Have Cup Will Travel

[TexasShadow]

The little red cup went for a ride on the back of a long legged pony. It wasn't an epic adventure, a wild ride, nor a vision quest. It was merely a break in a busy life, away from city lights and crowded streets, a refresher in what life really is, a glimpse into the past, side glance of the present, and hopeful stare into the future.

But what really is life? Really? It's a toss between anything you want it to be and what is given. I choose to be somewhere in between, more towards the 'want it to be', but happen to closer to the given end these days. But this ride was a token nod that the path is beginning to swing the other way. Slowly, but surely.

So, like the hobos of lore, and the nomad at heart, the little cup was tied to the back bag and along we went for a weekend ride.

Three of us -Ed on his KLR, Bryan on his GS1200, I on the DR- took the low roads, the back roads (if they can be called that), out of the Fort Worth area and headed north. The magnet that seems to be hidden somewhere in the Wise County courthouse and on the town square in Decatur drew us into its comfy quaint squareness for a cuppa Joe. It seems that the waitresses at the Courthouse Cafe know us by now, based on the congenial "Well, how are you doing? Coffee? Be right with you!".

As we sat outside at the rickety green plastic table, sipping cups of coffee (mine with several floating ice cubes ), I flashed on a similar scene more than a decade ago. Sitting on a bench outside a frame shop on Second Street in Corvallis, Oregon, my ex-husband and I nearly collapsed in our seat. The bench was about to disintegrate from wood rot. After arriving home that afternoon, Cleve disappeared into the barn with noisy table saw, drill and planers for the next several hours. I attended to the ranch chores of cleaning the sheep pens and fixing fences.

Just before dark, Cleve hauled out a long reddish-yellow wooden bench exuding that essence of cedar that hangs in the air and tickles the nostrils, pushed it into the bed of the pickup truck and drove away. He didn't say a word about it when he returned much later, nor did I ask. The next morning, we drove into town for that once-in-awhile pancake and sausage breakfast at the local restaurant. After wards we walked with coffee in hand to a familiar bench in front of the frame store, sat and drank our coffee.

Bill, the proprietor of the frame store, opened his shop while we were just about finished with our coffee. He looked at that bench, at us, shook his head and walked back in. He knew where the bench came from. In my living room is a large painting of a wolf that I found on our couch one day after I got home. In the bottom corner was a familiar signature 'B. Shumway'. Next to it was another painting. Nothing said. No need for words. That's how life is in small towns.

As I sat there at the rickety table, our coffee spilling on its surface, I laughed when the idea popped into my head of building them a small wooden table to replace this one. Just bring it in, drop it off and leave. A gesture on how much we appreciate their friendliness and them being there. It's what life is in small towns.

It was a good way to start a weekend.

 

[TexasShadow]

Cemeteries -or graveyards, the term I grew up with- reside in that space between realism and relativism. Death is real -everything dies in one form or another: passes on, changes, what-ever-you-want-to-call-it. But several forms of reality surround death. It can be like a piece of furniture -it is there, it happens to everything, so it's real. Or it can be viewed relatively: taboo, sacred, morbid, violent, sadness, permanent, after-life, the undead, eternal sleep, etc, etc.

There's no denying -to the realist, or the relativist- that death is real. But it is also relative. It is physical as well as social. Because we bestow meaning upon it. And those meanings vary; all over the place.

When people hear that I like to visit cemeteries, I see, and hear, a wide variety of responses. "How morbid!", "Aren't you scared?", "Why on earth would you want to do that?", and "Boring." Well, I say "No" to three of those four. The fourth one, I try to explain that cemeteries are one of the best history books one can find. I get blank stares.

Those that are similarly afflicted with 'cemeteryitis' are familiar with what I mean. Allow me to describe the typical routine: look for the oldest looking headstones to start piecing the puzzle together. Note the grouping of families sharing the same last name, then the dates on the stones to discern the ages. One can almost piece together an abbreviated family history from this.

For example: Mr. and Mrs. Phipps lost three children, two which died at less than one year old and share a headstone. The next headstone I look for is the mother. Did she die in childbirth? (childbirth was probably the biggest killer of women before the mid-1900's) Notice that husband is 'G.K.' and mother/wife is 'Lula S.' That is the converse of another headstone (in another cemetery) denoting the interred as 'Mrs. S.' (in small letters), wife of C. W. Lumsden (in very large letters). What can we infer from the text on headstones?

Much. The prevalence of headstones with death dates in 1919 led me to suspect an epidemic. Sure enough, the Spanish influenza swept Texas, and all of the southwest as well as much of the world, in 1919. That was on the heels of dengue fever viruse and cholera in many Texas towns. The most susceptible population to any epidemic are children, especially infants, and the elderly.

