Picacho Pass

Some folks in the New Mexico Territory (which included the now-states of New Mexico and Arizona) felt that they were treated like step-children to the other parts of the United States.  When the Civil War broke out, naturally these dudes wanted to join the Confederate States of America.  They had a plan to enlist southern Californians to join up with the Confederacy thereby giving Jefferson Davis ports on the west coast to land in and occupy.  Pretty good idea, huh?

Problem was, there were already Union troops in California.  It was these guys that came into the Territory from the west searching for the rebels that operated out of Tucson.  About 50 miles northwest of Tucson, around Picacho Peak, the Yanks and the Rebs met up.

Twelve Union cavalry and one loyal scout from Tucson under the command of Lt. James Barrett were wandering the countryside looking for the Rebels.  Sergeant Henry Holmes commanded those Rebs; they were known as the Arizona Raiders. 

Barrett's orders were to not fire on Confederates, but to wait for reinforcements.  Disregarding his orders (who's the rebel now!), Barrett engaged Johnny Reb.  Over the next hour and a half, Barrett not only managed to get a few of his men killed, but got himself killed, too.  The battle was mostly a draw.

The Californians retreated to some Pima Indian villages, and the Arizona Rangers rushed back to Tucson to warn of the Union incursion.  Because no Confederate reinforcements were sent by Jeff Davis, Union troops later rode calmly into Tucson and occupied the town.

Civil War battles were also fought in Dragoon Springs, Stanwix Station, and Apache Pass.  These locations, including Picacho Pass, were all re-mount stations on the Butterfield Stagecoach route and Butterfield was obliged to stop its service when the Civil War began because of the increased danger.

Civil War re-enactors (the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys) gather on the anniversaries of these battles and replay the events.  Seems there are more re-enactors than there were original participants!  Silly boys.

Union Lieutenant Barrett's grave can still be found out there today, undisturbed and unmarked.  And time marches on.

Arizona at Last!

Arizona became the 48th state (and the last of the 48 contiguous states) to join the United States on February 14, 1912 (Valentine's Day!)  That year, an earthquake caused a 50 mile crack in the San Francisco Range, but earthquakes aren't as frequent or generally as damaging as California earthquakes.

You can see from this picture I took at the Arizona welcome center/rest area that it's divided into several distinct regions.  Ultimately we will end up in the River Country on the edge of California.

Eighty years BEFORE the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock the Spanish Conquistadors "landed" in  the Arizona River Country.  They came via the Gulf of Mexico.  Marcos de Niza met up with the Sobaipuri Indians (sigh, to be politically correct I should say Native Americans...) in 1539, and Coronado (probably a more familiar name to you) came the next year in search of Cibola (the Seven Cities of Gold).  He and his men hung around for a couple of years, but finally admitted that Cibola was a myth and high-tailed (or rather high-sailed it) home to Spain.  Over a hundred years later, in the 1690's and on into the 1700's, the Spanish Society of Jesus sent folks over with an eye to converting the locals to Christianity.  In 1752, Spain sent some dudes over to build a presidio, or fortified town, at Tubac.  Then, the year before Americans on the east coast began their fight for independence from England, the Spanish built another presidio in Tucson.  About fifty years after that, Mexico won its independence from Spain, and this area became Nueva California, a Mexican territory.

In the Mexican-American War, after the United States occupied Mexico City...  (Hmmm.  If we had kept Mexico City back then we wouldn't have to worry about legalizing all the illegal aliens because they would already be Americans!)  As I was saying, though, after the U.S. occupied Mexico City and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was signed in 1848, the U.S. owned much of what was then northern Mexico. From a portion of this acquisition, the New Mexico Territory was formed which included what is now the state of Arizona.  Unfortunately, just a few years later, in 1861, the southern parts of the New Mexico Territory seceded from the Union and joined the Confederacy.  We all know how well that worked out...  In 1863, the United States Congress passed a bill designating the western portion of the New Mexico Territory to be known as the "Arizona Territory."  When Lincoln signed that bill into law, the name Arizona became official and permanent.

The Battle of Picacho Pass in what is now the state of Arizona has the distinction of being the location of the western-most battle of the Civil War.

New Mexico's Flowering Landscape

Here it is, August, the hottest month of the year in America's desert southwest.  But it is also monsoon season.  Sometimes that means an occasional rain shower, but this year it means lots of rain. Rain means fields of wildflowers, green vegetation, and flowering bushes.

I can't wait until we get to Arizona and get to see the Saguaro cactus though.  I first saw them the summer I turned five years old.  Talk about "don't touch"!  To see an entire landscape filled with those giant phenomenon!  Nope, I can't wait!

The Mission Church of San Jose de la Laguna

Finished in 1699, the Spanish mission church of San Jose de la Laguna was built to minister to the Laguna Native American people.  This tribe still exists today, numbering about 7,000 members.  Kawaik is the real name of the tribe, and they speak Keresan.  Refugees of the Pueblo Indian Revolt of the 1680's and the Spanish re-conguest of 1692 founded Pueblo Laguna. 

