your heat index is? Mine is 100. I'm getting too old for this kind of heat and humidity. I'm also getting too old for prolonged winters. It doesn't seem like Mother Nature and I have near as many good days as we used to. Guess I'm just getting too old.
Had to go to Ace Hardware in Brady this morning to get some plumbing supplies. Can't believe how quickly hard well water wears everything out. It is like Mother Nature saying, "If I wanted you using this water, I would have put it on top of the ground." I think half of the world's problems can be attributed to people using subterranian resources. I think the other half of the world's problems can be attributed to people acting like people.
Well, that's the world's problems in a nutshell. Guess I've done the hard part. All you younger generations have to do is come up with the solutions.
Heavy thinking makes me hungry. It don't take much to make me hungry. Not eating for 12 or more hours makes me hungrier. I decided that it didn't make any sense to try and buy plumbing supplies when one is faint with hunger, so I pulled into the No Name Cafe on Highway 87, not far from Walmart.
The breakfast crowd was starting to ebb when I walked in. The waitress brought me a menu and stood silent for a moment while her eyes inquired, "Does your T-shirt really say, 'Chick magnet'?"
I checked out the menu, but it really is hard to say "no" to pancakes after all we've been through together. How many takes more deliberation. You can get a single, two, which is the short stack, or three, which is a full stack. Well, I'm a 61 year old growing boy, and besides, I was hungry. So when the waitress asked how many pancakes, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Bring me the shortstack."
Well, this wasn't any fast food place. When the waitresses starting bringing out other people's plates, I started to understand the hold up. I don't know how many eggs went into one of those omelettes, or cartons of eggs, but those things were big. A waitress could only bring two plates at a time. If those plates had any more food on them they would have needed to bring them out in little red wagons.
When the waitress finally arrived with my pancakes, the pancakes literally hanging over the sides of the plate. And that weren't no small plate. These were not crepy suzetty pancakes either. They most definitely had a weight problem. Took me about ten minutes to butter and syrup those suckers.
The first, big bites of pancakes; that's what happiness is. But after awhile, the bites started getting smaller. Finally, I was finished. The thing was, I had only eaten about half of the pancakes. I looked about nonchalantly. Clean plates everywhere. Women half my rather substantial size had polished off the large omelettes, plus hashbrowns, plus two big homemade biscuits with jelly.
I set back on the pancakes with renewed determination, but after awhile, my heart just wasn't in it. I realized that I no longer possessed the committment and passion to eat all the good food I could. People pretended not to notice, but their eyes were saying, "The old guy can't handle his short stack."
I thought about the lady on a date with a feller at a formal dinner. At the end of the meal the guy handed all of his silverware back to the server except for the salad fork. The helpful feller remarked that he didn't drop anything so the rest could just be put back in the drawer. I paid the waitress and slinked out as best I could.
Then I went across the road to Ace Hardware. Buttery Hardware in Llano has mainly men working there. Ace Hardware in Brady has mainly women working there. If I go into Buttery, I try very hard to act like I know what I am doing. If I go in Ace, I ask Beth, "What do you call the thingamabob that has a doomaflitchy on one end?" Or. What's that white tape stuff that goes on the threads?" Beth knows what I am talking about and tells me what the correct term is and where it is at. Beth does this time after time, with all of the patience and none of the judgment as one might do for a child, or an idiot.
Talked with Floyd who runs the outside nursery business. They are going to need to get out of the nursery side of business now that the new Super Center has opened up. That's really not so bad because nurseries are so labor intensive that they don't make a lot of money. Floyd said he could knock twenty bucks off of a nice Choctaw pecan tree. Replied that I would take him up on that the next time I was back in the truck, if it was still there.