If one is observant enough, you might notice that two headstones often accompany that of a man who lived a relatively long life (keep in mind that longevity then was shorter for men than it is now, whereas women outlived men by sometimes decades if they didn't die in childbirth) and bear the names of women and status, 'wife'. If a husband lost his wife to childbirth, and had surviving children, they remarried. Sometimes more than once. I recall seeing a husband with two wives lost to childbirth and a surviving wife (even outlived her husband), with six gravestones of children distributed amongst his three wives.

So, you see, headstones can reveal much about the past, even our past. Although we don't know the people who lived and died there, they lived at a time when our predecessors did: your parents, grandparents, great to-the-umteenth parents, etc. Although these people lived in a small community, many of them came from other places, and some of their descendants went to other places. (what about all those headstones that state their origins were in Tennessee?) It's really uncanny when you find a headstone with your name on it. But that's for later.

What I'm trying to portray is a demonstration of network: we're all connected somehow: the past, present and future. That Seven Degrees of Separation. History then is history now. Visiting and reading the history engraved in these headstone is getting to know the people that lived, worked, fought, played, and died there. It forms a community. These are the Ghosts, the voices of the past, their present, our future.

So, on with the Cup's story.

Greenwood

One place I had not yet experienced was Greenwood. All the times I've ridden or driven by signs on the highways with that arrow pointing somewhere after the name 'Greenwood', I decided I wanted to visit. And it only had one paved road. Now, that can't be a bad thing at all, can it?

After leaving Decatur, we found Old Greenwood Rd. And I smiled. It was gravel. This was to be the test ride on the DR350, the new old boy in the stable, the pony with long legs and lots of spirit.

I spent the first several miles feeling like I was on a first date: that awkward getting-to-know each other time, feeling what will work and what won't, testing the gravel (no waters there), gradually getting aggressive, backing off at unexpected responses. It was love at first ride.

I don't even recall the scenery we passed as we rode to Greenwood. I was 'busy'. In a good way. We were bonding, the DR and I. Then rounding a corner, the tall grass alongside the road opened up to an intersection of a paved road and two gravel roads, giant pecan trees that soothed us with immense shade, and a wood-faced store with a porch and three locals sitting on a bench.

I was immediately intrigued. Some places just pull you in and you have to stop. But we had a mission that prevented us from doing that. We rounded a turn, onto another gravel road, and headed south to meet up with the fourth member of our day ride: Don, on his DR650. We were about to turn into another corner and there was Don going the opposite way. A quick nod behind him meant we'll meet up at the Greenwood Cemetery, and he fell in behind us.

After the usually rider greetings, we ungeared and browsed the stones. Here was the typical scenario that can be seen in many around that time.

Greenwood may be a ghost town, but farmers and ranchers still live in its midst. So amongst the old can be found the new.

Most of the cemeteries in Texas, at least in this part of the state, oblige visitors with facilities, that old relic of the past: the outhouse. They vary from plain, as you see here, to colorful, as you will see later.

Of course, I tested this one out.

One oddity that intrigues me is the occasional (some cemeteries it is more than occasional) fence around one or more headstones.

I've pondered the possible reasons people erect these, and I can list them, but my ponderings may bore most readers. I don't think that there is one explanation. And if there is, I can bet there's a deeper myriad of thinking underneath it. Regardless, I'll spare readers here that part of the story.

Now, this was precious. It spoke much about who the person was and those that knew him.

The sun was high and the cool air of the morning gave way to the familiar heat. I took the opportunity to pull off the motocross mesh pants, the thin pants underneath and down to bike shorts. My usual riding gear for summer, even commuting. They got more dirty this weekend ride than they did all week in Tennessee.

Don decided to rest in the shade for a bit.

On the way back to the bikes, I noticed we were being watched and guarded.

I tried to take a photo of the DR on its first date. I quickly discovered that my new mesh dayglo jacket (the previous one was stolen) blinds my internal meter. So I learned how to fool the meter. And anyone that knows me, or rides with me, also knows that my bikes are holders. I hang everything on them. Why not?

At the question "Where to next?", there was no question about the answer: "Let's go back to the store in Greenwood!"

That was the beginning, the middle, and the end of our weekend. With riding and camping stories in between. Greenwood has become a favorite place on my list. And we are even invited to be in their parade!

More later........Red River mysteries, coyotes in the grasslands, and fire in the pines

 

[jhansen]

or

always enjoy reading these....

 

[8wheels]

Love the 'little red cup' as talisman and the depth of your writing. And you can mend fences too!

 

[jsb223]

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper patterns at the right moment."

Hart Crane, American Poet (1899-1932)

 

[TexasShadow]

“No matter where you go, there you are.”​

As a nomad at heart (and nomadic thinker), I am usually comfortable everywhere. Yet, like the Thingness of Things, everywhere exists in many dynamic layers that change in space and time. Despite that I was born in a city and grew up in the pre-burbs (pre-modern suburb; I’m dating myself….), I never felt that I belonged in or even near a city. In fact, I ‘ran away’ from our home in the city when I was five years old (another story involving a naked 5-year old running down the neighborhood street).

