Little by little, bit by bit

- Just words -

I've noticed how technology has caused me to change my ways. The way I spell, the way I fill out forms. It causes my narrative to change.

Take the word y'all. I used to write it ya'll, but autocorrect doesn't like that so I just go with the suggestion it makes. Looking back at old letters, though, I see that we spelled it ya'll. 

I've tried resurrecting letter writing with a few people, but it didn't take. It's like I was being a weirdo and they let it pass by without comment.

I'll admit, sometimes letter writing was boring. There was more pleasure in seeing familiar handwriting than the content. Phone calls could be the same way, enjoying hearing a familiar voice more than what was actually being said.

I can't believe I didn't have a constant phone line until after I had my second child. It was nice, my parents lived across town, but they were in another world as far as I was concerned, since they couldn't instantly access me. They were always in another quadrant, in my mind, anyway. I loved them, but I was living a different life, even when I lived in their house.

Another way technology has noticeably changed my story is how I am allowed to answer when filling out online forms.

Insurance companies won't let me say that I got my license when I was 15. I did, though. It was called a hardship license. Like many kids around here, I was driving long before I got my license. Some time around the age of 11. Somebody had to follow Dad on the tractor.

Since I was forced to lie on my insurance form, I just say whatever seems to be wanted on other forms. I gave up trying to be correct, in that sense. Except on my taxes. I try to be precise there, but my stomach still hurts when I turn in my 1040. 

Oil dreams and other things

- Big dreamer -

This doodle came from an old book I found, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by S. T. Coleridge. This particular volume, from the Eclectic English Classics series, must have been used as a college class text, because inside the covers it has a few different names (one of them along with "Carlton College") written, erased and marked through. One name is dated 1917, so I'm surmising this drawing came from that era. That's over one hundred years of dreaming! I thought I had been thinking about it a long time, like it was something new.

The oil field is deeply embedded in my culture. When I was three, I moved to Sweetwater with my mother, where she went to work for Big State Welding, which became Big State Roustabout. My dad worked for Reef in Snyder, when it was still a local business, first driving a treater truck, then as a supervisor. My uncle Hack had an oil transport business. Boyfriends, friends and my son have worked on rigs. I really don't know much about the oil business, but I find I'm able to have a literate conversation about it because it's always been part of my life. Learning by osmosis, I guess.

I liked hearing my mom talk on the radio. In her no-nonsense manner of speaking, she would call up "Piss Ant" or "Sleepy" on the radio to relay information.

Even now I still have Big State stickers and paraphernalia floating around in boxes and drawers.

That business ended in 1986, when oil crashed and everything had to be auctioned off.

It's good to remember that the dream can come to an end. Such a volatile market. Save now! Be an ant, not a grasshopper!

New selling platform for Texas Unclaimed Property

- Tx Comptroller ad -

I received a flyer in the mail announcing that Texas Unclaimed Property will now be sold on GovDeals. The Texas Comptroller has been using ebay for years to auction off unclaimed deposit box items. I have them on my ebay sellers list, and I've been wondering why they haven't had anything for sale in a while. They have some weird feedback on ebay, where the buyer says good things, but marks it as negative. Maybe the comptroller got fed up with the head games.

The GovDeals set up isn't as pretty and easy to use as ebay, and there's a buyer's premium of 9.5%. They're shipping using FedEx and won't ship to post office boxes, something I've never understood (the P.O. box thing, I mean). You can pay using PayPal, I like that. I guess the thing to do is to make an account, bid on something, and see how it goes. ebay isn't the be-all, end-all, right?

A tale of two cellars

- A new cellar -

I had a new cellar put in by U. S. Storm Shelters out of Decatur a couple of weeks ago, right next to my old cellar. 

The old one, that was home-made, leaks and the door is janky. I remember when it was being built, in 2002, we had a flooding rain that half-way filled up the hole and the kids swam in it. Good times.

