A Cowgirl's Grave

A lovely stone in the town cemetery

East of Miami, Texas

(click pic for a little larger view)

Note: This is a "bump" from June '08, but I put in a different photo from a different angle.

I didn't notice it until I got home and downloaded the photos to my computer but the background reflection of the bluffs on the other side of Red Deer Creek seem to blend into the scene on the stone.

Fireworks: Fighting, Family, Foolish

*** A "bump" from '07 ***

---

This last 4th of July brought back some memories.

Some of my neighbors ran a firecracker stand this year and made a BUNCH of money, having to go over to Amarillo and get more stock several times. I didn't know, but bottle rockets were allowed again this year, but I believe a permanent ban is going to be applied to them and to other rockets.

When I was a kid, we used to have pop bottle rocket fights. There would be two opposing groups of boys, usually divided by age, facing off across the creek that divides the City Park in Miami. There were several methods of firing off the ammo, but the most common was to hold a pipe or glass Coke bottle, put the rocket in it, then light 'er off while aiming at the "enemy".

Another method, but not nearly as accurate, was to light the thing, wait until the fuse was nearly gone, then pitch up into the air. If the timing was right and the angle of the toss more-or-less towards the area it was intended to go, then you would sometimes get an "air burst", not dangerous, but totally spectacular and would keep your opponent's heads down while your buddies kept up the barrage.

It sometimes would, if you weren't particularly experienced with that method, come right back at you. "Friendly fire".

It's one thing to shoot bottle rockets at the other boys, but doing so while under fire from THEM... During one fireworks fight, I was looking down at the fuse of a rocket, trying to light it when someone on my team hollered "LOOK OUT MIKE!" and I glanced up just in time to see a tiny missile trailing a shower of golden sparks heading right at me.

Now, there were no "rules" that said you couldn't dodge any incoming, but the cool thing was to stand there calmly and let it zip right on by. "Courage under fire". I'd like to say that it was sheer bravado that kept me glued to the spot, but I'd be lying: I just froze.

In much less time than it took for you to read that last part of the last sentence, the bottle rocket was launched, someone hollered, and then it hit me right square in the chest. Ever had someone "frog" you in the arm or chest with their middle knuckle extended from their balled up fist? Well, that's how this rocket felt when it hit me. It hurt.

In horror I glanced down to see the rocket acting like it was on a pivot on my breastbone. The head of the rocket stayed in one spot, but the end was swivellin' around, shooting off those fiery-golden sparks. I pulled my chin up and scrunched my eyes shut just as the thing went off, feeling like someone had PUNCHED me in the chest this time.

Stunned and nearly blinded, I staggered backwards. Due to the ringing in my ears from the explosion, I could barely hear my friends asking if I was all right, but I definitely could hear the jeers of the older boys across the street. "Direct Hit!" "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" "He's a goner!" .

This was too much; chest & pride both smarting, my shirt (and chest skin) full of burn holes, I went over to my car, opened the trunk and got out the heavy artillery: some larger 6 and 8 oz. rockets, four/five times the size of the smallish pop bottle rockets. Holding a dozen in one hand and a lit cigarette with the other, I proceed to unleash hellfire upon the upperclassmen, making them yell in protest and alarm. I kept up the broadside, grabbing up another handful of rockets, lighting one, throwing it, then lighting another and throwing it as quickly as possible. It was satisfying watching them scatter like a horde of rats leaving a sinking ship.

One of my rockets, though, went off course, flew WAY farther than it seemed possible, then exploded just under the sheriff's bedroom window, a block away. I guess he wasn't too concerned about the war going on just a few hundred yards away until the bombs were bursting in HIS air. The rest of us scattered as he angrily made his way towards the swimming pool parking lot, "our territory", clad only in his boxers, cowboy boots and official lawman's straw hat . We surrendered our lands without a fight, I guess one might say.

(hey, playing with bottle rockets is dumb, but I never said we all were STUPID)

It's probably a good thing I was never President and had access to "the button", y'know?