In the ever-changing world of Trade Offs, when I was nine our family moved to an in-between place: partly rural, partly urban, one side of the road one school district and town, the other side another district and town, one side of the road pastures and woods, the other side houses and houses. I was lucky to live next to the pastures and woods. Regardless, I felt I never really ‘belonged’ there, or even near there. For me, there was ‘nowhere’.

After graduating from high school at the ripe young age of 17, I fled to the woods of Maine. There I felt I was ‘home’. And it became my Home for 14 years. Since then, I’ve had several Homes, and a few ‘homes’ (where I lived but never belonged, or felt at Home).

So why all this introduction? What is Home? Greenwood felt like my kind of home, without even living there. Like it could be my Home. One of my many Homes. And here’s why.

Greenwood

I think readers may know, or be acquainted with, that ‘home-town’ feeling. The phrase is self-explanatory; it is a place where you feel comfortable, where you can relax and shed worries, sorrows, anything that burdens you. It’s like that yummy feeling in your stomach after drinking a mug of warm milk (or another liquid that soothes you). Or sitting in your favorite comfy chair or couch. You settle in, relax, shed burdens and feel good inside.

Everyone has their own perspectives and expectations of ‘home-towns’. But they don’t necessarily have to be where you were born or grew up. Greenwood seemed to impart that yummy feeling in the pit of my stomach. And it reminded me I was hungry.

As we rode our bikes into the midst of the crossing of gravel and one paved road, it was as if we were riding our trusty horses in to town, all of us, and the bikes, covered in dust, grime, horse poop, and chewing tobacco. I could almost hear the screen door slap in the wind. And town’s folk whispering behind their hands, while children huddled behind their legs for safety. While my horse made bellowing noises.

Back into reality, or the reality of the moment, I noted to myself that this exhaust is really too loud for my liking. Like a donkey that bellows all day, or a dog that howls all night, even with the clutch pulled in my wild pony grumbles loudly. I’m going to have to tame its loud laughter.

The town store –aka gas station, grill, general store, meeting place- greets the locals and passers-through. Something about the colors –the green that blends in with the nearby immense canopies of pecan and oak trees- and the wooden plank siding fits the bill of a comfy chair. Only one person remained sitting on the bench; wearing a straw hat and denim coveralls. It reminded me of the porch at the Starlight and Terlingua Trading Post, perhaps its northern cousin.

We pulled in under a metal canopy across from the store and in the shade. This seemed like the community meeting place for large numbers of attendees. Such structures seem lost and forlorn without the buzz of people underneath their roofs. But for now, it offered us shade and we were thankful for that.

Next to the canopy stands another interesting building. The sign on the front façade suggests that it contains a museum: Urquhart Museum. Strange name that. I can’t even pronounce it, and I’m curious on what it is, its origins and what it means.

Fittingly, in front of the museum building is a Texas historical marker relating the town’s early history. Next to the marker is what I presumed to be the remains of the well mentioned in the text. I suspect it has been renovated several times, and, like most primitive wells, it was capped tightly. That’s to prevent overly curious people, or the local dog (like mine did once), from accidentally falling in.

We all took a respite from the dust and heat by sitting on the bench, sipping a cold drink; a few of us, of course, found ice cream inside. When I entered to find a cold drink, I found to my surprise, half a dozen or so homemade pies in the cooler. Wow; I wonder where those will end up.

Behind the counter were two women grilling hamburgers and sandwiches; the odor of grilled burgers competed with the ice cream, but I bet you can guess which won. When I mentioned my find to the woman that took my cash, she commented that a woman in town bakes them for the store. I nodded my approval, thinking, ‘I wonder if I should share this find with other members on TWT…..’

As I resat myself down on my bench space outside, I glanced over to see the gentlemen in the straw hat had also returned to his bench space. I decided to make the first move; “Hi there! Nice day, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

Pleasantries out of the way, we decided to share names. Thus the boundaries were dispelled and Dale walked over to chat with us. While chatting, I noticed a small wooden statue in his hand and realized he was carving it. Looking up, I also noticed a carving in his hat band. A wood carver’s signature:

Dale is happy to chat. We learned that the museum is open once in awhile. The woman that runs it lives in Fort Worth, but grew up in Greenwood. Every Saturday night is a Fish Fry at the store; good fish, lots of good people, and good pickin’ and grinnin’ And, one weekend every fall, Greenwood turns into a festival in the streets: the October Fest. Complete with parade.

“We like parades. Why don’t you come and be in our parade? We’d be happy to have you folks in our parade.”

“Well, how many of us can we bring?”

“Oh, not too many.”

“About six or eight of us and our bikes?”

“Heck, bring six, or sixteen! Just not 50.”

“Really?”

“Yup. We like everything in our parades. You make sure you come. And you’ll get fed, too. And there’ll be music!”