The new one is a bit steep and the door, being new, is hard to open, but it's watertight. I've put rugs in it and plan to get a camp toilet (believe me, needed!) and some battery-operated push lights to stick around. Maybe a cube foam couch or something. It'll be so full, there'll be no room for me. 

It's about half as big as my old one. Also, I like to run in and out of the cellar to use the bathroom, get a drink, look at the radar, etc. and it's easier to do that with the old one. Maybe I can open both doors and use the leaky one when I'm only half-frightened and the new one when I'm scared out of my wits. It would be more correct to say I'm scared of clouds, instead of just storms, because it doesn't take much to have me heading to the cellar. 

It only took the guys three and a half hours to install it. They arrived exactly on time and they were super nice. You can order your own cellar at the U. S. Storm Shelters website.

A turkey triumph

- The Birds -

About this time last winter, I came into possession of a bunch of turkey chicks and some pullets (immature hens). Over the course of the winter snap, and with a little help from varmints, twelve was whittled down to four; three turkeys and one hen. When I caught two of the turkeys tromping the littlest one and pecking at his legs, I sent those two off to a petting farm. The damage was already done, though, and the little turkey continued to degrade, until he was confined to the chicken pen, of his own doing, since the door is open during the day.

I tried rehabilitating him by soaking, rubbing and spraying his feet (with Bactine, it fixes everything!). I even tried carrying him to the yard, but those wing feathers are sharp as knives and no matter how kindly we are to each other, his inclination is to spread them out. Even with a towel wrapped around him, they get loose. Kind of like a person instinctively holds out the hands when losing balance.

I finally gave up, because it seemed to take a lot out of him every time I messed with him. Some days he would hardly even move out of one spot. I just kept feeding him and making sure water was close, and waiting for him to die.

Then last week he started standing up and moving around a bit. Then he started sitting in the door of the pen, soaking up the sun. Then he stood outside the door. I watched this hopefully from the kitchen window. The little hen was getting excited and pecking around, because she doesn't like to run around without the protection of the turkey. She's always trying to call him out and get him to come up to the yard so they can peck bugs and seeds and grass together.

Finally, three days ago, I looked out and he was a couple of feet from the front of the pen. Then, in an exciting rally, he hobbled his way up to the yard, with the chicken clucking, skritching and encouraging him as he made his crooked way onto the grass. I cheered out loud and ran to make sure the water was close to him, but he didn't need my help, anymore. 

He and the chicken have been making happy noises and pecking around, which makes me happy, too. It's a good lesson to me to just hang in there, and don't give up too soon.

A mostly failed outing, a little silver lining

- Grand Central Station, TX -

Last weekend I planned on going to a concert in Lubbock, but the abundance of homeless people, a disappointing hotel, and forgotten tickets left me racing back to the house, driving at night, which I don't like to do. There sure are a lot of cars on US 84.

Amidst all this activity, we found a fantastic shop. Grand Central Station Antiques on Avenue Q had a more sparkling array of everything than I could fit in my eye. There were more than just antiques there and the place was huge and clean. The people were friendly and I just loved it. The prices ran the gamut, so you could buy something very high end, like a pretty crystal punch bowl for $400, or something for the kids, like a little bag of Hot Wheels cars for $8. Go! See!

The censor

-On the list!-

When I was attending school during what would be the final year before the fine architectural building known as Reagan Junior High was razed, to be replaced by the soulless structure now known as Sweetwater Middle School, we had a grand library in which I could hungrily search for the next literary marvel to devour. 

We called the librarian Miss Waller. She could have been a Mrs., but, as an eight-grader, this was not something I pondered. 

Miss Waller had her own way of censoring books in the junior high library, not by omitting them fully, but by taking an ink pen and marking out the unsavory, to her, I suppose, parts. I'm assuming it was a task she took upon herself. I can't imagine this was an order from our stately, elderly principal, Mr. Whittenburg. It was rumored among us children that he had been seen crying on the last day the school was open, when students ran through the halls defacing the walls and tearing open lockers.