Another 4th comes to mind: My paternal grandparents were out at our house to celebrate the holiday. We were having a cookout, the watermelon was chilling atop the cellar roof with a garden hose running cold, deep well water over it and we were waiting for the sun to set and darkness to fall so we could set off our several sacks full of fireworks, safely nestled under a lawn chair.

This was back when my Granddad smoked cigars and he was kicked back on a lawn chair, enjoying a cigar after consuming some great bbq. The only problem was that Gramps was sitting right on top of all those fireworks. The next thing I know, there are rockets and roman candles going off, firecrackers exploding and silver stars going in every direction and I watch my grandpa running for his life, the still-lit stogie in his mouth.

It wasn't funny then, having my fireworks show ruined, but as I grow older, it's one of the funniest things I can remember from my childhood.

Some of the first money I ever earned went to buy a big sack of fireworks. The 4th that year fell right in the middle of a drought, though and the night of the holiday was very, VERY windy. My dad pleaded with me to wait a day or two until the wind calmed down, but I was adamant and wanted to set them off that night.

The entire family loaded up in Dad's work truck and we went out near one of the wells he pumped, surrounded by a freshly plowed wheat field. Dad was worried about setting the countryside on fire, but he chose the safest place to set them off, no vegetation or grass to burn.

The wind was blowing so fiercely though, that none of my rockets or other aerial fireworks went over a dozen feet in the air, the wind catching them and forcing them out into the bare dirt where they exploded with less-than-spectacular results.

That was probably one of the best life's lessons I ever learned, to have patience, esp. when it involves money and recreation. I still don't like to fish, though.

Grate Ejucashun

I've been keeping up with my alma mater's football team via their Facebook page: Miami Warriors Football Fan Page

I noticed something when I first "liked" the page and have kept waiting for someone to fix it.



I guess I shouldn't be hard on whoever started the page and wrote the description. They probably went to school there, just as I did...and you know how bad my own writing are is.

behemoth

behemoth\ bih-HEE-muhth \ , noun;
1. Any creature or thing of monstrous size or power
2. An animal, perhaps the hippopotamus, mentioned in the Book of Job.

---

As soon as I saw this word in our Word of the Day feed, I instantly remembered the first time I ever heard it used in everyday speech.

The memory is clear as polished glass; we were playing Turpin, Oklahoma, perennial state 8-Man champs. I was a freshman, thrown into the starting right guard spot due to a senior having to quit school because of getting a girl pregnant.

It was the pre-game warmups and as a classmate and I jogged to the back of the line for the drill we were doing, we turned to look at the Turpin team performing their own exercises a few yards away. They were clad in all-red* uniforms, at least 40 guys suited up. (and this is a "small" school). We were lucky to have less than half that number on our roster, and our uniforms were old, patched and faded white (yep, faded white!).

*I believe all the OK. schools we played had red in their school colors - red makes a team "look" fast and larger, while black is intimidating and mean-looking. As I said, we were dressed in white, looking like a bunch of skinny, fresh-faced medical interns.

Even with the mass of red-clad Okies, it wasn't hard to immediately notice a HUGE guy. The program had him listed at 6'4 and 265 lbs. but I think they were sandbaggin' on those figures.  Now, these days guys of that size can be found in many larger school programs, but back then, especially in OUR league, that was a monster. I was probably a bit larger than avg. for most small school teams, 5'9" on tippy toes and 150 lbs. IF soppin' wet and weighed immediately after Thanksgiving dinner.

After staring at the guy for a minute, watching as he slowly shuffled to the end of the line in his own drill, I turned to my friend and exclaimed:

"Good - gawd - awmighty." I knew it was my imagination, but it felt like the ground was moving with each step he took. The pounding, I knew though, was my heart.

"The guy's a *#^%$#@* behemoth." replied my friend.

He turned to me and then said: "I hope coach doesn't put me in tonight."

Those were my sentiments too, but I knew I was going to have to play on offense, at least, and I said a quick prayer that I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of all these Okies, plus friends and family. Mostly I wanted to get through the game without serious injury.