“Okay!!! We’ll be here!”

Suddenly, I heard a motorcycle. Anyone who rides a bike, knows the sound of other bikes. It’s like a bird hearing another of its species from miles away. I walked into the street, looking towards the sound, and I saw two pairs of headlights. The bike stopped, turned, stopped and returned. Soon it headed our way.

As I sat back down on the bench, we all waved at the rider as he went by. His helmet glanced to the right and saw four other bikes and I heard brakes squeak. The rider stopped the bike and pulled in alongside ours underneath the canopy.

We met another GS rider from Fort Worth out for a country ride. We chatted for a bit, while Bryan was excited to find a fellow GS rider. They exchanged species chat (that type of bird calling between birds of the same species) and contact info for future rides together. He went on his way, and we paid our good byes to Dale before wandering over to the bikes to gear up. It’s time to hit the trail again, horses.

Geared up and refreshed we hit the trails –er, roads- north to parts unknown. Well, known to some, unknown to others.

I had a funny feeling as I left Greenwood proper that I would be back. I just didn’t know then how many times that would be within the next 36 hours. I guess it was that ‘home magnet’ calling. Another home to add to my list.

Next: High prairies and the KKK

 

[TexasShadow]

You know you are in a small town when you can drive, or ride, anything to the local general store for a burger or ice cream.

 

[TexasShadow]

We charted a course north, into the unknown. Well, partly. A place I wanted to share with the others was one where I had been before. Another ghost town: Hood. I don't know why I like ghost towns. Maybe because they seem to have more character than most other towns. Maybe because they are full of 'ghosts' and to really learn about the town requires immersing oneself. Which requires a basic degree of receptivity and interest.

I had passed through Hood last year on the Sherpa while trying to follow the Butterfield Trail through the northern half (quarter?) of Texas. 'Try' is putting it mildly. Hardly any traces of the Trail remain, but if one is diligent enough, small pieces can be found. Trying to string the pieces together is the real challenge.

A box of jumbled 'facts' allowed me to trace a hypothesized line of the trail. Let's make that plural: trails. It did change a few times, and in several places. From Gainsville to a station near Jackboro, the trail is uncertain. I did know of a station that was kept by two men -Ball and Connelly- and called the Connelly Station. It was purportedly somewhere between two creeks and in the northwest corner of the LBJ Grasslands. Another station was near the now small town of Sunset.

Regardless, two gravel county roads probably follow (for a distance) the old Butterfield Trail. One of those county roads gradually ascends a high plateau which is now covered with grasslands, mostly pasture and hay fields. Cotton was probably grown there, or attempted, at some time earlier. It seems that most of Texas was cottonized for a duration of its history. It was probably grown there, too.

Approaching the crest of the high plain, one is struck as if by lightening by the openness. Only a gently curved horizon and the big sky dominates the landscape. Some people don't feel comfortable in such open places, many think it is too flat -no punctuations of tall tress, giant structures, pointy church needles, the usual tall things that break up the horizon. But I like it. There, you feel like one of the ants that happen to be there. Maybe I don't mind being dominated by wide open country. I really don't know. But I sure do like it there.

The population is barely over 25, if that at all. One common building remains as the community meeting center. And, like any present and former place occupied by humans, it has a cemetery.

We tried to avoid riding on tarmac as much as we could on this venture. We pretty much did, except for a few miles here and there. Which was good for me, because the DR is geared low; it doesn't like going at highway speed and I don't either. Besides, sometimes you just don't want to see any tarmac and all its modern accouterments. So we entered the little ghost town of Hood by way of winding gravel.

I knew where the cemetery was, so we headed there and parked the bikes in a row like horses lined up at the hitching post. One curiosity that I wanted to show the others was the large headstone of Mr. Davidson, who was proudly buried with the insignia of the KKK.

We noticed that one or two other Davidson's were buried in the cemetery, but far away from Mr. KKK. I wondered if B.C. Davidson's public affiliation with the non-politically correct organization embarrassed other family members and wished to maintain their distance. Even in death.

A common tribute to another organization is predominate in Texas: Woodsman of the World. Thus far, I've noted three patterns, or molds, of headstones. Considering the time period of many of the deceased, it appears that the headstones may have either originated from the same carving outfit, or members are limited to only a few styles of headstones, if they wish to die with their public affiliation to the WoW. The commonalities are: they are tall, they are carved to resemble a tree or log.

Someday I will find the history of this organization. I'm curious what they are, or were, and what their common philosophy is (or was).

It was time to gear up and wander further north, this time near the Red River to explore two areas that captured my attention some time ago.

 

[RedPill]

What was your route from Decatur to Greenwood?

 

[ed29]

Old Greenwood Rd. It branches off of Cemetery Rd. just north of 380. Be advised it turns from pavement to gravel on the way.

 

[RedPill]

Thanks, Ed.