I snagged this photo from Wikipedia.  They credit the federal HABS—Historic American Buildings Survey of New Mexico project and Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, NM,31-LAGUP,1-4 with allowing the image.

This was taken in 1934 from the back side.

There is a uranium mine on this reservation, and they have a construction company with offices all over the world.  No money problems for these guys!

In the 1800's a bunch of these guys adopted the Irish name "Riley" to use in the white-man's world, so if you ever meet someone with the last name of Riley but they look like Native Americans, ask if they are part of the Laguna Pueblos!

(I DO love researching history!!  Thanks to my readers for the encouragement!)

 

Volcanos of New Mexico

According to the New Mexico Natural History,  http://nmnaturalhistory.org/volcanoes-of-new-mexico.html, the top recommended places for beginning volcanologists to explore (because New Mexico's volcanic past is still so evident and undamaged) are:

1. Capulin Volcano National Monument (33 miles east of Raton in the north east corner). With a paved road to the summit crater, a rim trail and a trail to the bottom of the crater, this is one of the most accessible volcanoes in the country.
2. El Malpais National Monument and Zuni Bandera Volcanic Field  (72 miles west of Albuquerque). This "Hawaii in the desert Southwest" allows visitors to see primary lava flow structures. Many terms used to descibe fresh lava flows were originally defined from studies in this area!
3. Petroglyph National Monument (Albuquerque’s west side). The petroglyphs were etched on lava flows that erupted from a classic fissure. This site includes both unusual small-scale volcanic features and some typical examples of the interior of lava flows.
4. Rio Puerco Volcanic Necks (30 miles west of Bernalillo). This offers visitors one of the best views in the world of the near-surface interiors of small volcanoes. And the setting is classic Southwest, with buttes and mesas.
5.  Valles Caldera (40 miles west-northwest of Santa Fe). This is a monument to New Mexico’s undiscovered potential. Quite simply, from the perspective of morphology, the Valles Caldera is a better example of a supervolcano than Yellowstone. It is the "poster-child" for large calderas.
6. Valley of Fires State Recreation Area  (three miles west of Carrizzo). One of the longest young lava flows in the world, with features often seenin textbook examples of young lava flows.
7. Zuni Salt Lake Crater (County Road 601 between Fence Lake and Quemado). This classic young volcanic crater formed explosively when hot magma encountered ground water. It is one of dozens of explosive craters, called "maars" by geologist, occurring throughout New Mexico.

By stopping on the shoulder of Interstate 40 we were able to get some pictures of an ancient lava flow that essentially hasn't eroded or been lost to time.

Vast populations may not want to live in New Mexico, but I surely do like driving across it.  The scenery is ever changing, unique, and beautiful.  Forget flying; I wanna drive across America!  Anyone remember the Dinah Shore Show and her theme song:  See The USA in Your Chevrolet ?

For All Military Personnel

This is written, and copied here by permission, by a friend we made while on contract in North Dakota.

A Trip to Nowhere

by vetswriting on 25 Jul 13in "DarkThirty"

By Michael Harvey

It is not easy to say goodbye to loved ones prior to going to war because of the specter of never again saying hello.

Five days after leaving Fort Gordon, Georgia and thirty days before reporting for duty in Viet Nam, my family and I pulled up to my mother’s home in Grand Forks, ND. The door opened with my grandma making a beeline for our youngest child, Wendy. Mom grabbed Justin while Margo and I tagged along inside.

Do you want to feel like an appendix? You know, useless, unnecessary, a vestige of something no longer needed? Try sitting in a room with a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sister and two cute, adorable, darling little children. The ladies no longer required my existence. I went out and began hauling in the required tonnage for transporting two children under two years old. Frankly, I hoped for a little fuss over me, since I was the one going to war.

I planned to do a lot during this thirty-day leave. Parting visits with friends and family.  Much of the time spent searching for ways to condense life-long relationships into a portable format to take with me on this daunting venture.  Handshakes turned into hugs, in spite of our manly reserve. Hugs felt tighter and lasted longer. Were the embraces strong enough to last forever? A look. A touch. A tender moment. All stored in a place of reverence within my soul as a safeguard against loneliness, desolation and fear.

As a girl, my sister, Joan, dreamed of being a June bride. Everyone decided on a May wedding to allow me to be at the ceremony. A cousin recently confided, “That change of plans was because we didn’t know what lay in your future.” Glad I didn’t know that then.  It may have broken my heart to realize the sacrifices family members and friends made on my behalf. Knowing others felt uncertain of my fate scared me.

Our father died in 1945 near the end of another war, leaving me the honor and privilege of walking Joan down the aisle. As we waited at the back of the church, I felt tempted to ask where did this beautiful, radiant woman come from and what happened to my little sister? With pride I wore my United States Army Dress Blue uniform.

Later in the war, returning soldiers received advice not to wear their uniform in public. A few people possessed more spit than good sense and self-respect.

