Road Trip #16 Page, Arizona, Monument Valley, The Duke and Natalie

Concrete crews worked 24/7 for over three years to continously pour the 5,000,000 cubic yards of concrete required.

     Kanab, Utah, was in our rear view mirror before six am as we continued to parallel the Utah/Arizona border.  We drove into Page, Arizona, stopping briefly at a scenic overlook to get a good view of the Glen Canyon Dam and the Colorado River.  We had crossed the wide and somewhat lazy Colorado ten days before, at Blythe, just before that little Hitler-acting dude took our apples.  The same river, only different here; fast and narrow, nestled deep inside a gorge that the river carved over several hundred million years.

      The city of Page is modern, clean, and new-looking, as it should be.  It is new.  The entire city was created in 1957 to house and supply the workers who built the Glen Canyon Dam, which formed Lake Powell.  A deserted corner of the Navajo Indian Reservation until the government decided to build Lake Powell, the city now has a population of over 7,000 and pulsates with activity.

     The dam was planned to contribute to the betterment of western life in general by stopping the seasonal flooding/drought cycles, and providing over 1,250,000 kilowatts of electricity for the power grid.   Environmental groups rightfully fought the project.  In addition to all the natural beauty of the canyons, the lake forever submerged thousands of American Indian archeological sites.  The lake straddles the state line; the dam is in Arizona, but most of the lake is in Utah.

      President Eisenhower officially started construction on October 1, 1956, by pushing a button on his desk in the Oval office which detonated explosives in Utah to start diverting the river around the dam site.  That’s how we do things in this country, we suck up to the boss.  Rig a button with 2000 miles of wire so the president can blow up a rock in the desert of Utah and never leave his office.  I consider that a waste. Why could he not just issue a proclamation, like he did with the interstate highway system?  Or just have him mash a button and “symbolically” blow up part of Utah.  Maybe the button could ring a bell in the basement and a guy with a phone there could call long distance and have the explosives detonated.   That would have saved enough money to pave two or three miles of road in the new town they built.

     Actually, we do that remote button thing quite a bit, I suppose for dramatic effect.  The first time I know of was on May 1, 1931, when President Herbert Hoover pushed a switch in Washington which lighted and officially opened the Empire State Building in New York City.  I bet the developers paid for that wiring job.  A side note---the Empire State Building didn’t show a profit until 1950.

        That’s the hard thing about writing---staying on the subject.  The other hard thing is remembering all the words.  I know there is a word for straying away from the point of a story, starts with a “d”, but I can’t recall.  Oh, yeah!  I remember. I’m supposed to say, “But I digress….”

     On September 22, 1966, the Glen Canyon Dam was dedicated by Lady Bird Johnson, ten years after Eisenhower blew up that big rock and started construction.  It took seventeen years for the lake to fill.  At the dedication ceremony, Lady Bird suggested that they plant some wild flowers around the dam and along the highways out there.  The Secretary of the Interior and the Governor of Arizona exchanged knowing glances and rolled their eyes.

     The Ford dealership was happy to see us and changed the oil and serviced Wayne’s new pickup for no charge.  Wayne has a deal whereby he can take his vehicle into any Ford dealer in the world and they will do routine maintenance; change the oil and filters, rotate the tires, inspect the brakes, etc., all for no charge.  I think the way that works is the Ford people figure out what all maintenance will cost over the lifetime of the vehicle, double it, and add that to the purchase price, so it won’t be noticed and can be financed.  Someone in their accounting department should have been a senator.  But then, maybe I am getting a bit cynical.

     “Me and that old man with the white legs over there are on a sort of bucket list road trip.  We’re running the blacktop, just seeing what’s over the hill.” I heard Wayne, with all his boyish exuberance, say to a bystander who happened to be standing in the wrong place. 

     The bystander introduced himself.  He was manager of the dealership and very anxious to meet anyone from Texas.  He instinctively knew we were rich, and he wanted to move to Texas.  By the time the shop finished changing the oil, the manager had given Wayne four copies of an eight-page resume, printed out by the dealership’s computer, probably between invoices.  True to his word, Wayne distributed it to Ford dealers around Austin when we got home.

     With almost 4000 total miles on the new pickup and fresh oil in the crankcase, we continued to parallel the Arizona/Utah border, this time on the Arizona side, crossing back into Utah at Goulding Trading Post in Monument Valley.  Once again, absolutely spectacular scenery unfolded in every direction.  Easily the equal of anything we saw on the trip, but entirely different.  The Navajos called this land” Tse Bii Ndzisgaii,” meaning “Valley of the Rocks.”  Of course it was sacred ground to them.

