Tag: Texas

All My Bags are Packed

Truly my bags are packed. I’m off to Texas tomorrow for a Doright family reunion. 

Positives (in no particular order):

  1. Seeing my children and grandchildren. Hugging will happen.
  2. Hanging out with Saint Helen. 🙂
  3. Visiting with the Doright clan, especially Studly’s sisters and his brother.
  4. Saint Helen’s cooking. Yummmmmm!
  5. The Doright Family Auction–always a hoot.
  6. Getting to see my Aunt Nedra and Uncle Richard.
  7. Touching base with old friends.
  8. Eating Tex-Mex food. 

Negatives:

  1. Getting up at 4 a.m. To make my flight. Ugh!
  2. That’s it. No more negatives. Going to bed now.

Peter, Paul, and Mary: Leaving on a Jet Plane. This song always makes me cry.

http://youtu.be/c8jEapecSqc
Peace, people!

Reunions

I attended two high schools back in the 70’s: Floydada high school and Dumas high school. Just three hours apart in travel time, but at that point in my life it might as well have been three hundred hours. 

I’d spent all of my school life in Floydada, Texas, population 4,000, until the end of my junior year in high school when my dad switched jobs necessitating a move to Dumas, Texas, population 10,000-ish. Eventually I adjusted to life in the “big city” of Dumas. It was tough, but I made friends and met my Studly there, and graduated from Dumas high school in 1975,  so all’s well that ends well, right?

Fast forward to 2015 and the epic forty year class reunion. I would love to attend the reunion in Dumas, and I’m even going to be in Texas the weekend it takes place. Unfortunately that’s the same weekend the the Doright Family Reunion is scheduled, and I’ll be unable to be in two places at once. 

Floydada’s class of ’75 is planning to meet in Gruene, TX, in October. I’ve already booked my hotel room for that event. After all, these are the grown-up versions of kids I went to school with from kindergarten through my junior year.

I was never “most beautiful” or “most popular,” but I always had a place among my class. And I was probably too busy dealing with my own insecurities to notice those who were more disenfranchised than I was. So I was caught by surprise when a member of the class became angry that she’d been invited to the reunion because she had felt disrespected and unnoticed during our school years.

I wish I’d noticed her more. I wish I’d been nicer, friendlier, more inclusive. I wish I’d known then what I know now–that it doesn’t diminish our own worth when we include others. Who knows how my life might’ve turned out if I’d known that years ago?

To all those who felt they weren’t included, you are loved and valued and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you this years ago.

Peace, people!

Studly and the Second Amendment

Trust me on this, I’m not going to get political in this post, it’s simply a summary of a conversation Studly Doright and I had this afternoon in regard to the Second Amendmendent to the United States Constitution. 

First, here’s that amendment:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Normally Studly and I don’t discuss gun issues. We own a couple of guns, but the only time we plan to carry them is when we go to the shooting range to learn which end to hold and which to point. 

In other words, we have no plans to run around carrying weapons of deadly force in public. Ours are for snake killng, period.

But there are a whole lot of folks in this country who advocate for open carry of firearms. This gives me the willies for a couple of reasons. 1) how do I know this gun toter is sane and 2) how do I know this gun toter is sane. I could add more reasons, but they’d look just like reasons 1and 2.

The simple answer is there’s no way to know for sure, but in Texas now police officers are not allowed to ask a gun toter if he or she has a permit to carry. That seems counterintuitive: There exists legislation requiring gun owners to have proof of licensing, but the officers who are sworn to uphold that law are not allowed to make sure it’s being followed.

This is where Studly comes into the conversation. I read an article about the new Texas law aloud to him, voicing my concern. 

“Well,” said he, “I really don’t see what the problem is as long as the person is obeying the law. Once they step outside the law then police officers can take action.” Then he topped this off with, “It is a second amendment right after all, “‘to keep and bear arms.'”