Thank the Lord I didn't have to play directly opposite of him. I still had to pull on certain plays and (attempt to) block him on trap plays or in some pass protection schemes. I had the best luck blocking him on the pulling plays; at least I could work up a few steps worth of momentum. Even then I usually bounced off of the mountainous "young" man . (I say "young" because I later found out the guy was 19 when the school year started and had turned 20 at the start of the season, legal within the OK rules at the time. Hell, the guy had a beard, a thick one that looked like it could be used in lieu of sandpaper! I was barely 14, barely had hair under my arms, much less on my face!)

It was one horrifying play that I remember the most about that game. We were running a play to the opposite side of the line than mine, a draw-type play meant to pull the huge guy away from the run...but it didn't work. Another classmate of mine, another freshman starting because of an upperclassman's problems (grades) was the ball carrier and was met at the line of scrimmage by the guy. My teammate was picked up like a sack of feed, much like I expect the huge guy had done a zillion times, and slammed on the ground ... again, much like a sack of feed.

Dave, my classmate, literally bounced off the ground, his head hitting not once, but hitting again on the rebound. Several of us rushed over to him and helped him to his feet.

He seemed to be all right, but as we huddled for the next play, he started calling a play that we didn't even have in the playbook. He shouldn't have been calling the play because he wasn't the quarterback. (He had transferred the year previous, and after later telling him the play he was calling, he said that was a play from his old school's team) He was led off the field and didn't return to action. At the time I was a bit jealous of him.

We later found that he had suffered a concussion, and no wonder; his helmet was cracked all the way from the top to the back!

After the game was over (we got our butts kicked, something like 73-0), the opposing teams met in the middle of the field and shook hands. As I got to the big guy, I shook his hand (the size of a small ham) and leaned my head back as far as my shoulder pads would allow and asked him:

"How the hell did you get so big?"

He grinned, showing a couple of missing front teeth, and replied:

"Eatin' a lotta corn and drinkin' a lotta whisky!"

I believed him. Wasn't gonna call him on it, anyway.

---

If this silly memory story was deflating

Go check out What It Was, Was Football

It's funnier.

Senior Pranks

Was reading about some PA senior's "prank" in the news:

Solehi to seniors: You snooze, you lose

Seems the boys took a ladder and scaled a wall into a locked courtyard, set up tents and sleeping bags and spent the night. Now the school wants to prosecute.

Sheesh. Nothing was harmed, no windows were broken, no walls were spray-painted. The boys were there in the morning when the school opened and they admitted they knew what they were doing was wrong but only wanted it to be a harmless prank. Back when I was in school, that would have netted us a few swats with the "board of education", not a lawsuit from the school board.

This reminds me of my big sister's senior year. For years* the kids had an annual water balloon fight, two of the classes against the other two. (such as Seniors/Freshmen against Sophomores/Juniors)

*And it all came to an end when I first got into high school, with a car rollover, a couple of bad injuries with a teacher being involved, throwing water balloons along with the kids.

My sis, her b/f and some others got on top of the gym and were throwing balloons off the roof (or were up there making out, not for sure...am sure she'll elaborate) or perhaps they were just hiding from "the enemy". Somehow they were found out and were summoned to the principal's office first thing the next morning (the principal was an insufferable a-hole, even more than most principals) where he informed them that, if the roof leaked, they weren't going to get to graduate AND they'd be forced to pay for repairs.

Later that day a tornado hit the school and tore off a good bit of the gym's roof.

Now, when I was a senior, we did our own prank. Just outside of town there is a small hill that has gone by the name "Ti**y Peak"....for obvious reasons.



Poor ol' hill...back when I was a kid, it was a good-sized "C" cup, but thanks to erosion, it's probably something like a "B" cup now.

Anyway...We bought some red paint, found a large rock and painted it and put it on top as the "nipple". We were so proud of our work, we bought a 4'x8' piece of plywood and a couple of fence posts and made a sign calling attention to it, "Ti**y Peak: Compliments of Seniors".