     Red sandstone buttes stand isolated from each other, like sentinels guarding their part of an almost flat valley.  The taller formations tower about a thousand feet above the valley floor, but, because of the isolation, appear to be smaller.  Think of several one hundred story office buildings with no windows, painted brown/red and scattered about a large, sandy valley.  On second thought, don’t think that.  Just think that I don’t have the talent or vocabulary to describe this magnificent place.



Wayne in his own private Nirvana



     Wayne had something akin to a religious experience in the John Wayne Movie Museum at the old Goulding Trading Post.  Posters, still pictures, and other paraphernalia from “Stagecoach,” “The Searchers,”  “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” “Easy Rider,” and “The Eiger Sanction” brought the museum to life.  We felt we had been there for the making of history.  We were walking the same ground trod by John Ford, Ward Bond, Harry Carey, Jr., and The Duke.  Not to mention the dainty little feet of Natalie Wood and Joanne Dru. 

     By the way, Natalie Wood was in her late teens when she played the Cynthia Ann Parker part in “The Searchers”.   I read in “Vogue” magazine that, during that period of her life, she was “discovering her sexuality” and practicing it with just about any willing male she could find, from directors and leading men, to camera operators and stage hands.  I always wished she had come to Lubbock to hunt around for her sexuality and maybe practice a bit.  But I digress….

The Iconic "Mittens" in Monument Valley.  Either of these buttes approximately equal the height of the Chrysler Building in New York City.

    

    

Ian Alexander Banchs

      My grandson, Ian Alexander Banchs, will graduate from high school next week.  Ian is a handsome young man who sings beautifully with a deep bass voice.  He has worked hard and earned positions on various regional, area and state choir groups.  He has been active in a local theatre group and has appeared in many local productions.

      Ian applied and was accepted at two fine liberal arts universities, Austin College at Sherman (the oldest college in Texas--Sam Houston was on the original board) and the University of Dallas.  After a lot of deep thought and soul searching, he has chosen to continue his education at the University of Dallas.  Ian plans to be a musical anthropologist.  He wants to study the effect of music on the cultures of people down through the ages, from the drums of Africa to the violins of Vienna.

     Obviously, he didn’t consult with me before making this choice.  I am certain there is a job out there for a musical anthropologist, but I wouldn’t know where.  I have not seen headlines bemoaning the shortage of musical anthropologists in the fortune five hundred companies. 

     Ian has other talent, however, that hopefully will allow him to erase the prospect of eternal poverty from his future.  Ian is a gifted writer.  At age eighteen, he writes things that turn me green with envy.  I will include an example of his prose.

     Ian’s other grandparents, Wil and Delia Banchs, have a family tradition of providing a new dress suit for each of their grandchildren when they graduate from high school.  I had the pleasure of taking Ian to buy this suit.  I have attached his thank-you note for the gift.

“Dear Abuelo and Abuela,”

“I have a difficult time thanking people, not because I’m not grateful, but rather because I don’t know how to express my gratitude.  This is especially true when I receive a gift like yours.  It stirs within me a gratitude that words can only clumsily express, and yet that is what I’m tasked with, to express them.  On the surface, it seems very simple; I should just thank you for the things.  Thank you for the suit, the jacket, the slacks, the shoes.  But that only addresses the superficial aspect of my gratitude; it would be better to say thank you for the first impression, the confidence, and the flexibility those things bring.  It felt like a rite of passage as we walked through the store, my grandfather introducing me to the mysteries of men’s wear.  The natives of New Zealand used to believe that the spirits of their ancestors resided in their weapons, protecting them in battle.  That is how I feel, like all my family is lending me their support, arming me for whatever I may face in the future.  And that is something I can’t begin to thank you all for.”

Eternally grateful,

                                                                                                Ian A. Banchs

 

Road Trip #15 Fresno, Bakersfield, Las Vegas, Zion National Park

Zion National Park at Sunset

     Fresno is not the prettiest town I’ve ever seen.  It’s not even in the top ten.  We looked for California olive oil in Fresno but were not successful, so we pointed the big Ford south toward Bakersfield.  Because Tioga Pass at Yosemite was snowed in and no other roads go through the mountains, we detoured around them.  As I have indicated, we are nothing if not flexible.

     The city of Bakersfield has no business being in California.  It is a hard-hat, red-necked, working-man kind of town, on the edge of the desert, with nothing of the fantastic scenery so prevalent in most of the state.  All in all, it would be a much more fitting neighbor for Odessa, Texas, than any other place I have been, even Midland, which is very urban and highly sophisticated when compared to Bakersfield. 