That always infuriates me when someone isolates that phrase from the amendment, but instead of getting pissed, I said, “Arrgh!!!” Okay, maybe I got a little pissed.

“What?” Studly asked. “That’s what it says, right?”

Patiently I read the entire amendment to him. To me it’s black and white. The well regulated militia is key to the whole argument. But Studly believes that the phrase “well regulated” has more to do with the registration and licensing than with an actual organized militia.

Sigh. This seems to be the cause of much misunderstanding. Not just in my home, but in the nation. I’m not comfortable with folks carrying guns in public. I know all the arguments for and against. I know the propaganda and the emotions involved. 

I just wish we could evolve past the Wild West mentality. 

 

Peace, people. 

Monticello, Florida

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Yesterday I drove 50 miles northeast of Tallahassee to administer tests to tiny tots in Madison, Florida. On my way home I stopped in Monticello, Florida, for lunch.

I’ve passed through Monticello before. It’s a quiet little community centered around a lovely courthouse (pictured above). I have a fondness for courthouses. In my hometown of Floydada, Texas, the courthouse (pictured below) once housed the library where I enjoyed much of my well-spent youth.

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I understand that the library has been moved from the marble-halled courthouse. That just makes me sad. I loved climbing the stairs to the third floor, running my hands lovingly along the bannister until I reached the pinnacle where my precious books were waiting for me.

Was it the place that made me revere books, or the books that made me love the place? Heaven knows the Floyd County Courthouse wasn’t beautiful like the one in Monticello, FL, but it was heaven to me.

Peace, people!

Side note: there are 16 towns named Monticello in the U.S., but just one Floydada.

Things I Love: My Hometown

Floydada, Texas. Legend has it that Floyd married Ada and that coupling produced the name of a small Texas town. Located roughly 55 miles northeast of Lubbock, Floydada, the county seat of Floyd County, is primarily a farming community, known for its crops of cotton and “punkins.”

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My parents and both sets of my grandparents are buried in Floyd County, so part of my heart will always reside on the dusty plains of the Texas panhandle. Compared to Tallahassee, Floydada is plain, a scruffy sparrow next to a pink-hued flamingo, but my hometown has its own charms, like the Palace Theatre (below) where I enjoyed my first real kiss, and discarded my two imaginary friends–not in that order.

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And Arwine Drug, where my brothers and I stopped for sodas after hiking to the library housed inside of the county courthouse.

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Floydada also claims country singer/songwriter Don Williams as a native son.

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http://youtu.be/Biz5kBIAtic

Floydada, Texas, nurtured me. Toughened me. Made me an independent soul. No, it’s not the prettiest place on earth, but it’s my hometown, and I love it.

Peace, Y’all!

The Perils of Luckenbach, Texas

Many years ago, back when I was expecting our first child, Studly decided he needed to take a major motorcycle trip. Apparently he was feeling the old ball and chain growing ever more cumbersome as my due date neared. So in the eighth month of my pregnancy I went to stay with my Nanny Grace for a week of coddling while Studly and his brother-in-law, Don, took off on their bikes for a tour of the Texas Hill Country.

Don, an avid hunter, wanted to check out the Llano River, famous for its plentiful deer, and both guys were curious about Luckenbach, Texas, the little burg made famous back in the 70’s by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. Their song, lyrics below, made Luckenbach sound like an oasis of good, honest country living.

Studly, on a borrowed Honda CB 750, and Don on his XS 650 Yamaha left the Texas panhandle early one sunny April morning in 1978 intent on enjoying a good ride with no womenfolk or children around. Now keep in mind I didn’t personally experience either of the adventures I’m about to share, and there’s a good chance that Studly might have embellished a bit, and/or forgotten some of the tale, but it’s become a part of our family folklore over the years.