It didn't last long; no, a tornado didn't get it, but some of the guys from the previous year's class that were still in town chopped it down. Bastards, all they did for their "prank" was put a toilet on top of it.

Cowcalling's Coming!

Schedule of Events

Shy in the Shell

This small tortoise just wanted to be left alone.

Then and Now

Found this old postcard for sale on Ebay and thought it might be neat to contrast then and now with a Miami street scene.



I'm not for sure exactly when the above photo was taken, but I'm sure it was shortly after the beginning of the last century, probably at least 90 years ago.



As you can see, one of the buildings still standing is the one in the foreground; there's also the church in the background. (If you look closely in the "now" photo, you can make out the church spire)

"X" Marks the Spot

Something very significant in my life happened at this spot.

I also got a nosebleed at the same time.

Red Deer Creek Bridge Collapse

A friend of mine and I had plans to watch today's Cowboy game, but he called me just before I was getting ready to leave and told me he was having to detour traffic at the bridge in Miami.

He said there was a huge hole in the bridge so I thought I'd just go down and see for myself.

I made it across the bridge just fine; the highway crew was keeping the one lane closed, of course.

All truck traffic heading to the north of Miami on Hwys. 282 and 283 would have to reroute via Canadian or go all the way on Hwy. 60 and cut across on the Hoover hwy.

The hole wasn't as big as I thought it would be, but it was still large enough to be scary.

I decided I'd slip off down the creek, get under the bridge and take a photo of the hole from below.

Coincidentally enough, the last time I had been under the bridge was with my friend's female cousin. She went down there quite willingly, but slapped my face after the first kiss.

Looking at the underside of the rest of the bridge, I was struck as to how many other places looked as though they could crumble and fall at any moment.

I was horrified at how thin the pavement was...and dismayed to think that most of our nation's infrastructure is probably in the same shape.

I suppose "collapse" was a bit of hyperbole.

Miami City Limits

The Night of a Hundred Points

Yesterday was "Chicken Fry" day at the United deli, so off I went to get my fix of the Texas National Dish. I bought the Pampa Sunday paper, already out, plus the Saturday edition of the Amarillo newspaper.

I was halfway through my meal when I flipped open the sports pages, looking for the h.s. football scores. I saw where Pampa had lost, Canadian had won and my alma mater had been involved in a barn-burner, on the short end of a 106 - 82 shootout with the Fort Elliot Cougars.

Rats, I had thought I might go catch that game! Shoulda, woulda, coulda, that's always been my after-the-fact motto. *sigh*

It made me recall a game we played against Turpin; they were the Oklahoma 8-Man champs the year before, but we had them down 28-0 at halftime. I never will forget the screams from their bus during the intermission. (there was no field house at the football field, so both teams generally retired to the busses that had brought them out there from the school)

"You're letting those pipsqueaks beat you!" Stuff like that. It was true, Turpin had always beaten us in the past, but that night we made them pay for their overconfidence.

At least until halftime was over.

We scored a few more times but they scored more, and at the end of the game the score was tied 40-40. I believe, at that time, that was the second highest tie game in football history, some college teams knotting it up at 42-all. As I said, that's what we thought at the time, and a cursory Google search doesn't make me disbelieve it.

We were usually not that good. I remember bein' on the wrong end of some 70-something point ass kickin's in football. We had a few of the other type lopsides, but I don't remember them nearly as well as I do the others.

(I also remember starting to stall just after halftime in a basketball game with Allison; we had to slow the game down, keep them from reaching 100 points...and beating us by 60)

Miami, with their high but lower score, would've had third place in the standings for the state six-man highest score games, but on the same night, Throckmorton squeaked by May by two points and managed to become the number one highest scoring Texas six-man football game of all-time.