     Housing developments here tend to be trailer parks, with ubiquitous washaterias and convenience stores on every corner. There are precious few commercial office buildings downtown, probably just enough to provide offices so the folks with red necks and white socks can have car insurance---and lawyers to handle DWIs and divorces.

     Perhaps because of the working-class mindset, Bakersfield is a hotbed of country music.  Merle Haggard got his start here, after serving time in San Quentin for armed robbery.  Buck Owens helped make the “Bakersfield Sound” popular.  Dwight Yoakum did “The Streets of Bakersfield” and topped the country charts for a time.  All the places that sell cold beer and play country music were closed when we went through.  Otherwise, Wayne and I might still be there.   

     We looked around for California olive oil, and finding none, we headed east, toward Vegas.  About twenty miles out, we followed some colorful signs off the freeway and into a highly publicized orange grove.   In the center of the grove, well off the highway, stood a combination packing plant and roadside fruit stand.  The whole operation was housed in a whitewashed concrete block building. 

     In the production area of the building, several stocky Hispanic women in Wal-Mart floral-print dresses and Nike knock-off shoes were stationed at a long conveyor belt, grading and boxing fresh-picked oranges.  In the manner of working people everywhere, they gossiped and laughed as they worked.   These were not entry level girls, trying to work their way out of poverty.  These were mature women, most likely with alcoholic husbands and four or five children at home in a rented trailer house.  They were out of options—they had to grade and box those oranges---and they had to keep up with the conveyor belt, for they were paid by the finished box.  Even so, with all their chatter, they did their best to make the job bearable.

     On the opposite side of the building, the market side, all kind of California produce was available.  Some of it was fresh, but the shelving groaned with all sorts of canned, jarred and boxed goodies.  Processed foods have a longer shelf life and this was, after all, a tourist trap.  We saw at least seven different kinds of California olive oil---fresh, cold-pressed, extra virgin, filtered, unfiltered, you name it.  After all this time, suddenly we had too many choices.

     The manager, a pear-shaped Bakersfield native with tight jeans and a slight overbite, could not have been more helpful.  She offered free samples, touted the local products and explained that only inferior oranges grow east of Arizona.  If I understood her, that’s because of the lack of proper stressing on the orange trees.  A very dry climate allows all moisture to enter the orange tree through the root system and not by osmosis as in places with high humidity.  She told us this creates a sweeter orange.  According to her, Florida and Texas have far too much humidity to ever grow sweet oranges.  Wayne and I bought olive oil and several other items from this talkative lady and she threw in a sack of good, sweet, California oranges.  No charge---we had not lost our touch.

     As we pulled back onto the freeway, I asked, “Wayne, what did you think of that ole gal’s idea about how to grow sweet oranges?”

     “She’s full of crap as a Christmas turkey.” 
      It is amazing how you get to thinking alike if you grow up in Lubbock and run the blacktop together long enough.

    We passed through Las Vegas on the freeway and never slowed down.  I saw, from the elevated roadway, the place where I lived for a year during my misspent youth.  At least, I saw approximately where my apartment had been.  When I lived in Vegas, the “Strip” was less than two miles long and there were only sixty-five thousand people in town.  About thirty thousand more lived in Nevada’s answer to Bakersfield, North Las Vegas.   A total of maybe one hundred thousand in the whole valley.  I’ve often wondered how my life would have differed if I’d stayed there.

     It was time for an oil change on Wayne’s big Ford pick-up, so we stopped in North Las Vegas and asked a couple of semi-evolved young men about the nearest Ford dealer. If they could remember where the Ford dealer was located, they lacked the communication skills to pass along that information.  We gave up after a few minutes and headed for the state line at Mesquite, hoping to get there before the local dealer closed.   At a quarter of five, that dealer told us he stopped taking oil changes at four-thirty.  We decided to wait until tomorrow and get it done in Arizona.

     St. George, Utah is a clean, orderly, neat little city.  We dropped off the freeway there and took Utah Hwy 89 toward Kanab, through Zion National Park.  The park is absolutely spectacular.  From the standpoint of natural beauty, it is a heart-stopper, easily on a par with others we saw on this trip; Crater Lake, Redwood Forest, Mount Shasta or Yosemite. Equally beautiful but entirely different.

