New sheriff a familiar face

Allan Arnwine was appointed Fisher County Sheriff today by the county commissioners. He's well known around these parts, he was a Texas State Trooper when I was still a teen, and that was a very long time ago. I've never heard anything said against him.

I was just discussing the other day how you never see an out of shape DPS officer. Different physical standards for different policing departments, I guess. I'm not real sure about the spelling of his name, there seem to be a few variations across the media network.

KTXS TV reported that Arnwine plans to run for office in the general election next November.

Fisher County Sheriff Fillingim resigns

In describing the process of appointment and election for an interim and new sheriff, Fisher County, Texas Elections has issued a statement on Facebook that confirms the current sheriff has resigned.

FCTE indicates that the next step will be for the commissioners court to appoint an interim sheriff to serve until the general election in November. The sheriff appointment is the only item on the agenda for a commissioners court special meeting scheduled April 30.

Commissioners Court features sheriff resignation

- court agenda -

The commissioners court meeting ought to be an interesting one today. Number 8 on the agenda is sheriff resignation.

The meeting starts at 9 a.m. It might be a good day to go and meet your neighbor. Don't get used to these meetings being this exciting, though. Next week will be back to approving bills and hearing department reports.

A late eulogy

- Dad and Sue -

This week I saw another lengthy obituary. The first line said "he died peacefully at the nursing home." Those are lucky people, I thought. They could simply praise the accolades of their deceased kin and feel at ease about their passing.

I personally have not seen anyone die peacefully. I have seen two deaths, my mom and then my dad, that were agonizing, even as they were expected. The thing I have thought of to help me cope with the feelings of deep unrest that death has left with me is that I am the only one reliving those days of death over and over in my mind, those last memories lingering in me. The people that have died are no longer at that place. They're fine. They've been absorbed into whatever happens after death.

As for the lengthy obituary, how could I say in just a few paragraphs what my dad did and who he was? I'm not going to wax poetic and say we had a perfect relationship. We got on each others nerves and disagreed on a lot of topics. He is at the core of me, though, and laid the foundation of who I am.

He made me feel like Hobbs was mine and the land and places as far as I could see belonged to me and my family. He told stories that brought the past to life, letting me know my grandpa who died before I was born. He showed me Rough Creek, carried me around in the tractor, let me drive the pickup when I was three, and taught me to ride horses. He took me to Panther football games, encouraged me to sing in the Hobbs talent show, and took me to visit his friends, some were old timers with names that no one knows anymore. He served on the Hobbs School board, helped build on to the Cross Roads Church, planted cotton and cut grain all over the county.  He made me think I was special and our family was unique.

He made life seem like the best television show ever, with crazy characters and plotlines with deep background.

Anyway, I loved him and I miss him. I keep thinking of things I want to ask him and I'm dismayed when I realize I can't. I also miss those conversations, with him and my mom, where they knew all the background. No one else knew me like they did.

Dad had hand-written his will, and this was how he finished it: I told you to put "I'll be back next year!" on my gravestone, but you better not, because I don't think I will be. Be happy!

In honor of Mitchell "Mickey" Dewayne Templeton, January 4, 1940-April 4, 2017.

Catching up

- Hit and Miss -

The rig that was stationed up the road has come and gone, and there have been a couple of reports that it was a dry hole. There is pipe in the ground and there's a head, as shown in the photo.

Watch out for the rattlesnakes, of course. We killed a "baby" rattler in our shop last week. A resident in Loraine thought he saw a dead baby snake on the ground, but when he went to pick it up, it bit him once between the fingers and once on the back of his hand. After racking up a six figure hospital bill, he is fine. There is just a bruised spot on the back of his hand.

The annual Rotan Whitley May Auction is this coming Saturday, starting around 9 a.m. If you've ever been to the Loraine sale, you've seen they take everything under the sun. It's easy, just take your dog pens, lawn mowers, plows, etc. out to the rodeo grounds where they'll give you a number and mark your items with it. After the auction, they'll send you a check, which comes very quickly in the mail. There's a lot of socializing goes on, too, and there's usually a concession stand of some sort. Hopefully burgers will be for sale.

A tiny heartbreak

- Spiny Blooms -

In the business of raising chickens, there are a lot of cute, fuzzy chicks hatched, but many more die than live. Some fail to thrive, some drown, get stomped, get eaten or pecked by another hen, or accidentally get hit by their own mother when she flails around trying to protect her babies. There are many ways for a chick to die. Dead chicks are no big deal, usually.

Right now we have a few survivors: Bim and Bam, the Rosemary Hen's large chicks that have been adopted by Rosie 2, the other hen who was setting under the rosemary bush; Bin One Hen's little one; and the little Asil Hen's five tiny chicks. There was one other, the Shop Hen, who had a little brown chick.

The little brown chick got its leg broken a couple of weeks ago, and I never thought it would make it. If there's a defect or wound, I've learned to give up hope quickly.

That little chick got stronger, though, and had finally just about completely healed by last Friday. It was a joy to see it running after its mother as she pecked and clucked and scratched up tidbits for the little thing.

The next morning, though, the little chick was nowhere to be found. Something had gotten it during the night while it roosted in the shop with its mother.

I was about to get into my truck to go to work when Charles, the chicken expert of this place, said, "Look, she's sad about her chick."

I looked over and saw the mama hen sitting on top of the big gate, her back to us and her head hanging low. I don't think I've seen many sadder sights. It tore my heart in two.

I didn't say anything, just stared at the chicken while I was thinking my thoughts, then Charles said it was time to get on to work, so I got in my vehicle and drove off.

I told myself it was silly to cry for a chicken. I told myself babies die all the time and I think nothing of it. I reminded myself of people who had died lately that I had not wept over. Then I cried over that sad mama chicken and her little brown chick.

Sometimes, I can't explain or justify feelings, and, sometimes, I fall in love with chickens.