From sixmanfootball.com:

(202) Throckmorton 102 May 100 (2008)
(195) Temple Holy Trinity 112 SA Winston 83 (2004)
(189) Amarillo Bible Heritage 102 Northside 87 (2006)
(188) Fort Elliott 106 Miami 82 (2008)(187) Houston Sharpstown 148 Houston Lee 39 (1995)

The Miami Warriors will have to settle for fourth.

Sure wish I had gone to the game.

Vince, The Pack & Mrs. Olsen

I'm sure looking forward to the Packers/Cowboys game tonight. I hope the Pokes can beat 'em, and I think they will. (probably jinxed 'em, right there)

I thought it another one of those insignificant - but cool - coincidences that a day or so ago there was a Vince Lombardi quote on the Quote of the Day feed in the right-hand column. Lombardi was the coach of the Green Bay Packers and is considered to be one of the best football coaches of all time.

I had a coach for the first couple of years in h.s.; he hadn't been out of the Army for very long, had a wife and a young girl. He was fresh off his first coaching job, having some success, so his gung-ho atttitude was still fierce...but I think my home town drained him of a lot of it in the short time he was there.

Anyway...he was fond of Lombardi quotes and had them plastered all over the locker room, a few nicely printed out and framed in his office. There were a few I thought silly, such as

"A school without football is in danger of deteriorating into a medieval study hall."

What a crock. So self-serving...of course if your life is football, you'll defend it even with nonsensical "facts".

There were, however, a few that I've remembered all my life and thought them profound then and still do:

"Fatigue makes cowards of us all."

And "Luck is where preparation meets opportunity."

During my sophomore year I injured my knee and was out of practice for a game and a week's practice. My mom bought me Jerry Kramer's book, Instant Replay to read while I was recuperating. I admired Kramer; we played the same position, both of us were pulling guards, but I'll go to my death thinking he beat the snap on the winning touchdown in The Ice Bowl.

(4:27 on the video, it's certainly debatable, I'll admit)



My pop and this coach became good buddies, but that sure didn't curry me any favor with the coach. If anything, he seemed to go harder on me, almost more than I could bear. One time when I was at my breaking point, ready to quit the team crying, he told me "Mike, I wouldn't be so hard on you if I didn't think you had good potential." Looking at it from that perspective, I could see that he didn't spend nearly as much time (especially yelling time) with most of the other boys as he did with me. I think he realized that I was one of those guys who needed to be pushed, but also appreciated. I think most people are like that, actually.

I remember a time when we were playing basketball in Booker; I rode with my folks and we were early by quite a bit, even for my sister's game which came before mine. We rode around the tiny town for a while, then Dad saw the coach and got him to get in the car with us; we drove a couple of blocks away from the school to a burned-out house. Dad pointed at it and with a snicker told him:

"That's where last year's coach lived."

And now for my Green Bay Packers joke:

Mrs. Ollie Olsen, a Scandinavian immigrant to the U.S. was drawing attention because of her size, 6'8", 345 lbs. Reporters were interviewing her, asking her questions such as "Gee, Mrs. Olsen, how'd you get so big?"

"Ah, from eating dot gud Svedish cheese." she replied with a good-natured smile.

Another reporter yelled out: "You're big enough to play for the Green Bay Packers, Mrs. Olsen!"

Turning serious, she grimly replied:

"Nein, I play wid nobody's packer but Ollie's."

A Tree Tunnel

One of but a few places left along Hwy 60 east of Miami where the tops of the trees touch each other from opposite sides of the road. It's not as nice as some, but here in the Panhandle where trees can sometimes be scarce -especially along highways- it's a lovely sight.

(The Texas Dept. of Transportation recently announced plans to cut down some of these trees in order to make the highway "safer". There was an uproar from the public and I *think* the project was put on hold, perhaps a compromise was reached. I need to find out.)

When I was a kid, we used to go camping every summer, and at some lake (I can't remember which one, think it was Fort Supply in Oklahoma) there was a long stretch of dirt road that was named "The Tree Tunnel" because the trees enveloped the road, creating a long, dark tunnel of green, with some beautiful rays of light where the sun pierced the canopy of leaves.