 

[TexasShadow]

We left Hood and headed north on gravel. A short run on tarmac led us to Hwy 82 and east of Munster. By that time, we where hungry.

Riding off tarmac is not a passive activity: slide forward, squeeze the tank between the knees, push down on the inside peg, and roll the throttle open. Scoot back on the seat, point elbows out, lower your center of gravity and let the front end wiggle underneath you while your arms go along for the ride as a gentle guide. And roll the throttle open. Gettin' jiggy with it now.

At some point that morning I realized I was leaking. A tell-tale stain down the forks suggested leaky seals. A wet low back and butt did more than suggest a leaking CamelBack. Mental note: I'll be doing forks soon but the CamelBack can wait.

On the way to Decatur that morning, the DR was up to its tricks of coughing, sputtering, and skipping. Every stop -red light, stop sign- was a fight of not letting it die once I rolled on the throttle to take off. A bit of coaxing was required with short throttle chops and a few expletives.

In Decatur we tried a quick fix of increasing the idle, which resolved the stopping at the gate issue. But it still had emphasema. I think we need some quality carb time. Like changing diapers, cleaning the carb just has to be done sometimes.

Otherwise, the DR handled like a well-sprung young pony. It's a prancer, a racer, a crawler and a gravel-spitter. It stole my heart. Not as lithe and nimble as my favorite Sherpie girl, but the DR outperform on torque, handling off-road terrain (what gravel? I didn't feel any.), and suspension. We -the engine, suspension, growl and those high-heeled tires- we bonded that day.

"Baby, let's go for a ride." Vroooooommmmm................

After a welcomed lunch we gassed up and searched for more gravel, heading north again. We passed cows, horses, goats, sheep, Texas 'grasshoppers' and Texas 'flowers', and perfectly cylindrical bales of hay. We found a back road that wound through tall overhanging trees, rode over creeks and passed humble farm houses.

Don led the way since he has explored this territory before on his DR. We pulled off the gravel onto two-track where a large structure loomed. We dubbed it 'Alcoa' because it is nearly entirely made of aluminium: siding, roof, window casing, doors. Even the propane tank is painted with aluminum.

We surmised that it had once been a church, a school, a meeting 'house', and some type of a lodge. Our hunch was confirmed later by a local, who also added that it was, and is, the Masonic Lodge upstairs.

We geared up again and continued down the two track which became more narrow as we went along. We passed a small cemetery which has been neglected; grass was as high as the stones. We stopped at the Marysville cemetery and parked underneath a large tree for shade. (we seemed to zero in quickly on shade when it was available)

Marysville is another ghost town. It suffered the same fate as several communities in the area when most of the land -farmers land, town land, public land- was absconded by public domain to become a military training camp. All of that land -59,000 acres- shortly became a POW camp for Germans. "Sorry, you have to drop your lives and everything you have invested in it and leave." But that is all another story for another time (after we visit again).

We wandered around again, revisiting history and events during those days.

A familiar pattern finally captured me and I asked about why people put up fences around grave sites. I can't quite figure that one out. Some are quite ornate, others look like a concentration camp. Are they afraid the deceased are going to get up and leave? Is it a territorial thing? I still scratch my head on that one.

We found another Woodsmen of the World, one of the three most common styles. Even Bryan was interested in this now.

Matilda is the oldest born that we found in all the cemeteries that weekend: 1804. And she almost lived to 80 years old.

While the fellas were sitting underneath a large tree, I was drawn to an image, a type of ironic symbol in a cemetery.

A tree in its death throes.

On our way out, we found the namesake of Montague County: Daniel Montague. He was the primary surveyor in that area, and, back in those days, the surveyors had first pick of land tracts and were often paid in land.

And here are the two brothers: DR 350 and 650.

Geared up and ready to go, we were on a quest of sorts for a place (yes, another ghost town) called Sivell's Bend near the Red River.

 

[TexasShadow]

After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing, we wound our way east on gravel roads, through pasture land, prairies, over creeks and lots of grasslands. Finally we found ourselves on a ridge overlooking the river and I still kick myself for not stopping to take a few photos. The views were awesome.

Our goal -although that was secondary to riding- was to see if we could find the two places on bend where the Chisholm Trail crossed. I had information that the trail had crossed NW of Gainesvilled near the mouth of Fish Creek. Apparently the river reared its dragon head and the trail was changed to the western edge of the bend. From the topo maps, I think I can pick out the general area. But it would be fun to try to find it.

What we did find was, you can't get there from here. Our county road dead ended. Or so we thought. The old bridge across a wide and deep creek had deteriorated and was blocked. No going across on the bikes, but we did on foot.

Then we saw below how the county and locals dealt with a decaying bridge; build below it. By dumping tons of gravel. The road on the other side looked inviting. But how to get there.

Well, simple enough. You open the gate and ride through it. Which Ed did.

We decided to place further exploration of this road on hold until the next time. Because right now, we were running short on that commodity. We marked this and decided to revisit it next time. Now it was on to Sivell's Bend.