The next month brought a dizzying stream of friends and family visits. With ten days of my leave remaining, Grandma asked me to drive her to the bus depot.

The bus depot was downtown then, right where Hugo Magnuson once owned a grocery store. Grandma carried only one cardboard suitcase and the standard issue twelve-cubic-foot, industrial duty, professionals only, black purse. She carried more on a daily basis in that purse than most people had in their car trunk.

We waited in the warming spring sunshine for the bus. Grandma reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope and handed me a picture of my grandfather, her husband, lying in his coffin.

My grief at his death came searing back without warning. Grandpa died a short while before. As with all other deaths in the family, relatives delayed notifying me until after the burial to prevent me from returning for the funeral. The military school I attended began the day after his funeral. No one knew how much I resented their “consideration”, for it denied me the chance to mourn as part of the family.  Grandma put the photo away as the bus rounded the corner. The driver took her suitcase from me and I returned to Grandma’s side.

Over the roar of the idling bus engine Grandma said that she best say goodbye and that we were never again to see one another. It finally happened, someone admitted that I might not survive the war.  Everyone had avoided any mention of my possible death in this fledgling war. Death became fearful for me to contemplate: it wasn’t an abstract concept, this death would be mine. Life was good; I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Talking braver than I felt, I told Grandma that I planned to return alive from Viet Nam, like her son, my Uncle, who survived World War II. She hushed me and said now, with Pa gone, she planned to visit her sisters one last time. Have you ever stood near a cliff and watched part of it slip loose and crash to the valley floor below? I did that day. I couldn’t think of a world without this woman’s presence.

At my birth the doctors told my parents to have me baptized right away as I might not live long. Grandma said, “That is foolish talk. Give him to me. He will not die now.”

Hour after hour Grandma held me and comforted me and fed me with an eye-dropper filled with my mother’s milk. Nurses and doctors came and took my temperature and blood pressure and performed their little tests. But, when Death knocked at my door, Grandma barred the way and said, “No. Not this child. Not now. Go away.”  And Death turned away. When my mother regained her strength, Grandma gave me back to her, full of life. Now this guardian of my life said that her death drew near and I did not have the ability to bar Death from her door.  She proved correct. She died, while I was still at war.

The month continued to slip away, only a single day remained. I kissed Margo and the children and drove myself to the airport. Actually saying goodbye required more courage than I possessed. I did it, parting with all those people and saying one eternal goodbye. I never truly left my family, only a little delayed in coming home from doing my nation’s work.

My beloved North Dakota was slipping away. Would I ever see the prairie again? When I once more met the soil of North Dakota, whose head would bow in reverence, mine or my mourners?

In spite of all of the brave talk around friends and family, I was uncertain of the length of my future. Not really scared, more in awe of how precious life had become. No, completely terrified is accurate. Behind me were family and friends. I was leaving them for what? A while? A one-year tour in Viet Nam? Forever? The only person in uniform, I stood out. The pretty lady directed me to my seat and smiled. I noticed her eyes shone—as did mine.

Averting my attention, I looked at the aging DC-3 airplane. There certainly would never be a pogo stick tournament held in here! This “tail dragger” airliner was definitely cramped. As I moved to the rear, the cabin floor and ceiling were determined to meet—somewhere near my belt buckle. I wondered if this was the same airliner Margo and I had flown to Winnipeg on our honeymoon.
Checking for fastened seat belts, the pretty lady walked the aisle. I felt securely wedged in without the belt, but clicked it shut, just to see her smile. The takeoff closely resembled a small child in a magic flying cape (in reality his mom’s dishtowel). The child flapping and hopping about on the front lawn, all desire and fantasy, with little actual flight. The airplane threatened to follow the child’s example.

Remember swooping over those dusty, dippy, daring country roads in a roaring car? The ones where, on each downhill run, your stomach made a marvelous maneuver? After a few dozen swoops high in the air, those maneuvers are not nearly so marvelous. The “Emesis Bag” was soon put to use, as designed, as were the two replacements.

In Denver, I transferred to a newer plane that had no memory of the 1940s which was long before this plane’s time. Those of us in uniform nodded to one another in acknowledgement that we had answered when our countrymen called us to duty and had not turned away.

It was true, but disappointing; the pretty ladies saved their best smiles for us servicemen who sat with practiced bearing. For a while, my ego was convinced it was just for me. Whether for the uniform, what it represents, or because I am a nice guy, the smiles were received with gratitude and a longing to get them from someone who knew my name.

This airliner, though much younger than the previous one, had mastered the magic of flawless flight. But, all too soon it became a matter of wills. The pilots and the plane sought to land. A dozen men in uniform were content to remain aloft and not land. We lost. The pilots won. The plane touched down in San Francisco—the last connection on my way to war.

We came from all over the United States. Most every branch of military service was represented. From senior commissioned officers to privates first class, fresh from combat-training schools. Eighteen-year-old men with short haircuts. Some older men belonged to the “41, 51, 61 Club.” They were called to war in 1941 for World War II. In 1951 they returned to active duty to fight in Korea. The construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961 brought them back into service once again. Off to war in an airliner, instead of a troop ship. But off to war, nonetheless.