This shot, taken out the window at 75 miles per hour, demonstrates the beauty of the place, not the skill of the photographer

 

     The colors are stunning---horizontal striations on the landscape vary from deep brown through maroon and dark red to rose and orange to yellow, light grey, and stark white.  Desert colors.  A primitive crooked, but paved, road offers magnificent vistas in all directions, and connects several long and narrow tunnels through the mountains.  These 1935-era tunnels are so narrow traffic has to be restricted to one way by a series of synchronized traffic signals.  “Windows” carved through the outer walls of the tunnels allow light inside.  Retrofitted electric lights help illuminate the interiors.

     Kanab is a small, but well-kept little town, and dark was approching, so we decided to stop there rather than press on to Page , Arizona.  We had a good choice of motel accommodations.  Wayne negotiated a deal with a young Arab in charge, and we settled into our home for the evening.  Diagonally across the street, an inviting neon sign alternately announced “Mexican Food--- Cold Beer.” 

     We strolled over to the glass and Formica fifties-style cafe.  It wasn’t retro, it was just old, but let me tell you, those Utah Mexicans know what they’re up to.  We could have been in Big Spring.  We sat in a shiny booth in the brightly-lighted little place and listened to Merle Haggard as we feasted on cheesy Tex-Mex beef enchiladas and fresh, cold, chunky guacamole.  The beer was icy cold and the hot sauce brought tears to my eyes.  People don’t always notice little things like that---and those things are just what make life so very special.

     

Some girls do sabatage themselves, don't they?

Page Views, Blog Hosts, and The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming!

Nothing to do with this article--Just Springtime in Lubbock

     I started this blog in January of this year.  I have never done anything like this and had no idea what to expect.  I have been doing it now for five months and I still don’t have any idea what’s happening.  I have no inkling of how these essays get from my house to yours.  I have no idea who reads this stuff or how often they read it.

     According to my blog host, I have had almost 5000 “page views” since I started.  (I will explain blog host and page view later.)  Of these views about 4500 originate in the United States.  I have had 189 views from Russia, 17 from Canada, 16 from Germany, 9 from South Korea, 5 from Great Britain, 3 each from Latvia and Taiwan, and 2 each from Costa Rica and Hong Kong.  This is confusing, because a few months ago, I had several visits from South America---Columbia, Equator and Peru.  I also had one visit from Georgia, not our Georgia, the one in Russia, and several other visits from locations I cannot remember. These visits are no longer listed and I wonder what became of them.

     If you are one of those faithful viewers from Russia, I wish you would send me an email and tell me where you are and how you came to be interested in Lubbock.  I have fantasized that the Russians might be some sort of descendants of the KGB, just keeping up with America’s heartland, but I am sure that is not the case.  I will put my electric mail address at the bottom of this missive and would really like to hear from you.

     This plea applies to the rest of you readers (or is it viewers)—I’d love to hear from any of you.  Tell me how often you view my blog, how you heard about it and what you think about it.  I know there is a place for comments at the bottom of each post, but people tell me it is next to impossible to fill out the form for submitting a comment.  That must be true, because in 5ooo views, I’ve had 12 comments, and several of them were my own.  Send me your comments by electric mail---that way, I’ll get them and it won’t be a lot of trouble for you.

     I want to write things that you folks want to read, so I checked the overview to see what items were most popular.  Overall, you are about equally interested in Barbeque, Road Trips and Texas History, so I’ll stay in those areas, because that’s what I like.  I took several road trips, checking out barbeque and Texas historical sites, while I listened to country music.  I will do that again.

     My most popular post of all time was the bit on Tom T. Hall, which gets me back to the country music vein.  He got 56 page views, followed by 54 for the “Mysterious goings on in Lubbock” story about R.G. Box and the Roadrunner.  Close behind that, in third place was “The Continuing Saga of World Championship Barbeque,” with 51 page views.

     I have about five more articles to do on the Road Trip West that Wayne and I took, and then it will be time to start our Road Trip East series.  The problem with that is we have not done our Road Trip East—we plan to run the rest of I-Ten to wherever it terminates in Florida, then go out to Key West and smoke a Hemmingway cigar and drink something straight with two ice cubes while we watch the sun set. 

     We will then leave the Keys and drive up the coast to Norfolk, Virginia, or there abouts, and turn west, catching all the Civil War battlefields we can find on the way back to Texas.  On this trip, I want to ride the Jamestown Ferry, like the song says.  I missed it last time I was in that area.  We’ll be off on this trip so soon as I work through a temporary financial crisis.  Be patient, Ratisseau.

      I said I would explain blog host and page view.  The blog host, if that is the proper name---maybe it should be sponsor, or even benefactor--- in any case, I mean the entity which publishes my articles.  I will call it my “blog host.”  This blog host gives me an overview page to look at any time I want, and this page gives me an “overview” of my blog.  It tells me how many “page views” I have.  I can see the numbers by the day, by the week, by the month, or a grand total to date.  This fantastic “overview” even tells me which countries are providing these “page views,” and how many I get from each country.