Late on the second day of their trip the pair made it to a KOA campground on the banks of the Llano and set up their pup tent about 30 ft. from the river. As Studly tells it, their campsite was situated in a beautifully wooded valley, with huge oak trees shading the area and the river providing a soothing soundtrack to their evening. Unfortunately, neither of the guys had remembered to pack tent stakes, but they were committed to camping out that night, so they tied nylon rope to the heftiest river rocks they could locate, thus securing their abode.

Dusty from the road, the guys walked up to the communal shower. On their way back to the tent they heard a low roar. Looking over their shoulders, they saw a towering wall of dirt heading straight for the campground. What had been a leisurely stroll turned into a trot, and they made it back to the campsite just in time to see Don’s motorcycle blow over, followed immediately by their tent going AWOL.

While Don righted his bike, Studly retrieved the tent and they re-erected it fighting against 40 mile an hour winds. Time and again that night the tent tried to go airborne as the winds blew straight through until morning. A wife would’ve insisted on finding a good hotel room, but those two stubborn guys toughed it out, sleeping for much of the night in a pile of collapsed canvas. The winds finally subsided around eight the next morning and the bleary-eyed duo resumed their journey on to Luckenbach.

As towns go, Luckenbach doesn’t have a lot going for it. Basically, it’s a post office, a dance hall and a bar. Studly and Don drove past the place several times before they finally spotted a little hand drawn sign on the side of the road. The intrepid travelers realized they needed to backtrack and finally they pulled up at the bar only to realize it was closed. They were a little bummed, but decided to ask some locals they spotted just down the street if the bar would be opening soon.

Studly took the lead as they stopped to make their inquiry of two guys who were standing next to an old Ford farm truck. David used his kill switch to kill the bike, but didn’t turn the key off. No sooner had he asked about the bar hours than one of the gentleman strutted over and straddled the front tire of the Honda, grabbing the left handlebar. Now, this is not something a well-mannered person would ever do. One does not touch another’s bike without permission.

This presumptuous guy, who happened to be exceedingly inebriated, informed Studly in no uncertain terms that, “We don’t like no stinkin’ long-haired motorcycle ridin’ motherf*****s around here.”

Now Studly used to be a scrapper, and he and Don probably could have handled the two guys standing there, but no sooner had the drunk guy delivered his soliloquy than, and I quote, “A Walking Mountain” climbed out of the truck’s cab wielding a cedar fence post. Casually he slapped the fence post against his palm as he walked menacingly toward the bikes.

Without waiting to see what happened next, Studly flipped the kill switch, hit the starter, gave it full throttle, popped the clutch and forced the straddling drunk into an awkward spinning dance to avoid being castrated by a 750 Honda. Don followed closely behind and soon they were safely on the main road. Several miles down the road Studly and Don stopped by a little bubbling creek. Still hopped up on adrenaline they called those guys a few choice words and replayed the event until they had settled down.

The rest of the trip back to their respective homes went by without incident, but they returned with a whopper of a tale about their close call in Luckenbach, Texas. Now, Waylon and Willie probably didn’t foresee such occurrences when they sang the song, but they’d have gotten a big laugh out of it.

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Luckenbach, Texas (Back To The Basics Of Love)

The only two things in life
That make it worth livin’
Is guitars to tune good
And firm feelin’ women

I don’t need my name in the marquee lights
I got my song and I got you with me tonight
Maybe it’s time we got back to the basics of love

Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas
With Waylon and Willie and the boys
This successful life we’re livin’
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys

Between Hank Williams pain songs
And Newbury’s train songs
And blue eyes cryin’ in the rain
Out in Luckenbach, Texas
Ain’t nobody feelin’ no pain

So baby let’s sell your diamond ring
Buy some boots and faded jeans and go away
This coat and tie is choking me
In your high society you cry all day

We’ve been so busy
Keepin’ up with the Jones
Four car garage and we’re still building on
Maybe it’s time we got
Back to the basics of love

Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas
With Waylon and Willie and the boys
This successful life we’re livin’
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys

Between Hank Williams pain songs
And Newbury’s train songs
And blue eyes cryin’ in the rain
Out in Luckenbach, Texas
Ain’t nobody feelin’ no pain

Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas
With Willie and Waylon and the boys
This successful life we’re livin’
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys

Between Hank Williams pain songs
And Jerry Jeff’s train songs
And blue eyes cryin’ in the rain
Out in Luckenbach, Texas
There ain’t nobody feelin’ no pain

Hall-iday Inn

My junior year in high school my dad decided to take a job in Dumas, Texas, with Piggly Wiggly. He’d worked for the chain in Floydada, Texas, and then tried his hand at store ownership there. His partner in that endeavor lacked a couple of necessary attributes, money and business acumen, and soon that business failed. So when Daddy was asked to take over the store in Dumas, it was a blessing. For everyone but me.

I’d gone to school in Floydada since kindergarten. All of my friends were there. My future was all mapped out. I was a junior, for Pete’s sake. What kind of parents make their child move their junior year in high school? Well, apparently parents who need to make a living.

They let me finish out the school year in Floydada. I lived with my mother’s parents for three of the longest months of my life, and then moved to Dumas in late May of 1974 to rejoin my family. I moped a lot. There I was in a strange town during the summer of what should have been the best time of my life. Truthfully it ended up being a pretty great summer, but I certainly didn’t want anyone to know that. “Work the guilt,” was my unconscious motto.

My dad had the brilliant idea that we should embark on family camping adventures that summer, so he bought this ginormous green and white striped tent at a garage sale. It was hideous, but he got this crazy notion that we should dub it the Hall-iday Inn. Our last name was Hall. Pretty clever, eh?

Soon we were immersed in a frenzy of camping. Many weekends we’d head to Lake Fryer near Perryton where we’d swim, pretend to fish, and be jolly. We even took the tent to Tres Ritos in New Mexico where Mom stepped on a rusty coat hanger and had to have a tetanus shot.

One fateful weekend we arrived at our campsite near Lake Fryer after dark and had to set up the tent by flashlight. I called dibs on the top bunk of the double decker cot and after we all made trips to the communal outhouse we retired for the evening. Sometime in the wee hours a fearsome storm blew in. A boom of thunder woke me. Bursts of lightning flashed outside the Hall-iday Inn. Then a gust of wind forced it’s way beneath our tent and blew us over and over and over. I screamed like Shelley Winters in the “Poseidon Adventure.” Mom told me to shut up.

Once the tent stopped rolling we took stock of our physical well being. Mom and Dad were fine. My younger brothers were accounted for, and I was ok, but embarrassed by my histrionics of the previous few minutes as we went tumbling toward the lake. We couldn’t find the zippered entrance to the tent, but Dad had his pocket knife. My brothers begged him tearfully not to cut the tent, but that seemed to be our only recourse to escaping from that collapsed canvas of doom.

Fortunately we had friends camping nearby who came to our rescue and took us in for the night. As I recall that ended our camping obsession, and we went back to being a normal family. I never could have admitted to my dad how much I enjoyed those camping trips. Those really were the last times that the five of us vacationed as a family. Those were the days before I met Studly, before any of us thought too much about the changes that were upon us. I hope I told Daddy “thank you” at some point for bringing us together in that tent in the summer of 1974.

Peace, People.

Twirling Queen

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I was born with the natural grace of a three-legged bull moose and the athletic prowess of a potholder, sad truths I learned at the tender age of six when my parents enrolled me in a baton twirling class.

Back in the day, baton twirling was a big deal, at least in Floydada, Texas. One of my earliest role models was Suzanne, the head twirler in the Floydada Whirlwind marching band. She looked like a blonde goddess in her short spangled green and white outfit, and my Uncle Jack was married to her older sister which almost made us relatives.

Each and every Friday night during football season mini-me waited expectantly for the twirlers to make their halftime appearance. I copied Suzanne’s every move with my imaginary baton. Twist, spin, toss, twirl, march, mega toss, catch. I was breathtaking.