A drive anywhere gets shorter and more satisfying when there is color on the sides of the road. Engelmann's daisy and coreopsis provide the most color. Indian blanket and mexican hat compete for third and fourth places. Horse mint is starting to stand out. Speaking of standing out, the red trumpet flower is just about at its peak. One stand on CR 408 going towards Valley Spring has some plants with creamy orange blooms. And I don't think I've ever seen a prettier red, than what's blooming on the same road going towards Cherokee. It is a bright red with just a tinge of purple.
Saw some prairie columbine for the first time on this trip. Only I didn't know it was prairie columbine, because I hadn't seen any around here before. I couldn't find it in any of the Texas wildflower websites, so I had to pay Lynn Marshall over at Useful Wild Plants $25.00 to tell me what it was. Lynn doesn't make a lot of identifications, but the way she charges, she don't have to make a lot. I guess I ought to add that Lynn throws in a fancy, scientific name for the plant and any uses the plant is suppose to have. Probably should also mention that you get a year's membership with Useful Wild Plants too.
Keep listening over and over to the same CD by Nana Mouskouri. Nana is heroin for the ears. Don't ever get between me and the last Nana Mouskouri CD at a bookstore. Just lay the CD down carefully back away, and nobody gets hurt.
The communities of Voca, Fredonia, Pontotoc, Field Creek and Valley Spring break the trip down into manageable segments. So do signs pointing to cemeteries that bear the names, Valley Spring, Cold Creek, Pontotoc, Union Band, Deer Creek and Mount Tabor. I don't think I've ever met a cemetery I didn't like. Cemeteries are wonderful teachers. They are very much like books to read. All they ever ask is that someone listen. They never fail to leave to the man who walks out a little wiser, and maybe a little better, than the man who walked in.
One thing that catches attention as one walks through the Valley Spring cemetery is the number of plaques that have CSA after the name, Confederate States of America. The military unit follows. Many Rebels wound up here because they had lost not only the war, but often times their homes as well.
Prior to the Civil War, not all southerners were for secession. Perhaps Sam Houston was the most famous pro-Union southerner. These people had a hard time during the War and a worse time afterwards. Some were driven away from their homes. Sometimes they were driven away from new homes. Violence seldom leaves groups of people innocent. Unionists held their land in Mason County. But not without sacrifice. Some things just won't cease to be unless there is no one to remember them.
When Death gets one child, his portion is too large. The failure to survive childhood in the not too distant past is simply appalling. I never cease to be overwhelmed by the expense many parents who could, went to to proclaim their children's existence, their children's beauty and their children's uniqueness. Some of the children only survived a month, some only a week, some only a day, and some never held a breath in their lungs.
Thankfully, we see so very few preteen children's graves these days. Regrettably, teenagers seem to show up as they always have. The automobile may be replacing disease.
A few years ago, not far apart in time, two young men died, not far apart in distance. One is buried at Valley Spring, the other is buried at Union Band. A picture of each is attached to a tombstone. One is wearing a western shirt and cowboy hat. One is holding a peek-a-poo dog with ribbons in his hair. One has a lariat resting on the stone. The engraving of a horse and horseshoes welded into a cross show a thrill of work, horsemanship and competition. The other's tombstone has a picture of a goldfish pond, a peek-a-poo and flowers. There are animal figurines next to the stone. These things show a thrill colors, creation and creatures.
These young men seem far apart in interests, but a concrete bunny on the cowboy grave brings them closer together.
The slight variations of age and color in the piles of plastic and silk plants show repeated visits. One grave has an iron mesh bench. One can sense two parents trying to say all the things they never got to say. Sometimes, the wind returns bits and snippets of these conversations back to where they began. Sometimes, even older conversations can be heard.
It seems like it is just about a hundred years ago. There is crazy talk of automobiles, electricity, telephones and flying machines. There are always stories of such things in the paper these days. Her husband always says that a person can't believe half of what he reads. These things certainly don't have any role in her life. But graciousness, that talk off having all the water a person could want to appear inside a house, just whenever a person wanted it, and all the things they talk about doing with water in a house, well, it just sounds like Heaven come down to earth.