Among the men on that plane our common bonds were few. All of us had raised our right hands and sworn to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Each of us had lawful orders sending us to the Republic of Viet Nam. At the direction of the President, every man-jack of us was being placed in harm’s way. Harm’s way—what a stupid euphemism—we were all going where other men would try to kill us. Not for who we were or what we had done, but because we were in our nation’s service. Except for an occasional liar, everyone would admit to being afraid. Not the kind of scared when somebody startles you. Certainly not the terror we would come to experience. But rather the shock that this was indeed real and happening, right now, to us.

After days, weeks and, in some cases, months of wondering, we were about to fly into a war. Would we meet the expectations of friends, family and colleagues? Could we meet our own expectations? Just what was expected of us?

The processing was amazingly swift. Show your orders, check your luggage, get a boarding pass, file into a waiting room and wait. Sounds like your last airplane trip? Not hardly.

At the other end of your trip, there may have been friends or family to greet you. If you were returning home, there would be many familiar sights. The very terminal you had left. Streets you had traveled many times before. A door that opened with the turn of a well-worn key. Home, your own bed, a feeling of comfort and security.

If your last trip was outbound, maybe you’d be seeing some friends or relatives you could do without, thank you very much. It may have been a business trip with the same old boring round of meetings.
Psst, let me tell you a little secret. If you offered to trade that last miserable, bumpy, boring, dreaded trip with the men on this plane, you might be surprised at how many offers you’d get in return.
A pretty lady in a dark blue uniform used the PA system to invite us onto the airplane. Obviously, no command-voice training at flight attendants’ school. We were seated in a small room. All of us were men who knew how to respond to directions. She could have passed on her instructions in a moderate, clear voice. Instead she chose to use an amplified voice full of static and interference. But, she was pretty.

As we entered and filed down the narrow aisle, each man hastily stowed a carry on bag in the overhead, sat down and buckled up. No squalling kids. No harumphing old men squeezing past your knees. No teenagers giggling shyly at each other. No mothers about to hit their personal limits. No cranky businessmen sniffing at everyone not in pinstripes and wingtips. No embarrassingly-in-love young couples starting down the road of romance and life. Just two-hundred-plus men of honor, answering their country’s call.

The airliner crouched at the beginning of a long runway. The engines screamed, “go — Go — GO.” Brakes locked wheels to pavement and resisted this reckless defiance of gravity and logic. If mankind was meant to fly they would have grown . . .

The pilot intervened and cast his vote with the engines and the Brothers Wright. Gravity gave up, for the moment, and we sped toward destiny. A pretty attendant rose and prepared to tell us of flotation devices and exit doors and smoking rules.

From the back, came a clear tenor voice raised in a song made famous by singer Larry Verne in 1960. Startled, the pretty lady paused with an aching, haunted look and blinked away a tear, as the notes hung in the air, expressing the thoughts of every service member on the plane.

“Please, Mr. Custer, I don’ wanna go.”

In Hawaii, the pilot demonstrated his competence and the airliner drifted down for a whisper-quiet landing—like a wet paintbrush stroking a sanded pine board. During the re-fueling, we wandered through the terminal and gazed at the last American soil we would see for a year. For some, it was the last glimpse.

Dawn lightened the eastern sky when a pretty lady called us back to earth, reality and the airliner. The struggle for altitude seemed longer. Perhaps it was because the passengers were all perfectly content to remain in this tropical paradise — instead of the tropical hell that waited just beyond the curve of the planet Earth.

Talking became harder. Most everyone was slipping back in time. Back to home. Back to family. Back to love. Back to life. Still, the bit of metal that held us defied our thoughts and pushed aside the air while seeking a destination. Or was it destiny?

Always, before, the pretty ladies stood at the front of the airplane to make announcements or pass on information. Now, the coiled cord for the microphone slanted down the cabin wall to someone sitting very straight and staring forward. During the previous part of the flight the cabin crew was cheerful with lots of eye contact and smiles for us. Now, the cabin crew distanced themselves. They realized the ride was over. A well-rehearsed voice said, “Please extinguish all smoking materials. Please return your trays to the locked position. Place your seat backs in the full upright position. Check your seatbelts prior to landing.” Her voice went flat, “Gentlemen, we will be on a rapid descent into Ton Son Nhut Airport. Welcome to Viet Nam.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am sure the lady did not intentionally lie to us. Probably some corporate executive dreamed up the phrase, “rapid descent.”  That is NOT what occurred. All of Viet Nam was a combat zone. This made our aircraft a potential target. A slow, leisurely descent over areas where an unseen enemy might hope to shoot you down, was unthinkable.

The pilot finally confessed that the Wright brothers were, indeed, wrong. Powered flight was an illusion. Gravity rules. Demonstrating his versatility, the pilot slammed on the air brakes, bringing the airplane to a complete stop—midair. This allowed the airliner to fall from the sky like a very fancy rock. Our stomachs lurched as though we were on a roller-coaster. Except, our stomachs stayed up for the entire descent. We knew we were going to land, but prayed it would be with the wheels down and rolling on top of the pavement. Our pilot once again painted the sanded pine board.