In censoring books the way she did, Miss Waller had made her own reading list. The list of books we must read! I only had to pull out a book and see how much ink was in it to know if I wanted to read it. The more ink, the better.

I was a little thrilled to learn that John Irving's The Cider House Rules is on the list of books that might be considered for prohibition in Texas. Whether the list really means anything, or if there's even really a list, is questionable. I've seen reports of the list, but I haven't seen an original document. I suspect that a bland politician is using his non-actionable, highly publicized inquiry as a way of trying to get his face and name on display.

But as for authors, they should only be so lucky as to have made the list! I'm glad one of my favorite writers is being placed in the limelight, once again.

A little bit of ink can go a long way.

The sign of the grasshopper

-Grasshopper-

Grasshoppers have been manically jumping about and covering the yard, making it necessary to put my hands up when I walk outside for fear of having my eye put out. After the little frost we had Saturday morning, I realized I should pay heed to their activity, reading it as a sign of changing weather.

I cleaned out the woodstove flue and stacked some firewood and kindling inside. This might seem ridiculous, as we're still having very warm days, but I looked back to notes from last year and we had a winter storm on Oct. 26, not even two weeks after having a high of 90. In 2019, there was a frost Oct. 12 and freezing drizzle on Nov. 11. 

I was thinking we had another couple of weeks before we had a frost. What good is it to keep notes if I don't refer to them? I've been planting flowers like I was setting up a botanical garden. Maybe subconsciously I knew what the grasshopper flutter was about and I've been giving them something to eat before winter comes.

Following a trail to Mount Zion

- Mount Zion Cemetery-

I decided to follow up on my Nettie West story by taking a trip out to where she was buried, the Mount Zion Cemetery, between Rotan and Hamlin.

Expecting to find something like the Hobbs Cemetery, with a fair amount of graves kept up regularly by caretakers, I was surprised to find a fenced off acre or so with about 25 graves scattered in small groups. It was mowed enough to walk through, the back quarter of it in pasture. The most recent grave I could find was from 2014, a good many being from the early 1900's.

The cemetery is not in ruins, though it looks unfrequented. It is situated on County Road 241, going north off of State Highway 92.

There are discrepancies in the information I've found about Nettie West and her family. The article from The Farm magazine cited Nettie as saying her brother Jim Tazewell died in 1942, but his headstone has 1944 as his year of death. She said she was born in Illinois, but the death certificate information on the Find-a-Grave website says she was born in Texas. The certificate text gives her maiden name was Tazwell, but it was spelled Tazewell on her father's and brothers' grave markers. Genealogical researchers must have headaches all the time from trying to sort out such stuff, just from errors alone.

That same website says that Nettie married Charlie Bailey in 1900, and Johnny West in 1947. 

The site lists 42 memorials for the cemetery. There are graves there marked for the Bates family, Nettie's neighbors who took her to town.

An article about an article: Nettie West

- Nettie West, 1955 -

In an ongoing state of serendipity, I'm always finding interesting items while in the search of others.

I came across an article about Nettie West, a past resident of Fisher County, in a 1955 copy of The Farm, written by R.J. McGinnis, the editor of the magazine at that time.

Mrs. West was 78 when the story was published, she being a country widow living alone. A search on Find-a-Grave shows that she lived to the age of 87.

Her maiden name was Tazewell, born in Illinois; later she was a Bailey, then died as a West. She outlived her father, two husbands and two brothers. There is no mention of children, but at the gravesite, among the Tazewells, is a small stone plaque, engraved with the initials M.J.B.

She mentioned some neighbors, the Bates, who would take her to town, Rotan or Hamlin, to shop and bank.

McGinnis wrote, that in 1953. Nettie benefited from royalties in the best well on the Round Top Field (Palo Pinto) at that time.