She has just packed her traveling bag with her best dress, her better shoes, her better underwear, her comb, her brush, a towel, a wash rag, needle, thread, scissors and some soap. She checks her handheld mirror to see that her gray hair is as perfect as she can get it. She visually checks the small rock house for the eigth time to make sure all food is secured from both large and small critters and that the house is clean. She closes the latch behind her.
Her husband is waiting in the wagon, staring back into time somewhere. The postoak tree outside of the house will provide enough shade for either the mules or the wagon, but not both. Her husband is sitting in the sun. She steps up on the stool her husband has left for her and hands him her bag. He sets the bag down behind the seat and then reaches for her hand. Although his grip is still strong it is contradicted by the white of his drooping moustache, goatee and sideburns and the tiredness in his eyes. She winches from the pain in her hip as she steps onto the wagon.
There is precious little in her life that has anything to do with convenience. The nearest stores are in Fredonia and Chadwick Mill, but both are over ten miles away. They live a little over twenty miles from Mason and Brady, and a little thirty miles from Llano and San Saba. Which one they go to depends on which one has the lowest prices if they are buying and which one has the highest prices if they are selling. They will go to any place with a banker dumb enough to loan a rancher money. They prefer to go to Chadwick Mill or Llano when they can. Chadwick Mill is near the San Saba River. She can wash clothes and bathe in the river while her husband fishes. Her husband enjoys watching the mill grind grain, cut wood and bale cotton. He is also fascinated with the 1,300 yard long millrace which powers all the activities. She enjoys the Llano River for similar reasons, especially the sandy shores. Llano, like Mason and Brady, has lots of stores.
The first stop along the way is a painful one, but one she would ever question making. As they get closer she points out Englemann's daisy, or sunflowers, or snow on the mountain, or gayfeather. Her husband gets down and cuts or pulls up the ones she points out and puts them in a bucket half full of water they have brought for this purpose.
When they arrive at the cemetery, they stop and just silently stare at the three tombstones of their children; none of which lived to be a year old. They get down and silently do the the same tasks they have done dozens of times before. While he hoes grass and weeds away, she washes each tombstone with a rag and bucket of water they brought for this purpose. She has left jars good enough to hold water and flowers, but not good enough for anyone to take. She cuts and arranges flowers for each grave.
She had tried to plant flowers around the graves and later a tree. She brought water to keep them alive, but she always lost to drought and grazing animals. It seemed the world would never stop pointing out she hadn't been able to keep things alive. She fought within herself to not blame herself for the deaths. She tried with all her might to believe that what had happened was God's Will and that the children were in a better place.
They also cleaned off and left flowers on the Bayley girl's grave. Mrs. Bayley's husband left her with six children. Just not having enough was good times for the Bayleys. When times were bad they hardly had anything. Guess Mrs. Bayley's husband just couldn't take it anymore. Her daddy had to come all the way from Arkansas and take them back. Word was that Mrs. Bayley's husband died in Alaska looking for gold.
They Bayley girl was buried by herself in the back of the cemetery. No tombstone, just a rock with the name "Jane" scratched on it. It was getting hard to make out the name. Mrs. Bayley was always collecting pretty and unusual rocks. She left them all on Jane's grave but less than a year after the child died, someone had picked them all up and carried them away.
She had promised Mrs. Bayley just before that family left for Arkansas that she would look after that grave and she had been true to her word.
She and her husband held each other in silence and stared at the clean, hauntingly attractive graves, and thought of what might have been.
A little later, they climbed back into the wagon, and began the rest of the journey into town.
They say that Marines won't leave one of their own behind, even if that Marine is dead. Death just ends life, not bonds, not worthiness, not honor, not love.
It been over eighty years since she and her husband have gone; whatever we may understand that word to mean. I don't know how it all sorts out, but one thing seems so, and that is some way, some how, she and her husband would be real beholden if someone would pick some flowers and place them on their children's graves. And please remember the Bayley girl's grave too.