     Now all that sounds really spiffy doesn’t it?  Well, here’s where the cheese gets binding.  I don’t know how they count “page views.”  I will post something and the next day get ten electric mails from friends who have read it and have some opinion.  I will then check with my overview page and it lists zero “page views.”  Later in the week, the overview may say I have two page views.   I suppose there is some limit, say twelve readers to make one page view, or something like that, but I can’t find any explanation.  I suppose it is my job to simply take the blog host’s word for number of “page views.”  That’s asking a lot from a cynical old man.

     Then, other little things bother me.  What happened to those page views from South America and Georgia?  Why is it so difficult to post a comment?  Is there a book somewhere that will explain all this to me?  Please don’t ask me to look at the explanations in this electric machine—I’ve done that and it is far too confusing for a fellow of my age and disposition to understand.

     On another person’s blog, one with a different blog host, there was a box to check if one wanted to be notified of a new post.  I think that would be a fantastic tool, but evidently my host doesn’t provide such a service, or if it does, it is complicated to arrange.  If you can find how to do that, let me know—several people have asked me about that.

     This is already longer that I planned, but I want to thank those of you who have joined my blog.  Twenty-nine of you have signed up to be members—my nephew, Dr. Jerry, signed up twice.  I don’t know what, if any, benefit you receive, but I appreciate your efforts.  Thank you all, members or not, for your interest.  I’ll try not to bore you in the future.

     My Electric Mail Address:          Jimmac@ktc.com                        Let me hear from you!
                                                                                                                        Jim


Do you suppose Key West looks anything like this?

                                                                                                                          

This Date in Texas History---May 11

     In keeping with my idea to make my readers well-informed Texas History buffs, whether or not they like it, I will be adding a footnote service to the many others offered, free of charge, to readers of my blog.  This service will make you aware of significant Texas historical events that happened on the current date in a previous year.  Sometimes a very previous year.

     On this day in 1752 (is that previous enough), a carpenter, Juan Cebellos, and a priest, Father Juan Jose de Ganzabal, were both murdered in the Mission Nuestra Sonora de la Candelaria, located near present day Rockdale, about fifty miles northeast of Austin.  Suspicion fell on the Army post commander, Felipe de Rabago y Teran, who had been assigned the task of building a presidio to protect this and other missions in the area.  He had fallen out with the Franciscans over where to build the fort.  He further alienated the padres by chasing after both Hispanic and Indian women, and carrying on an affair with the carpenter’s wife.

     This was early enough in Texas history that the Spaniards thought they would just establish missions, convert the Indians into willing slaves and go on about the business of empire building as they had in Mexico, South America, and other parts of the world. 

      Comanche did not exist in other parts of the world.  They existed in Texas and made life so miserable for the Spaniards, their padres, their missions and their soldiers that they came upon a great idea.  They would encourage American settlers to occupy central Texas as a buffer zone between Mexican citizens and the Comanche.  How do you suppose that worked out?

     Oh, about Felipe Rabago---he was held in prison, awaiting trial, for eight years.  Then, in 1760, all charges were dropped and he was released.  I can find no further mention of the carpenter’s wife.

     I find these tidbits in the Handbook of Texas, a publication of the Texas State Historical Commission, so I trust them to be approximately true.  By the way, on this same date in 1953, the Waco Tornado took place.  I was a sophomore in high school then and most all of the dangerous Comanche were gone.

     As my friend, Ken Black, is fond of saying, “Stick with me.  I’ll put you under the big top.”

Road Trip #14--Mt. Shasta, Yosemite, Fresno

Mount Shasta, probably named by Russian immigrants

     Ron prepared his standard breakfast of cottage cheese, canned peaches and black coffee as Wayne and I loaded the truck for our return trip.  We had accomplished our purpose, Ron was cheered up, and it was time to get back on the road.  I gave the brothers some room because parting was not easy for either of them.  They had no idea when, or even if, they would get back together.

     We headed south on I-5, toward California.  Both Wayne and I were excited.  We were back on the road, spreading a bit of Texas cheer to the multitudes in the far west and leaving tracks in the furrows of our minds.  As we approached Ashland, Oregon, I asked Wayne to pull off when he saw a good place to pee.  He immediately pulled into the next convenience store.  Wayne learns fast.

     “Let the record show that you made it eleven point four miles before you had to stop.  That beats Ann’s record by almost six miles.”  Wayne keeps a lot of statistics in his head.