Reluctantly, we had said goodbye to the real world of family and friends and now said hello—to the nowhere of war.

Michael Harvey served as the military police security officer for Saigon and Cholon, 1965-1966. He wrote his military memoirs, family stories and a book of children’s stories, “The Adventures of Theologis.” Michael taught courses for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI@UND) on preserving legacy and self-publishing.

You can buy Michael's books on Amazon.

Into New Mexico and Beyond

You have to admit, the Interstate highway system in America is going above and beyond in their construction of bridges and overpasses:

 

I wonder if the prong horn antelope appreciate the effort?

New Mexico, surprisingly to me (I'm embarrassed!), didn't become a state until 1912 - as the 47th state to join the United States.  Mexico lost their war with America (1846 - 1848) and gave up the land now known as the American Southwest and California.  Texas was a nation unto itself  from 1836 to 1846, and laid claim to land west of the Rio Grande (Translation: Grand River).  In 1850, for $10 million, Texas settled with the Federal government and allowed that the land west of the Rio Grande could be Federal land.  That then became the New Mexico Territory, encompassing what would become most of Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado.  (Wow.  If you think Texas is big NOW, you should have seen it in 1849!  Woo-hoo!) But New Mexico was just a Territory of the United States until 1912.

No, this isn't a wagon train, it's a freight train.  I suspect New Mexico wishes it was a wagon train, because here it is, the 21st century, and New Mexico's population is kinda at the bottom of the list nationwide:  36th out of 50 states, as far as population density goes.  

She is also considered a mountain state, and, as we drove all the way across her mid-section, we can attest to the fact that there are mountains everywhere.  They're not as big as the Colorado Rockies, but there certainly are a lot of them.  It was a beautiful drive, with landforms on both sides of the road, topped by gorgeous clouds of all kinds, and off in the distance as the afternoon heated up we watched huge rain showers march across the landscape.  

 

This is a mesa in front of one of the mountains.  It's like a broad terrace with an abrupt slope on one side.  Some folks refer to it as a bench - but in the American southwest it is absolutely called a mesa!

There are a multitude of different kinds of rock and sediment, but there's not a lot of difference in the vegetation...

A lot of her mountains are volcanic in nature though they haven't erupted in eons.  In the past we have climbed two of them: Capulin and Bandera.  At the base of Bandera there is a cave that is full of ice year round.  That's quite a combination - a volcano harboring an ice cave!

On The Road to Kingman, Arizona

We left East Texas yesterday and spent the night with one of our sons north of Dallas.  Lil' Miss GPS then directed us to head due north on Interstate 35 into Oklahoma to link up with Interstate 40 in Oklahoma City.

Immediately after crossing the Texas-Oklahoma state line we cross onto a Chickasaw
Indian Reservation.  Since then we've crossed into and out of several reservations for different tribes:  the Chickasha, Cheyenne, Arapahoe...  Remember, as the Europeans (and subsequently, Americans) pushed west, they pushed all Native American peoples westward, too.  Ultimately it seems that a ton of those tribes ended up with reservations in Oklahoma.

What most folks don't realize is that those "reservations" are considered sovereign to the tribes.  A few year ago they realized they could legalize gambling on the reservations even if the state they were in didn't have it.  It became the first real revenue source these tribes ever had - and they are gettin' rich!  Seeing them go from abject poverty to having huge, beautiful casino facilities with hotels and restaurants ought to be proof enough that, in the long run, gamblers are losing money and casinos are makin' money by the truck load.

Don't get me wrong:  I'm glad for 'em.  But don't be lookin' for me to darken the door of a gamblin' joint anytime soon.  I wanna keep MY money!

So, we're rollin' down Interstate 40 now - which used to be the famous Route 66.  Should make Amarillo by noon and Albuquerque by nightfall.

Posting to the Blog

Home ownership means responsibility.  We're home, but it's not like we're sitting in our easy chairs waiting for the next contract to start.  Praise the Lord we have wonderful, magnificent chores to do!

During our absence our kids have visited our home and left it as clean as a whistle.  But there's oh, so much more to our home.  There have been storms and trees are down in our "forest."  (We call it a forest, but in Texas it really is just a stand of trees on the land.)  There are flower beds that could use a little attention, acres to mow, the round-pen I work the horses in either has to have a complete makeover or be totally taken down, there is some touch-up painting that could be done on the outside of the house, and because we have a log home, there are logs to wash. 

Yup, I said wash the logs.  You can't power-wash the logs because you'd eventually eat away at the log itself.  These babies need to be hand washed.  Because we have wrap-around porches all the way around the logs are protected from the sun and wind and rain.  Because there is no rain on the logs they tend to get pretty dusty.  So, over the next couple of days I will be bathing the outside of our home.  It's not as bad as it sounds, but I do with I was taller than my 5' 2" ...  The walls are 10 feet tall, which means I'm up and down a ladder 40 million times.  But it's our home, so it's totally okay!