Some things just won't cease to be unless there is no one to remember them.
Had to go to Ace Hardware in Brady this morning to get some plumbing supplies. Can't believe how quickly hard well water wears everything out. It is like Mother Nature saying, "If I wanted you using this water, I would have put it on top of the ground." I think half of the world's problems can be attributed to people using subterranian resources. I think the other half of the world's problems can be attributed to people acting like people.
Well, that's the world's problems in a nutshell. Guess I've done the hard part. All you younger generations have to do is come up with the solutions.
Heavy thinking makes me hungry. It don't take much to make me hungry. Not eating for 12 or more hours makes me hungrier. I decided that it didn't make any sense to try and buy plumbing supplies when one is faint with hunger, so I pulled into the No Name Cafe on Highway 87, not far from Walmart.
The breakfast crowd was starting to ebb when I walked in. The waitress brought me a menu and stood silent for a moment while her eyes inquired, "Does your T-shirt really say, 'Chick magnet'?"
I checked out the menu, but it really is hard to say "no" to pancakes after all we've been through together. How many takes more deliberation. You can get a single, two, which is the short stack, or three, which is a full stack. Well, I'm a 61 year old growing boy, and besides, I was hungry. So when the waitress asked how many pancakes, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Bring me the shortstack."
Well, this wasn't any fast food place. When the waitresses starting bringing out other people's plates, I started to understand the hold up. I don't know how many eggs went into one of those omelettes, or cartons of eggs, but those things were big. A waitress could only bring two plates at a time. If those plates had any more food on them they would have needed to bring them out in little red wagons.
When the waitress finally arrived with my pancakes, the pancakes literally hanging over the sides of the plate. And that weren't no small plate. These were not crepy suzetty pancakes either. They most definitely had a weight problem. Took me about ten minutes to butter and syrup those suckers.
The first, big bites of pancakes; that's what happiness is. But after awhile, the bites started getting smaller. Finally, I was finished. The thing was, I had only eaten about half of the pancakes. I looked about nonchalantly. Clean plates everywhere. Women half my rather substantial size had polished off the large omelettes, plus hashbrowns, plus two big homemade biscuits with jelly.
I set back on the pancakes with renewed determination, but after awhile, my heart just wasn't in it. I realized that I no longer possessed the committment and passion to eat all the good food I could. People pretended not to notice, but their eyes were saying, "The old guy can't handle his short stack."
I thought about the lady on a date with a feller at a formal dinner. At the end of the meal the guy handed all of his silverware back to the server except for the salad fork. The helpful feller remarked that he didn't drop anything so the rest could just be put back in the drawer. I paid the waitress and slinked out as best I could.
Then I went across the road to Ace Hardware. Buttery Hardware in Llano has mainly men working there. Ace Hardware in Brady has mainly women working there. If I go into Buttery, I try very hard to act like I know what I am doing. If I go in Ace, I ask Beth, "What do you call the thingamabob that has a doomaflitchy on one end?" Or. What's that white tape stuff that goes on the threads?" Beth knows what I am talking about and tells me what the correct term is and where it is at. Beth does this time after time, with all of the patience and none of the judgment as one might do for a child, or an idiot.
Talked with Floyd who runs the outside nursery business. They are going to need to get out of the nursery side of business now that the new Super Center has opened up. That's really not so bad because nurseries are so labor intensive that they don't make a lot of money. Floyd said he could knock twenty bucks off of a nice Choctaw pecan tree. Replied that I would take him up on that the next time I was back in the truck, if it was still there.
A drive anywhere gets shorter and more satisfying when there is color on the sides of the road. Engelmann's daisy and coreopsis provide the most color. Indian blanket and mexican hat compete for third and fourth places. Horse mint is starting to stand out. Speaking of standing out, the red trumpet flower is just about at its peak. One stand on CR 408 going towards Valley Spring has some plants with creamy orange blooms. And I don't think I've ever seen a prettier red, than what's blooming on the same road going towards Cherokee. It is a bright red with just a tinge of purple.