This photo was taken last year, and I plan on making another "Foliage Tour" of my own when the leaves start turning colors.

Old Tree in Sepia

South of Miami, Texas.

Ol' Smokey

This is Smokey, a horse who belongs to a pal's dad. Both Smokey and his owner are retired, and ol' Smokey is allowed to run free on the half-section where my friend's father has a small cow-calf operation south of Miami, Texas.

My friend was off work yesterday and called me, wanting me to come down. After I rolled into town, I couldn't find my buddy at home, so I went to his folk's house. His mom was there and told me they were moving some cattle from one pasture to another. She wasn't for sure which place they'd be at (they lease another half-section a few miles away) but she said they'd wind up at the place they own before they went home and I couldn't miss 'em.

I told her I would just visit with Smokey until they got there and had brought some sugar cubes and an apple for him. I really like this horse; he's more personable than most horses I've been around, and enjoys the treats I bring him and likes me to rub his ol' gnarly head.

My friend's mom said they were bringing Smokey into town; they were going to have him shot! I was taken aback, and said "Have him shot???"

She laughed, and said "No, have him SHOD!"

I am such a doofus.

The gate to their place was locked, so I knew they were at the other pasture. I drove over there, but didn't see them, so decided I'd go back and wait at the other place. This time, the gate was open so I drove down to the pens. They weren't there, but I knew they'd be back soon because Smokey was tied up to the fence.



He was glad to see me, happy to get the treats, but I could tell he was a bit miffed at being tied up. He kept looking down the road; I expect he was looking for his owner and hoping he'd soon be let loose.



He kept stamping his feet; not merely to get the flies off, but to show his displeasure at being tied up so short!

I took several videos of him; this one is the "best".

Hot practices, Bucks and fawns

Great article on h.s. football on Amarillo.com today.

It mentions my alma mater and speaks highly of the football field. I tried to leave a comment, but it's either been rejected (the story of my online life) or hasn't been approved yet.

I believe I've mentioned it before (and I did in my comment at the website), but the field wasn't nearly as nice when I was playing as it is today. There were so many sticker patches, we named it "Goathead Bowl". Back then, coaches thought going without water would make us stronger (duh, we weren't camels, fer cryin' out loud) and would give us only one water break for a three/four hour practice.

"Drink water, you'll just have to stop and pee it out!" they'd bellow at us.

So many times, when a water break was called, we would all rush over to the irrigation pipe, turn it on and start gulping down water only to have a salamander (or two or three) crawl out (of the hose, not our mouths) after slaking our thirst.

We finally learned to let it run for a while and shake the hose to rid it of any amphibians. I don't remember any "Ewwww"s being said, as most of us boys had quenched our thirst several times in horse troughs/cattle tanks...just pushed away the scum on top and drank our fill.

Livin' On the Beulah Edge

After the muffled sounds of my momma's beating heart (heard in close, internal proximity, the sort that binds a child to his mother in such wonderful ways) and perhaps the highway and car noises when my parents brought me home from the hospital for the first time, this pumping unit was probably one of the first things I ever heard in my life.

I grew up smack-dab in the middle of the oil patch, living in a company owned house for the first 18 years of my life, right on the dividing line between the "A" and "B" leases. This "pumpjack" wasn't but a few hundred feet from our front porch.

My dad was a "pumper"; he took care of this and a dozen plus or so other wells and the assorted primary processing equipment (heater treater for sediment and salt-water removal), storage facilities (the tank batteries and pumps) and initial transport (pipelines from the wells to the tanks) and was the oil company's first financial agent in that process from oil in the ground to gas in your tank, keeping track of production and responsible for those documents that initiated the crude oil and natural gas transfer to the buyer. (which was Phillips Petroleum Corp, now Conoco-Phillips)

When the field was first drilled in the early 50's, this particular piece of equipment was state-of-the-art, I suppose. It was powered by a Continental-Emsco motor fueled by wellhead gas. They were contrary things, at least they were after multiple dozens of overhauls and thousands of spark plug changes and countless hours of chugging away, bringing up the black gold from nearly a mile deep.