All of that to say that my posts to the blog may be a bit sporadic over the next two weeks.  Then we're on to Arizona for the new contract, and our son and his family will be here in their home to look after the day to day business of home ownership.  God bless our sons and their families!!  We couldn't travel without their love and support!  They are all so very good to us!

Hang in there, readers, we will return to the regularly scheduled postings very soon!  And I do hope you enjoy reading about our travels.  Very, very few ever "comment," but thousands of you keep reading, so I must be doin' okay "talking story."  Thanks for your patience.

Shuffle Off to Buffalo (Texas)

Tomorrow Granpa and I are going to shuffle off to Buffalo (Texas) to meet our Hawaiian friends for lunch.  Buffalo is kinda in Central Texas in Leon County and was established in 1872 on the International Great Railroad Line.  The city was named for the herds of buffalo (American Bison) that once roamed the area.  By 1892 the town had a population of about 500, and during the 1890's just about every business and church that a Texas community could wish to have had been established in Buffalo.

Not much has happened in Buffalo, Texas except for a plane crash in 1959 that killed a couple of dozen folks, and the city changing it's name to "Blue Star," Texas for a short while in 1993 and again in 1994 when the Dallas Cowboys went up against the Buffalo Bills in those two Super Bowl years.  (The Cowboys' logo is a blue star.)  Then the Dallas Stars went up against the Buffalo Sabers during the Stanley Cup in 1999, and the city changed its name again to "Green Star," Texas for a bit.  The Bills and the Sabers are both based in Buffalo, New York.

Oh, yeah, Buffalo, Texas is also home to "Slayer" bassist/vocalist Tom Araya.


There is also a place in Texas named Buffalo City that was established by John H. Reagan - but that's in Henderson County in east Texas.

Now, why, might you ask, were towns in such far-away-from-each-other-places as New York and Texas both named for buffalo?  That's pretty easy to answer:  before the Europeans came the American Bison roamed nearly the entire North American continent from Canada to Mexico and from the Rockies to the Appalachians.  They roamed in many distinct herds, but roam they did - by the millions.  The only reason the Europeans slaughtered them is because the Native Americans quite literally couldn't live without them.  To control the Indians the white man thought they had to destroy their food source.  The Indians, indeed, couldn't adapt and were conquered.  'Tis a bummer, too, because bison meat is higher in protein and lower in fat content that a cow. 

But Buffalo, Texas is a pretty good half-way point between our Hawaiian friends new home in central Texas and our home in east Texas.  So it's off to Buffalo we go!

Paperwork

Being a medical traveler requires a LOT of paperwork.  Think if you changed jobs every 13 weeks (give or take) how much paperwork you'd have to complete.  Well, that's what's required.  Now, I type about 93 wpm (words per minute); Granpa types about 20.  Guess who gets to fill in all of the blanks and guess who just has to sign at the bottom of the page.  Yuppers.  I type; he signs.  Skill related, financial related, health related, HIPPA, happa, and a hoppa.  It all has to be done, done and re-done.  Over and over and over.  Used to all that was needed is to submit a resume.  Now we have to submit everything but the kitchen sink!

It's okay by me.  I have everything saved to a single file, and uploading is a cinch.  Even if I'm not allowed to upload all the info, I pull it up on one side of the screen with the form that needs to be completed on the other side, and I just type away.  I simply canNOT image what it must be like for someone who's not a fast typist or computer savvy!

And so, I have been doing my Director of Operations thing and working on getting into compliance with this stuff.  If the government IS spying on all of us, it must be a real challenge to keep tabs on Granps and I.  I love it!

Finding a Home in Kingman, Arizona

When we have a new contract I use several methods to find housing.  This time I first tried VRBO.com.  That's Vacation Rentals By Owner.  Bingo!  Just the ticket - if the owner will work with our long-term stay.

You can see what I found by clicking on this link:  http://www.vrbo.com/430366.  Scroll down to get the details.

Yes.  Yes, I see that they will do long-term rents... Wow!  This even gives access to a swimming pool and tennis court!  We're right on the golf course, too.  (I tell Granpa that, and he immediately switches the TV to a channel showing a golf tournament!  He played golf in college.  That was so long ago I think he almost forgot it ever happened!)

Air-conditioned, heated, washer, dryer, dishwasher, microwave, patio grill, 3-bedroom, 2 full baths, 2-car garage, flat-screen TV, fully furnished including pots and pans and linens...

Hmm.  No cable or satellite connection - but there is wireless internet.  Books, DVD collection.

Yuppers.  I think this will be more than adequate!  We are all set!  I truly can just sit back and enjoy our Texas home for a couple of weeks.  Praise the Lord!!

End of Contract?

Friday is the end of Granpa's contract.  We've been preparing for that by very carefully planning meals so as to end up with as little refrigerated food  and as few non-perishable foods as possible.  We've gotten pretty good at that.  As I did laundry last week, rather than hang up the clothes I folded them for quick and easy packing.  We began yesterday making a couple of "leave in Texas" totes because we do tend to accumulate things...