Which we found. Another ghost town, but more active than the previous ones. The school was good sized for a ghost town. And that is all we saw there. But then, we decided we needed to head back and find a camp site. So again, further explorations were placed on hold for next time.

And south we went. This time, in the name of hurry, we split the ride between 25% tarmac, and the rest gravel. In fact, we pretty much followed our route north, except this time the other direction.

Don split off to head home and we we veered west and south. Where should we end up? Why, Greenwood!!!

This time, the little quiet town was alive and buzzing. Like Pavlov's dog, I smelled frying fish and began to salivate. Ed and Bryan pulled over near the shed to check the maps and I ungeared, heading for the food and buzz at the General Store.

It didn't take much to convince the guys we should eat here. Inside were couples and kids of all ages sitting at tables eating, chatting, laughing. It was homey. In the corner was a seated musical round. Four guitars, one bass, two mandolins, one violin and the all played like they do it every day. I think the lady on the mandolin was no younger than 75, the violin player in early 70's, and one of the guitarists in his late 30's. The others were in between somewhere.

It was great. Here was Dale's pickin' and a grinnin'. I was thrown back decades to rural Maine, and I loved it. What a great community. The fish and coleslaw were great, the hush puppies the best I've ever eaten (I don't normally like them at all), and the beans were yummy good. I saw pieces of pie floating around, but I was too full for any. I opted for an ice cream.

Camping in the Grasslands

After some time enjoying the entire scene, the setting sun inspired us to move on and find a camp site before dark descended.

We rode up to a small camp ground on a hill in the grasslands; empty. We had it all to ourselves. I found a clear spot yet still nestled under tall trees. A good spot to view the moon and stars while catching a breeze.

We barely got our tents and bags set up before the thickness of dark. It felt like a nice cool blanket and we adjourned to a table to relax and shoot the breeze. It was quiet and lovely.

Then time to drop off into dream land.

Goodnight moon.

Goodnight little red cup.

 

[swaanimal]

Please tell me somebody has a GPS file of your meanderings.

 

[jhansen]

Did a little search on the woodsmen and found this

http://www.nativetreesociety.org/musings/tombstones/tombstones.htm

gotta be a start for you to look for more.

I always in enjoy your stories.

 

[Tourmeister]

I have "Cemeteryitis" as well. By the way, the Garmin TOPO maps show little blue does for all the cemeteries, even little teeny tiny family cemeteries. I have often "connected the dots" to make DS rides in East Texas. Like you, I enjoy checking out the head stones and piecing together clues about the lives of the people. When we were trying to decide on names for the kids I checked what names were on the stones. It is interesting how different names are real popular at different times. There are also many graves of soldiers from the War of 1812 and the Civil War. The yellow fever killed a LOT of people in this area as well. There is a local cemetery just West of Huntsville with a grave of a Methodist circuit riding pastor. He lived during the time of the American Revolution. I think he was born around 1750 and died sometime in the early 1800's, but I can't recall the exact dates. It is Martha Chapel Cemetery, just SW of town off Bowden Rd. Supposedly haunted Irondawg and I were out there around midnight a few years back, no big deal and nothing happened.

There is something peaceful about cemeteries for me. I don't find them scary. They draw out the reflective side of me for sure. I've encountered some interesting people in them also. One was an elderly woman, somewhere in her 90's, there with her daughter, grand daughter and great grand daughter to visit the grave of her husband. That little lady like to tell stories!! Had it not been such a hot day, I would have let her go on for a long time, hehe. Often times, a local may appear to inquire as to my presence. Once they realize I am not malicious, they usually start sharing info about the people and the area. I've hear stories about family feuds, people being denied a plot in the cemetery and then having graves just outside the fence of the official place, blacks buried outside the white area, etc,... In once poor cemetery, the "head stones" were anything but head stones. They were any kind of unique item that could be found to serve as a marker. One was some kind of small axle with a rusted gear stuck on the end of it. Some were oddly shaped natural stones. Some were rotting and hand made from local tree branches. All interesting stuff...

Here is the info on the Woodmen of the World: Grave Markers

 

[TexasShadow]

I don't have a GPS file, but I can do a Google map track. I think

I'll finish Day 2 this weekend. Just returned from a OK/AR trip.

 

[TexasShadow]

My Internet access at home is defunct for the time being, so I'll have to finish this in bits and pieces when I can steal time at work.

We all woke up with the sun. Peeking over the hill, it sprinkled us with early morning rays. But it took some time for the shadows to relent and disappear.

The night had a wonderful coolness that left a blanket of dew on everything. But as the sun drove the shadows away, we could tell it was going to be a hot day. Before the shadows had all run off and hid, horse trailers began pulling in behind trucks. Smart riders trying to grab a ride in the cool morning before the sun's force cranked up the heat. This fella was anxiously watching his rider traipse a few hundred feet to use the restroom.