      In the distance, as we entered California, we could see a large mountain off to the southeast.  Mt. Shasta is surrounded by relatively low country which allows it to dominate the entire landscape.  At 14,179 feet, it is the fifth highest peak in California, but, because of its location, all by itself out on the prairie, it is easily one of the most prominent.  The origin of the word Shasta is vague, but it may have come from a Russian word which means “white, clean or pure.”  If so, it is aptly named.    The mountain is absolutely beautiful.

      Mt. Shasta is a dormant, but still active, volcano. (That describes some people I know---dormant, but still active) The last eruption here was in 1786, before any Europeans visited this area.  The local Indians may have witnessed something---there are references in some of their oral history, but nothing conclusive.  Geologists say these eruptions will take place every four hundred to six hundred years, so, theoretically, we’re safe.

     We stopped at a roadside viewing station to take pictures.  I stood on a low wall for a better view and glanced down at the area behind the wall.  Two used hypodermic syringes were discarded there, evidence of the confused times in which we live.  Why anyone would need a jolt to get a chemical high in a place like this is beyond me, but I’m old and, truth is, I never was very hip.  

     Sacramento soon flashed past on the left and we continued south in the central valley of California.  The agriculture of the area fascinated us.  We both grew up in Lubbock and farms were nothing new to us, but we had never seen farms like these.  We knew about West Texas cotton fields, but not fields with mile after mile of every type of fruit, nut, berry, or vegetable that can be imagined.  The orderly, well-tended fields were interspersed with gigantic processing plants, whose quarter-mile-long loading docks were lined with semi-trailers.

Now, where exactly do you think this is?

     Manteca, Spanish for lard, is a strange name for a town, if you ask me.  We got off the freeway there and turned left on the road to Yosemite National Park, one of our “must-sees.”  Our plan was to go thru the park and out the east side at Tioga Pass.  We would then see Mono Lake and cross into the badlands of central Nevada.  Unfortunately, Tioga Pass was still buried under several feet of snow and was closed for at least another three weeks.  No problem.  We’ll take the scenic southern route.

     Yosemite lived up to its billing, and then some.  We hiked up to the base of Bridal Veil Falls and got soaked.  (Duh!  We’re standing under a water fall)   Wayne and I took some pictures, entertained some fellow travelers, and looked at the magnificent country.  Tunnel-View was on our list—the lady with the enhanced equipment at the Hearst Castle insisted we not miss it---if anything, she understated its grandeur.

      By my reckoning, almost half of our fellow tourists were foreign.  Oh, not Yankees, but real foreigners from another country.  What we used to call from “across the waters.”  We met people from Germany, England, Switzerland and Australia at the Tunnel View lookout.  There were others who spoke little English so we could not place them.  I can only hope that when Americans travel abroad, we are as courteous and thoughtful as these people.

     After a visit to Mariposa Grove to see the gigantic Sequoia trees and take more pictures, we made our way to Fresno.  We spent some time in two different supermarkets, a drug store, and a Costco Warehouse, searching for California olive oil.  We had passed thousands of olive trees and were determined to find some local oil to take back to Texas.  We didn’t find it in Fresno.

     Our motel had no restaurant, but the concierge did provide us with a phone number for Domino’s Pizza.  We sat by the pool and ate pepperoni pizza and admired a young blond who waved at us from the balcony upstairs.  She had on a black tee shirt, tiny white short-shorts and tanned, shapely legs that seemed to go on forever.   She enjoyed being the only show in town.  I doubt if either of us will ever forget her.  Her name was Suzanne.

     I hesitated to mention the beautiful young Suzanne because I felt that some people who read this could get the idea that all old men do is ogle young women and fantasize and remember when they were young.  I thought about that a lot and finally, I decided, …..so?



Just right out there beside the road--You won't see anything like this in Lubbock



          

Road Trip #13 Eagle Point

Mount McLoughlin is out there somewhere, named after a big shot with the Hudson Bay Company in the early 1800's.  No relation.

      Wayne, Ron and I finished our Sunday afternoon nap, cleaned up and got dressed.  We were going out to the village of Eagle Point, maybe eight miles from Ron’s house to have dinner with Gretchen, an old friend of mine.

      In the City of West University Place, John and Bonnie Hellums lived four houses down from Charlotte and I and we became close friends.  At that time, our daughters were three and their boy, Josh was one.  Charlotte was pregnant with our son Paul. 

     The girls, Devon and Gretchen, became best friends and remain so until this day.  Gretchen liked to be in charge.  A typical playtime seemed to always start with a statement by Gretch, something like, “Let’s play going to the grocery store.  I’ll be the mommy and you be the kid.”  Josh, Gretchen's brother and my son Paul's best friend, was all boy.