Saw some prairie columbine for the first time on this trip. Only I didn't know it was prairie columbine, because I hadn't seen any around here before. I couldn't find it in any of the Texas wildflower websites, so I had to pay Lynn Marshall over at Useful Wild Plants $25.00 to tell me what it was. Lynn doesn't make a lot of identifications, but the way she charges, she don't have to make a lot. I guess I ought to add that Lynn throws in a fancy, scientific name for the plant and any uses the plant is suppose to have. Probably should also mention that you get a year's membership with Useful Wild Plants too.
Keep listening over and over to the same CD by Nana Mouskouri. Nana is heroin for the ears. Don't ever get between me and the last Nana Mouskouri CD at a bookstore. Just lay the CD down carefully back away, and nobody gets hurt.
The communities of Voca, Fredonia, Pontotoc, Field Creek and Valley Spring break the trip down into manageable segments. So do signs pointing to cemeteries that bear the names, Valley Spring, Cold Creek, Pontotoc, Union Band, Deer Creek and Mount Tabor. I don't think I've ever met a cemetery I didn't like. Cemeteries are wonderful teachers. They are very much like books to read. All they ever ask is that someone listen. They never fail to leave to the man who walks out a little wiser, and maybe a little better, than the man who walked in.
One thing that catches attention as one walks through the Valley Spring cemetery is the number of plaques that have CSA after the name, Confederate States of America. The military unit follows. Many Rebels wound up here because they had lost not only the war, but often times their homes as well.
Prior to the Civil War, not all southerners were for secession. Perhaps Sam Houston was the most famous pro-Union southerner. These people had a hard time during the War and a worse time afterwards. Some were driven away from their homes. Sometimes they were driven away from new homes. Violence seldom leaves groups of people innocent. Unionists held their land in Mason County. But not without sacrifice. Some things just won't cease to be unless there is no one to remember them.
When Death gets one child, his portion is too large. The failure to survive childhood in the not too distant past is simply appalling. I never cease to be overwhelmed by the expense many parents who could, went to to proclaim their children's existence, their children's beauty and their children's uniqueness. Some of the children only survived a month, some only a week, some only a day, and some never held a breath in their lungs.
Thankfully, we see so very few preteen children's graves these days. Regrettably, teenagers seem to show up as they always have. The automobile may be replacing disease.
A few years ago, not far apart in time, two young men died, not far apart in distance. One is buried at Valley Spring, the other is buried at Union Band. A picture of each is attached to a tombstone. One is wearing a western shirt and cowboy hat. One is holding a peek-a-poo dog with ribbons in his hair. One has a lariat resting on the stone. The engraving of a horse and horseshoes welded into a cross show a thrill of work, horsemanship and competition. The other's tombstone has a picture of a goldfish pond, a peek-a-poo and flowers. There are animal figurines next to the stone. These things show a thrill colors, creation and creatures.
These young men seem far apart in interests, but a concrete bunny on the cowboy grave brings them closer together.
The slight variations of age and color in the piles of plastic and silk plants show repeated visits. One grave has an iron mesh bench. One can sense two parents trying to say all the things they never got to say. Sometimes, the wind returns bits and snippets of these conversations back to where they began. Sometimes, even older conversations can be heard.
It seems like it is just about a hundred years ago. There is crazy talk of automobiles, electricity, telephones and flying machines. There are always stories of such things in the paper these days. Her husband always says that a person can't believe half of what he reads. These things certainly don't have any role in her life. But graciousness, that talk off having all the water a person could want to appear inside a house, just whenever a person wanted it, and all the things they talk about doing with water in a house, well, it just sounds like Heaven come down to earth.