We had a good breakfast with all the 'fixings': coffee with cream, reconstituted dehydrated scrambled eggs with bacon (Mountain House), oatmeal with cranberries, and more coffee. This was the first time I had used both my origami plate and the bowl. I love these things! They pack flat and compact, clean with ease and quick to assemble/disassemble. I was impressed at how delicious the dehydrated eggs and bacon were. A visit to Mountain House (subsidiary of Oregon Freezedry) in Albany, OR, is planned while I'm there next year.

More to come....​

 

[TexasShadow]

It was a beautiful morning on the grasslands. The area is a patchwork quilt of gravel roads intersecting large tracts of grass, patches of thick trees representing the cross-timbers, creeks and small reservoirs, humble ranches and long-lost communities. Current grass species don't fully represent those that dominated before pioneer settlement carved the soil for crops and introduced other grass species. Now it is a mixture of eastern, western and plains grass species.

Thick and sometimes very dense patches of gnarled trees represent the Cross-timbers ecosystem: the frontier between the eastern deciduous forest and the grasslands of the southern Great Plains. Due to overgrazing and intense cotton cropping in the late 1800's-early 1900's, weed species have encroached; especially junipers and mesquite. Normally such invasive species are checked by natural burns (usually from lightening strikes in dry duff). Now, the consortium of participating overseers (federal, state, local and non-profit organizations) occasionally utilize a practice of the native Americans: prescribed burns. We found an area later that day.

While enjoying the morning campside with coffee, four trailers had rolled in and unloaded horses catching an early morning cool ride. The gathering hole never fails to attract no matter the setting.

Packing up camp gear and loading the bikes, it was time to continue on. This time just the three of us. One place I had wanted to visit was Ball Knob Cemetery. Here was a connection with the Butterfield Stage Trail of the mid-1800's. Interred there were members of the two families that had built and managed a stage stop in the immediate area: the Connely Station. This station was in between the Davidson stop (in Montague Co.) and the Earhart station (Jack County; now on private property and which we visited).

Here are buried the Connely father and son, along with other family members. Interestingly, several spelling variations of their surname exist: in county and census records, Butterfield stage trail historical records, and even on the headstones. But then, what's in a name?.......

The stage stop was managed by Connely Jr. (under the prone headstone) and one of the Ball brothers. From piecing together records and personal documents, I learned that one of the Ball boys and Connely Jr were boyhood buddies. One source briefly claims that the Ball and Connely families adventured and settled into the Wise County area together. And, as legends go, one of the offsprings from each family married, permanently joining the two families in their descendants. After the Butterfield stages were long gone, Connely and Ball built and managed a large cotton gin for the area. Ball Sr. dedicated a tract of his land for a cemetery, in which his wife was laid to rest. But he himself was laid to rest in another tract of land which he dedicated and deeded to the town of Decatur: the cemetery outside of town.

Ormsby, one of the first stage customers that navigated the entire route from St. Louis to California (the only one to really complete the entire trip on the first run), relates his meal at the Connely station one morning in 1858:

"The station was a log house, haphazardly thrown together. Inside the twenty square-foot structure, the travelers were met by two men living a grubby bachelor's existence. The coach arrival was unexpected, and the men scrambled to get breakfast ready.

When the food came, it was served on the bottom of a candle box. The little breakfast club seated themselves on upside-down pails. There were no plates, only tin cups for coffee, and not even a suggestion of milk or sugar. The only "edible" was a short cake, baked on coals. Each man broke off a piece and smothered it with butter using their pocket knives. . . To add to the ambience, the host reminded them to 'hurry up before the chickens eat it.'"

Somewhere, within the LBJ Grasslands preserve and near the town of Sunset, was the Connely Butterfield Stage Station. Near the ghostly remains of the town of Hood, on top of that beautiful prairie, a stage coach ran with a team of mules on its way to the Connely's. If you stand quietly, you can almost hear and see them. Their ruts have been replaced by gravel, but the trails remain the same. A trip through time.

Next: I'm buried here?

 

[TexasShadow]

Interlude: I still have no internet at home. I steal bits of bytes when I can.

Still strolling around Ball Knob Cemetery and I catch a glimpse of myself. Well, sort of. I mean, I know I'm still breathing and standing, but then maybe I'm a ghost after all. I've been called worse. But what catches me is that there was an "Elzie" here back in the early 1900's. Even though she was hardly a year old.

And then I realize I'm projecting: how do I know this person was a girl? 'Elzi' is a male's name in the Ukraine, female's name in Germany. Regardless, it is rare to see the name. But then, what's in a name?

I see the attendant cemetery outhouse here as well. This one is colorful! And then the discourse starts.

A solid concrete block house with graffiti on its whitewash. A response from one of our group was critical and negative: "It's vandalism."