About 10 a.m., Granpa calls to say - shock! - that the hospital wants this day, Monday, to be his last day.  Wow.  Talk about good news, bad news!  The ramifications of that jewel of information are pretty extensive.  First and foremost, we don't work for the hospital.  Granpa's contract is with the agency, and if Granpa doesn't get paid, the agency doesn't get paid.  We need to call our recruiter.

While half my brain is dialing her, the other half is trashing all of our careful planning and drawing up a new battle plan:  what to do with a week's worth of food we won't have time to eat, packing in one day what should have been easy over the next five days, telling our landlord we're going to short her a week's rent, oh, and there's that pair of new eyeglasses that's not due in until Thursday...  Well, first things first.  What's the agency going to think of this.

Our recruiter has been on vacation, and today is her first day back.  I hate to ruin her first day back, but, hey, we're grownups.  She surprises me by saying that we are the third travelers to call with basically the same information.  It's been so long since a facility has wanted to end a contract early that she can't even remember how to accomplish the paperwork much less allow it to happen.

Now a third of my mind goes to wondering what politics create this anomaly.  (My daddy was an inventor.  He told me to never look at a problem for one angle.  Walk around the problem, pick it up, turn it over, try to look at the inside and the outside, figure out the why's and wherefore's, look for what to do - and then look for the unintended consequences of doing each action.)  Why politics?  Because several facilities in several different states simultaneously want to cut costs.  What else besides politics (Obamacare maybe?) could cause that?

The recruiter has to get her account manager to reach out to human resources at our facility who will call the department head who will tap Granpa's supervisor on the shoulder and ask what's up.  Then information will reverse up that chain and back to us.  In the meantime, I'm reassessing our household.

Within the hour Granpa calls to say they have realized breaking the contract isn't as easy as they might have supposed - so they're just gonna bend it a bit.  Granpa is to stay home Tuesday and Wednesday (officially known as being "called off by facility"), but work Thursday and Friday.  Bummer.  No pay for two days.  Ha!  But Granpa gets to help me pack!  There's always a sliver lining if one chooses to look for it!

Beyond Friday?  Well, agencies have submitted Granpa's resume to facilities in New York, West Virginia, Kansas, and "the mid-west."  Beyond that, our Disaster Relief team is headed to Colorado Springs to feed the firefighters battling a wildfire out there.  If timing works out, we may deploy to Colorado Springs!  Ya' just never know where we might turn up next, but "home" would be a really good place to start...

Kingman, Arizona

Just prior to the Civil War, in 1857, Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale was ordered by the War Department to take his Corps of Topographical Engineer position and survey and build a federal wagon road across the west on the 35^th Parallel.  One day in the future this wagon road would become the famous Route 66!

At the heart of this road, in 1882, the town of Kingman was founded in the Arizona Territory.   It’s in the Hualapai Valley between two mountain ranges: the Cerbat and Hualapai.  The Atlantic and Pacific Railroad had a siding near there, and the town was named for Lewis Kingman who was a surveyor for the railroad.

Now Kingman will be the location of our newest contract beginning August 5^th!  Granpa starts Monday through Friday for two weeks.  After that, he will be working three 12-hour days.  That will give us 4-day "weekends"!  Lots of time to explore the ghost towns in the area, zip up to the Grand Canyon, and - uh-oh!  Vegas is only an hour and a half away...  Prayer.  Prayer would be good.

Yet Again - - - Home!

We are back in our little log cabin in Texas - for two weeks...  We were greeted at the corner of our land by the remnant of our flock of Guinea hens.  They stood by the side of the road long enough for me to snap a picture:

 

And when we got down to the other end of the land we smell the welcoming fragrance of wood smoke.  Then up the drive to our front door!  There lies one of our many cats, ol' Bootsy girl.  And here comes one of our grandsons to help unload things - oh, my!  He has a beard!  Mercy, it's good to be home!!

Our sons have left the place immaculate and laid in fresh staples like bacon, eggs from the flock and bread.  All we have to do is unload the van and settle into our personal recliners - from which I may not get up from for the whole two weeks!

Mount Mitchell State Park - The Highest Point East of the Misssissippi River

On our way home from Chimney Rock State Park in North Carolina, we moseyed up the Blue Ridge Parkway.  (See our post http://thetravelerstwo.blogspot.com/2013/07/flowers-of-blue-ridge.html.) This 469-mile roadway was built by several "alphabet agencies" beginning in the Franklin Roosevelt administration: the CCC (Civilian Conservatin Corps), the WPA (Works Progress Administration), the ERA (Emergency Relief Administration), and the CPS (Civilian Public Service - made up of World War II conscientious objectors).

The Parkway literally runs across the top of the mountains from the Great Smoky Mountains, thru the Blue Ridge Mountains, up to Shenandoah Valley and the beginning of Skyline Drive.  The views are wonderful.