She has just packed her traveling bag with her best dress, her better shoes, her better underwear, her comb, her brush, a towel, a wash rag, needle, thread, scissors and some soap. She checks her handheld mirror to see that her gray hair is as perfect as she can get it. She visually checks the small rock house for the eigth time to make sure all food is secured from both large and small critters and that the house is clean. She closes the latch behind her.
Her husband is waiting in the wagon, staring back into time somewhere. The postoak tree outside of the house will provide enough shade for either the mules or the wagon, but not both. Her husband is sitting in the sun. She steps up on the stool her husband has left for her and hands him her bag. He sets the bag down behind the seat and then reaches for her hand. Although his grip is still strong it is contradicted by the white of his drooping moustache, goatee and sideburns and the tiredness in his eyes. She winches from the pain in her hip as she steps onto the wagon.
There is precious little in her life that has anything to do with convenience. The nearest stores are in Fredonia and Chadwick Mill, but both are over ten miles away. They live a little over twenty miles from Mason and Brady, and a little thirty miles from Llano and San Saba. Which one they go to depends on which one has the lowest prices if they are buying and which one has the highest prices if they are selling. They will go to any place with a banker dumb enough to loan a rancher money. They prefer to go to Chadwick Mill or Llano when they can. Chadwick Mill is near the San Saba River. She can wash clothes and bathe in the river while her husband fishes. Her husband enjoys watching the mill grind grain, cut wood and bale cotton. He is also fascinated with the 1,300 yard long millrace which powers all the activities. She enjoys the Llano River for similar reasons, especially the sandy shores. Llano, like Mason and Brady, has lots of stores.
The first stop along the way is a painful one, but one she would ever question making. As they get closer she points out Englemann's daisy, or sunflowers, or snow on the mountain, or gayfeather. Her husband gets down and cuts or pulls up the ones she points out and puts them in a bucket half full of water they have brought for this purpose.
When they arrive at the cemetery, they stop and just silently stare at the three tombstones of their children; none of which lived to be a year old. They get down and silently do the the same tasks they have done dozens of times before. While he hoes grass and weeds away, she washes each tombstone with a rag and bucket of water they brought for this purpose. She has left jars good enough to hold water and flowers, but not good enough for anyone to take. She cuts and arranges flowers for each grave.
She had tried to plant flowers around the graves and later a tree. She brought water to keep them alive, but she always lost to drought and grazing animals. It seemed the world would never stop pointing out she hadn't been able to keep things alive. She fought within herself to not blame herself for the deaths. She tried with all her might to believe that what had happened was God's Will and that the children were in a better place.
They also cleaned off and left flowers on the Bayley girl's grave. Mrs. Bayley's husband left her with six children. Just not having enough was good times for the Bayleys. When times were bad they hardly had anything. Guess Mrs. Bayley's husband just couldn't take it anymore. Her daddy had to come all the way from Arkansas and take them back. Word was that Mrs. Bayley's husband died in Alaska looking for gold.
They Bayley girl was buried by herself in the back of the cemetery. No tombstone, just a rock with the name "Jane" scratched on it. It was getting hard to make out the name. Mrs. Bayley was always collecting pretty and unusual rocks. She left them all on Jane's grave but less than a year after the child died, someone had picked them all up and carried them away.
She had promised Mrs. Bayley just before that family left for Arkansas that she would look after that grave and she had been true to her word.
She and her husband held each other in silence and stared at the clean, hauntingly attractive graves, and thought of what might have been.
A little later, they climbed back into the wagon, and began the rest of the journey into town.
They say that Marines won't leave one of their own behind, even if that Marine is dead. Death just ends life, not bonds, not worthiness, not honor, not love.
It been over eighty years since she and her husband have gone; whatever we may understand that word to mean. I don't know how it all sorts out, but one thing seems so, and that is some way, some how, she and her husband would be real beholden if someone would pick some flowers and place them on their children's graves. And please remember the Bayley girl's grave too.
Some things just won't cease to be unless there is no one to remember them.