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.

Chickens test boundaries

- Super Secret Nest -

Someone who hasn't lived in the country might think that having livestock would be straight up work, what with all the feeding, watering, doctoring and housing, but there's always some little scuffle or drama going on with the animals that lends to some entertainment.

Just the other night there was a bellowing of the bulls, where they may take turns seeing who can be louder, or they may carry on in unison. Actually, I think the bull calls might be like the boom box scene in High Fidelity, or they're just singing to the lovely ladies in the pasture. The bovine ladies.

The hens have started laying, so ardently that I wouldn't be surprised to see an egg on top of the clothesline. Every time an egg is laid, the hen laying cackles and calls, then all the chickens on the yard call back, as though to congratulate a new chick being born to the world.

The hens are all running around trying to find a nest that won't be found by the other chickens. Places like in the rosemary bush, under the freezer, behind the electric saws and drills, or on a bench in the shop (see accompanying photo).

When one hen figures out where another is laying, she will go on the nest, break the eggs, and lay her own eggs there. Then the other hen will come back to the nest, thinking those eggs are hers, and sit on them, doing all the work of setting on and raising the offspring. Pretty clever and sneaky for a little ol' chicken.

I have one black stag (immature rooster) who has figured out how to come in the dog door. That's very exciting, to come in the house and find a large, black bird eating the food out of the cat's bowl.

It's like Easter every day around here, trying to find where all the eggs have been hidden by the hens. Sometimes I don't find them all, and sometimes the hens don't remember where they're at, either. There is no pleasure in coming across a nest full of rotten eggs, although they do explode upon impact if thrown, which has a sense satisfaction. Though it takes a bit of bravery, or foolishness, to pick them up in the first place.

We're all here together

- Les Templeton -

I was visiting Dad in the hospital last year, after he had a stroke, when he piped up and said, "My dad came to see me the other day."

I said, "Oh, yeah? How did he look?" I was a little worried at what Grandpa's appearance might have been, since he had been dead for over fifty years.

"He looked alright," Dad said. "Fat, wearing khaki."

I said, "Well, that's good."

Going slowly into the new year

- Hay, how's it going? -

You know, it seems like everything has slowed to a grinding halt in the last month. I can't get transactions with business or personal accounts to get a move on. Some blame could be put on bureaucracies that refuse to use modern technology to exchange documents, but even the usually super-efficient on-line actions are slow to get through the system. It all needs a new year laxative, if you ask me. Let's get going!

I'm not real clear on what the outside world considers fake news, but a few local articles have me scratching my head and thinking this is pretty close to it.

One was in the monthly electric magazine. It was about a local movie theater and how much work and renovation was being done. I swear, I haven't seen any action around that building in two years, not since prisoners were used to clean it out and fill up a large construction dumpster with debris. The Hogg Maulies even had to do some fancy editing to mock up the marquee, it's in such bad shape. They used the front of the theater on their recent album.

Then, a local paper dedicated nearly the entire top of the fold to the grand opening of a music museum. I thought it sounded pretty exciting, so I headed on over there on the Saturday afternoon cited in the article. When I got there, the doors were locked, a gate pulled across them on the inside. There was a sign laying on the ground by the doors, piled over with leaves. I looked inside and cafeteria tables had been set up and some items laid on them here and there and underneath. It looked very dinky and lame. Not worth using half the front page of the paper to publicize.

If you picked up on the clues of my last two posts, then you know that drilling is beginning out here. There is already a rig set up just to the east, and can be seen from my back yard at night. Another is about to be within a mile of my house. A few of us are a little concerned about noise and traffic. Having my own well would definitely alleviate my complaining.

Bull has supplied us with the entertaining photo used today. He really loves hamming it up on the game cameras, when he's not using them to scratch his back. I have a lot of photos of cow backs.

Prepping...

- Rig to come -