So captivated with the art of twirling was I that I convinced my parents that twirling was the most important thing in my life. When the high school twirlers started a workshop for potential twirlers I was the first in line. Fortunately, the initial investment was minimal. Batons were cheap and as I recall lessons were fifteen dollars.

I remember vividly my first class. Suzanne and the other high school twirlers lined all of the participants up on the out of bounds lines in the gym. Even at six I was among the tallest, so I was placed at the very end of the line.

First, they showed us how to stand at attention with our batons. And then we got to march around the perimeter of the gym, heads held high, knees snapping up and down, left, right, left, at 90 degree angles. I couldn’t quite get the hang of marching. This was all much easier with my imaginary baton.

Then we stopped and learned the figure eight move. I twisted my wrist and magically the baton moved as I willed it. Faster, faster, I twirled. I was a regular twirling dervish. Next we tried to march and twirl the figure eight. I could do one, but not the other, at least not simultaneously. Twirl or march, twirl or march, which was it to be? Still at the end of the line I would stand stock still and twirl, then quickly march to catch up, stop and twirl again.

Apparently, this was not the desired outcome. After the lesson I saw Suzanne approach my dad. They looked at me, and Suzanne laughed and shook her head. On the ride home Daddy said Suzanne thought I should try learning another skill. I’d suspected as much, but it still crushed my little six year old heart.

I never looked at the twirlers in quite the same way after that; although, over the years I continued practicing the one skill I learned. I can still twirl the figure eight like nobody’s business. Just don’t expect me to march while I’m doing it.

Peace, People!

Cleaning Stalls and Taking Names

Summertime for the pre-teen set has always been a balance between excitement and boredom, and growing up in a small town often dips the scale towards the boredom end. I grew up in Floydada, Texas, a farming community, population 4,000, circa 1970, a very small town, indeed.

My brothers and I were “town kids” and spent summer days traipsing across Floydada in search of some activity to ease the boredom. At least once a week we walked to the county courthouse where the library was located. Before heading downtown, we would scrounge through the sofa cushions and dresser drawers in search of loose change so we could purchase “baby” soft drinks at Arwine’s Drugstore in downtown Floydada. The baby size cost a nickel and was always a welcome thirst quencher after our trek across town.

Not all of my summer was spent in the company of my siblings, though. Often I had the opportunity to hang around with LA (not her real name!) who I envied desperately due to her status as an only child. LA and I spent hours fantasizing about The Cowsills family singing group and how she was going to marry Barry and I was going to marry John and we would live next door to one another in Santa Monica, California. Happily ever after had our names all over it.

But, even our fantasies grew tiresome on occasion, so as we rode our bikes around Floydada we decided to do something to better our community. We had nothing specific in mind, but we continued to chat about the possibilities when we weren’t mentally picking out the swimsuits we’d be wearing when first meeting The Cowsills.

The idea for our service project came when we stopped at one of the gas stations on the main drag to use their restroom. Now, this was before the time of the convenience store, and the ladies’ room was outside, accessible only by key. The condition of the restroom was deplorable. The sink was a mess, paper towels were strewn about the floor, and the toilet–ugh!

Truly I cannot remember whether LA or I came up with the idea, but soon, we were cleaning that bathroom. We decided that folks passing through Floydada needed to see its good side, and that included nice bathrooms. So, for several weeks LA and I pedaled from service station to service station tidying up the bathrooms. Scandalously, we even ventured into the men’s rooms where we glimpsed our first urinals. Heavens! We were now mature women of the world.

Eventually summer ended as did our community service project. When we told our friends what we’d been up to they seemed more horrified than impressed. But there was something satisfying about doing a job no one else wanted, or even noticed. To heck with germs and dirt and potential disease! We were rebels without a clue, cleaning stalls and taking names.

Peace, People!