These days nearly every pumping unit is powered by electricity, with perhaps the most remote wells, those far away from the electric grid, which might still be powered by these powerful old motors. The ones my father took care of had enormous, heavy flywheels that were hand-cranked as so to start the engine running. It was almost as complicated as crankin' an old Model-T (not that I've ever done that, I've just heard stories from my dad ) what with having to adjust the magneto and the fuel mixture, all the while turning several hundred pounds of iron with the other hand.

(Pop always said he always wanted to have a tail, like a monkey, that way he could crank one of those old one-lung motors easier, at least have sumpthin' to hold on with)

It was not only a task that required some dexterity, it was - 'scuse my French - dangerous as hell. Just like crankin' that old Ford I was talking about as if I actually knew, a guy could easily get a darn good whap on the hand, even breaking it, or with my vivid imagination on MY first stab at crankin' an old Emsco, knock it clean off. Sheesh.

My first attempt wasn't so hot, I will admit. I finally got the thing to start bangin' off, but then let go of the heavy crank the very same time the motor decided it wanted to co-operate and operate as machinery should (well, perhaps not in Stephen King's world, but...). I'd like to claim the crank was possessed (ala S. King) but it was just a case of biting off a bit more than I could chew, I shoulda paid a bit more attention the times my old man was doing it when I rode with him instead of being in that perpetual state of boredom only teenaged boys can achieve.

My dad had been standing there, letting me make some minor mistakes, gently coaching and correcting me (he wasn't always the best at that, bad memories, sorry) but letting me have a go, most likely amused I wanted to prove I was his equal, and I'm hopin' he was secretly proud I wanted to at least try to be his equal.

I barely got my hand back in time and my dad quickly went to the other side and killed the engine, all the while hollerin' at me to back up, back up! At some slower but still frightening RPM the crank flew off a hundred or so feet out in the adjacent wheat field, plowing a deep long furrow fit for planting. Could've been a shallow grave for me if the thing had whacked me in the head, for sure.

I sucessfully started that motor a few months later, but that was the last time I ever tried. I think about my ol' man cranking on those cantankerous things in winter time, or what's worse, in the summer when the Texas sun and heat try their best to not only tear the hide right off ya, but make an attempt to pull every bit of moisture from your body, starting with a river channeling through one's eye sockets, the sweat stinging like hell, then detouring through the nether regions and finally puddling in the boots.

(I knew a guy who pickled his toes that way, sweating so profusely, but I'll save that story for some other time, I'm sure you won't mind)

Who was Beulah Edge? I will reveal that mystery at a future date.

Roberts County Sunset

And the rains are coming.

West of Miami, Texas

Hwy 282

Let's pretend: Instead of a Toyota pickup, imagine it's a '67 Fairlane. Imagine it's a long time ago, young and carefree and quite a bit careless with more horsepower than good sense.

Here's the 8 mile + route I rode or drove to school for 12 years.
(bottom right corner to top left from home/first pavement to Miami)



After I got my own car, the trip would look like the following video, but instead of 55 miles per hour at the most, it would be...well, more than that. A lot more, if the car could go that fast and the coast was clear and weather permitting. I took almost the exact same corners back then because...I had to. Thank the good Lord for not letting me kill someone and also for keeping my own young/dumb butt safe.

I never cut the blind corners though, even though the vid looks like it on some. I could see if anything was coming.

Earn entries in our upcoming "Free Gas for a Month" contest by naming the songs played and picked through during this ride. (you'll also have to imagine them being on an eight-track tape player if you wanna get authentic with the time)

Excuse the shoddy camera work; this was my second attempt at this. Excuse the singing at the end, sheesh. I also meant to drive into the school parking lot, but there was a little boy and his bike right at the entrance.

He waved, and I wish I had turned the camera on him and ended the movie right there.

Do not attempt this at home.