     Gretchen married Steve Ferreira, a veterinarian who specializes in small animal surgery.  He has a thriving practice in Oregon, near Medford.  Gretch and Steve have two daughters; Sophie, nine, and Mae, four.  Both girls are precious.

     We pulled into Steve and Gretch’s guest parking area at the appointed time and they met us at the door.  I had spoken with Gretchen earlier in the day, to verify the time and make sure there were no last minute complications.  She assured me that everything was set.  Steve’s father from Houston, along with his new fiancé, would be joining us.  We met them and the two precious little girls in the entry hall.

     We were having drinks in the spacious kitchen/family room when Wayne said, “You know, Fred, your name is very familiar to me.  What did you do in the real world?”  He was speaking to Steve’s father.

     “I had a company that sold large vacuum trucks, mostly to municipalities.  They are used to clean blocked sewer lines.  It is pretty specialized equipment.  Most people don’t know much about that business.” Fred answered.

     “Not Vac-Com?  That’s it!  One of my running mates in Houston was Dodge Ferreira.  Y’all must be related!  I was with Underground, Inc.  We did a lot of business together.”

     “Dodge is my brother.  That’s why your name is so familiar. Didn’t you go on that hunting trip with him to Mexico when one of the guys shot some Mexican farmer’s cow?”  Steve and Wayne were both excited and laughing.

     “And the Mexican tried to charge him five thousand dollars?  Yeah, I was there.  The farmer tried to tell us that cow was his reincarnated grandmother,” Wayne laughed.  “That salesman was snake bit.  His name was Nick DeSimon and he worked South America for Dodge.   Once, he charged an appendectomy to the company on his American Express card.”

     “I never heard about that.  What happened?”

     “Dodge furnished American Express cards to his salesmen to cover travel expenses.  Nick was in Brazil and told Dodge he wasn’t feeling well, but would go ahead and get his work done.  A few weeks later, Dodge was going over the expense reports and discovered a $13,000 charge from a hospital in Rio.  He called DeSimon to raise hell and Nick said he had to have an appendectomy.  He was travelling on company business and therefore, it was a work-related expense.  Finally Dodge said he would pay it this time but it better not happen again.”

     Soon, Wayne and Fred were calling old friends on their cell phones, starting every conversation with, “I’m up in Medford, Oregon.  Guess who I’m having a drink with?”  We all laughed until there were tears in our eyes.

     Gretch prepared dinner for all nine of us, while we laughed and told stories and visited with each other and enjoyed Sophie and Mae.  Gretchen steamed fresh artichokes and made a dipping sauce and served it with our drinks.  She boiled corn on the cob, fixed a tossed salad, and baked yeast rolls while she kept everyone’s wine glasses full and ministered to the needs of her children.  She did it seamlessly, as if this was an everyday affair.  I was amazed, remembering Gretchen’s mother, Bonnie, and the frantic, hap-hazard, last minute productions that most meals at her home had been.

     Steve, in the meantime, grilled a beef tenderloin outside and the whole meal was excellent.  The floor show after dinner was provided by the girls, Sophie and Mae, with a karaoke machine they dragged out of a closet.  It was the kind of evening I think everyone should enjoy as often as possible during their lifetimes.

     I had not seen Gretchen for at least fifteen years.  After dinner, she and I got a chance to visit privately while everyone else laughed and told stories in the family room.  Gretchen is all grown up now.  She is absolutely beautiful, about six feet tall and, in a word, statuesque.  Gretch has grown into a competent and caring young mother.  She works as a therapist and helps people with severe problems.  I believe she specializes in people who have been abused; mentally, sexually, and/or otherwise.  I have no doubt that she is excellent.

     Incidentally, remember Josh, the younger brother?  He is now Major John Sherwood Hellums, M.D., in the U.S. Army.  His wife is also a doctor and they have two children. 

     It gave me a lot of satisfaction to visit with Steve and Gretchen and their family---it is good for an old man to see the younger generation grow up and realize that everything may be all right, after all.

     Wayne, Ron and I drove back to Medford, laughing and remembering the events of the day.  We had a wonderful visit with Ron and needed to get a good night’s sleep.  We planned to leave early in the morning, to begin our trip back to Texas.

    

    

          



Just like Ole Willie---On the Road again!



Texas History #5 James and Malissa



The first three flags flew over Texas 300 years before this story takes place.