"I don't think so. It's graffiti, yes. But 'graffiti' does not equate with 'vandalism'. Graffiti is public art. Vandalism is destruction and/or desecration of personal property. I don't consider that either of those."

The paint was not new, nor was this cemetery neglected. In fact, a woman was lovingly taking care of her husbands burial place while we were there. If the graffiti was deemed objectionable, it would have been painted over in a hurry.

We agreed to disagree. But I pushed the other rider out of his box a little bit to see graffiti from another perspective than just quick judgment and condemnation. I played Devil's Advocate.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Art is in the eye of both the creator and the beholder. Graffiti is Writing on the Walls. It is a form of expression. Even if we object with that which is expressed, do we still have that freedom to express ourselves? Or do we allow ourselves to be repressed by convention to the point that we are all homogeneous, creating only that which is socially acceptable by all, such as a culturally constructed mural with angels and halo? After all, Jesus does love you.

After gearing up, we rode on to find The Pines. The grasslands is home to two groves of pine trees. These are special to me; I love pine trees. They are more than just trees; they contain associations and memories of decades spent in Maine. Their smell fills my nostrils with an aroma of years and a chapter of my younger life, a simpler life. They make me smile. This time, I was saddened.

We pulled off the gravel road and breached that red sand that before had been red mud. My first time here was riding the Sherpa. All the others rode through the mud. I took the high trail; the dry trail (my pragmatic mind asked 'Why ride through the mud and get splattered and caked when it can be avoided by riding to the higher side?'). Their bikes were caked with red mud and dried covered with red mud. The Sherpa was clean and smiling.

This time, I rode on the sand with the DR. And was tickled at how easy it was. Considering my last ride in sand (in Big Bend), Lizard Brain began its "No, No, No!!!" dance inside my head, but I told it to shut up. Granted, the trail was only about maybe 100 feet long, but the DR didn't even notice the dry liquid (for you fysicks nerds, yes, sand exhibits properties of water, so think of it as 'dry water'). I even executed a beautiful U-turn at the end. I smiled big.

A wire fence blocked our path into the pine barren, but that didn't stop us. It was erected to block vehicular traffic from the equestrian trails that meander through the area. Rounding the bend, we noticed several things different from our visit earlier this year.

Water level in the small pond was very low.

And fire had ravaged the area.

Bryan walked deep into the barren and reported back that the damage went far back into the barren. Whereas the immediate area around the pond was green and untouched by fire. We speculated if this was an accidentally ignited fire (cigarette? campfire?) or if it was a prescribed burn. I still don't know.

If you ever look at pine trees closely, you might see that they are like reptiles: they have scales. Well, the bark is thick scales that protect the heartwood. They have some insulating properties and most adult pine tree species can withstand a degree of intense heat, including fires. The real damage is to the leaves; the pine needles. This reduces their photosynthetic capacity (which are part of the plants' machinery to convert sunlight, water and soil nutrients to food). This can be a bad thing, or a not so bad thing. It depends on how stressed they are during recovery. Right now, with all the rain and cooler temps, they probably have a good chance at recovery.

I think I'll go back to visit periodically to check on my friends' recovery.

Next: The circle remains unbroken......

 

[TexasShadow]

Circles

You might recall the references to Greenwood throughout this thread. We seemed to return there, intentionally and unintentionally. I still don't know why, but the small sleepy shady town seems to have a magnet hidden there. We were drawn back again.

It was the tail end of our weekend jaunt away from busy life. We knew we had to head back soon. I think that tended to instill a quiet lassitude in the three amigos (one amiga). It was hot; we wanted some shade, lunch and relaxation. So we rode more gravel roads, bridges and dust.....

.....and realized we were full circle.

There was the pavilion, the store, and the magnificent hanging canopies of the sleepy little town of Greenwood. And no sign of life, not even a lay sleeping dog.

We parked the bikes under the shade provided by one of the giant trees in the town park.

Seeing a picnic table by the creek, we decided to have lunch; in style!

While Ed and Bryan chatted and relaxed, I got up to investigate a subtle noise that went 'thump, thump, thump'. It was rhythmic and sounded like a machine, but no one could recognize what it was. I went to find out.

Waaaaaaaay back in a field, behind trees, was an old old Texas grasshopper: an oil rig running on an old old gas engine and belt driven.

Meanwhile, Ed had conjured up his new camping grill outfit. After getting the coals hot in the fold-up fire bowl, and setting up the fold-up grill, yummy brauts were grilling on top.

We ate our brauts (they were delicious!!) and then cleaned up. Here's the portable grill cleaned up and ready for packing.

 

[TexasShadow]

And so the end is here. The DR and I bonded; he's like a new lover. We are going to do just fine together. A bit more tinkering (carb work is first) and I can't wait to go on more adventures with it. Like back up to Red River area and more exploring those back roads. Then Big Bend in a few months.

Meanwhile, the little red cup found new friends: pistachios. It's happy, too.

The End

 

[Janet]