     A bit of background about my great-great-grandfather, James McLaughlin, is in order.  I plan to do a few posts on him and his family, mostly based upon my research. I also used some family lore, passed down by my Aunt Edith, a crude lady with a heart of gold and a disturbing nasal twang.  According to Aunt Edith, James and Malissa, our great-great grandparents, had a one day courtship during the "Runaway Scrape." Dates, names and places are factual, but most day to day details come from my imagination. Amounts and location of land and other properties are taken from Washington County records and an inventory done at James’ death, in 1848.  

     James McLaughlin had outlived two wives by 1836.  His first wife died of pneumonia back in Nashville.  He brought his only child, a daughter, to Texas in 1828 and they settled in Stephen F. Austin’s second colony, near present-day Wharton.  Four years later, James’s daughter married and moved away, and James married a widow who lived nearby.

     In addition to his brother, James’ older sister, Elizabeth, lived in Texas with her husband, Marmaduke Sandifer.  They lived in comfort on a Spanish Land Grant near present-day Halletsville, and traveled extensively.

     Marmaduke Sandifer, James’ brother-in-law, was instrumental in luring James to Texas.  Sandifer owned several Spanish Land Grants in the area of present-day Lavaca County, and shortly before the war had been granted an additional league of land by the Mexican Government.  With the Mexican Revolution, all the rules changed, but Marmaduke was still an influential landowner and became a mentor to James.

     By the time his second wife died in 1835, James had assembled more than 10,000 acres, mostly in Washington and Lavaca Counties, and was trying a radical new concept in Texas at that time.   He was working his land with hired help, not slaves.  A friend in Tennessee had been successful with hired hands and tenant farmers, and James was determined to make that system work in Texas.  He was opposed to slavery on moral grounds.

     After the Battle of San Jacinto, James McLaughlin and his brother, William Henry, helped the Texian Army celebrate the victory, and then “mustered out.”  Mustering out consisted of gaining permission from their commanding officer, Captain Joseph B. Chance, signing a paper, and riding away, leaving army life behind.

     At the time, James was thirty-six and Henry was forty-two.  Both were men of means—they didn’t need to stay in the army to eat as so many of their comrades did.  They had joined Houston's army barely two weeks before to help with the fight.  Fighting had more appeal than other options—hiding in the woods or running away to Louisiana.  As soon as the war was over, James wanted to get back to his farm at Burton, in present-day Washington County, west of Brenham.

     A few miles outside Harrisburg, James and Henry came upon a stranded young woman. She was trying to untangle the rigging from a dead ox attached to her wagon. They learned that she and her mother had escaped Victoria in panic, just hours ahead of General Urrea’s forces.  Her fiancé had died a month earlier, at Goliad, and her step father was captured and killed in Victoria. 

       Malissa, an attractive nineteen year-old, was now alone. Her mother died several days before, as they waited in line for the ferry to take them across the Brazos River.  Malissa borrowed a shovel, dug a grave, and buried her mother among the bluebonnets on a little rise about a mile west of the river. After crossing, she made barely twenty miles before the ox died.

     James and Henry used both their horses and much of the afternoon to drag the ox away from the road.  Vultures were already circling and would make short work of the carcass.  James realized that the buzzards were the only creatures actually profiting from the so-called “Runaway Scrape.”

     Malissa killed a rabbit with her slingshot, built a fire, gathered some wild onions, and fixed stew as the men worked.  During the course of the afternoon, James realized that this comely young lady was uneducated, but intelligent and capable.  James and Henry prepared to leave.

     “What are you going to do, Malissa?” James asked.  “No sense in trying to go on with that wagon.  I don’t see anything in it worth fretting over.” 

     “Mama and me was trying to get over to Louisiana.  She has a brother over there, somewhere up close to the Arkansas territory.  I guess I’ll go on that way—ain’t got no more family in these parts.”

     James looked intently at the spunky, independent little woman.  “If you want to go with me, I’ll take care of you.”

     Malissa stared back at James.  She wanted to be sure she understood his offer.  Finally, she turned, took a small sack from beneath the wagon seat, and reached for his hand.  He swung her up behind him. 

     She couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds, he thought.

     “I know a Baptist circuit-rider back in Burton.” James said, "If that's all right with you." 

      Malissa sighed with relief, put her arms around his waist, leaned against his broad back, and quietly began to cry.  
      James and Malissa had three children before James' untimley death.  Their oldest boy, James Thaddeus, fought in the Civil War.  His oldest boy, Thaddeus James, was my grandfather.
       

Art Guitars help keep the Austin Airport weird.  Austin has evolved from Stone Age Comanche to this in 180 short years.