Remember, there are almost 500 miles of these views - each spectacular in it's own way.

It is also possible to hike the Parkway and Skyline Drive.  Some folks have been known to toss a backpack on and spend a whole summer hiking from one end to the other.   Other folks just make a day of it.  Hiking it allows you to get up close and personal to sights you can't see from the road:

This is Glassmine Falls.  It is found at an elevation of 5,200 feet, and the waterfall itself is over 800 feet high!

But the highest point along the Parkway, and the highest point in America east of the Mississippi River, is the 6,578 foot peak of the Black Mountains.  Go back to the first picture.  You can see rows and rows of peaks - there are numerous different mountain ranges separating the eastern seaboard from the interior plains of America.  Geologists say that more than a billion years ago, the Black Mountains were as high as the Himalayas.  Time has worn them down (just like it's worn me down - I think I've lost an inch, and I didn't have an inch to lose!)  Even so, six of these peaks are among the ten highest in the eastern U.S.  It's because of those elevations that the flora and fauna here is more like Canada than the rest of the middle-eastern seaboard.

And here at the top of the world we find a grave!  This is the final resting place of Dr. Elisha Mitchell, the science professor who was first to measure the mountain.  In 1835, he calculated the highest peak to be 6,476 feet high.  He re-calculated it in 1844 and came in at 6,672 feet - just 12 feet off of what today's most precise instruments have come up with.  So they named the park after him, and eventually he was buried here.  That's pretty cool.  Better than the pig pen on the back of our land in Texas that I want to be buried in!

Tobacco Plant

Friday Granpa went out and took pictures of the beautiful flowers atop the tobacco plants.  

  

That was a really good idea, because on Saturday they came along and cut off all of their heads!

  

Before:

After

I wonder if they were harvesting tobacco seeds? or extending the growing life (and therefore the number of leaves to dry and sell to manufacturers)?  or both?

To read more about the tobacco plant, check out one of our earlier posts:  http://thetravelerstwo.blogspot.com/2011/10/huron-indian-myth.html

Flowers of the Blue Ridge

Yup, the flowers of the Blue Ridge have been around for a long, long time.

Tom Landry

One of our sons got this genuine official Tom Landry hat for Granpa.  He likes it so much I thought he was gonna sleep in it that night.

Tom Landry was an awesome man, and Granpa has always admired him.  He was a football player and a Pro Football Hall of Fame coach of the Dallas Cowboys.

Landry was born in Mission, Texas in 1924.  Mission is over 500 miles from Dallas, about as far south as you can go in Texas and right on the border with Mexico.  He served in World War II as a B-17 bomber pilot with the United States Army Air Corps.  He flew 30 missions out of England including one that crash landed in Belgium when they ran out of fuel.  When he returned to Texas he finished his interrupted college years.

Tom Landry was a Methodist Sunday school teacher who would not even skip out early on game day.  He would get to the field with only minutes to spare when the Cowboys played in Dallas and had a noon kickoff.  Landry was a quiet man, calm in any storm.  He was active in the FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes), and a friend of Reverend Billy Graham, the humble yet larger than life evangelist, who had Landry speak at many of his crusades.  Landry was even featured in a comic book in 1973 promoting Christianity.

Some people think Christians are weak and need to lean on someone or something.  I think Landry proves that there is no truth to that misconception.


Landry's first year as a pro-football player in 1949, was with - of all teams! - the New York Yankees of the All-American Football Conference. (What's a Texan doin' playin' with those Yankees?  Ah!  Texas didn't get it's first pro-football franchise until 1952.)  From 1950 to 1955 he played professional football with the New York Giants.  In 1954, he played AND was a defensive coach for the Giants.  His on-field career ended in 1955, but he stayed on as a coach for another season.  Guess who the offensive coach was at the time... Vince Lombardi.  That's pretty cool.

In 1960 he was appointed as the very first head coach the Dallas Cowboys ever had.  He was pretty good at it, too, taking the Cowboys to - are you ready?  are you sitting down?  not just 20 winning season, but 20 winning seasons in a row (1966 - 1985),  including 13 division titles, 5 NFC titles, and 18 playoff berths!  He also, through his amazing coaching, took them to multiple championship games and five Super Bowls.  He was named NFL Coach of the Year in 1966 and NFC Coach of the Year in 1972.  And you wonder why Granpa admires him...

Only George Halas and Don Shula have more career victories than Landry ( he compiled a 270-178-6 record), and nobody tops his mark of 20 playoff wins in a row.  Landry also mentored two future coaches:  Super Bowl head coaches Dan Reeves and Mike Ditka began their coaching careers on Landry's staff in Dallas.  To be a Super Bowl coach you have to be an "innovator, motivator, tactician, and teacher."  Or so says ESPN, and Landry was certainly all of those things.  Tom Landry died in February, 2000, at the age of 75.

I think all of these things are the reasons Granpa is and always will be a Dallas Cowboys fan, in remembrance of Tom Landry.  I'm certain that when Landry got to heaven the Lord said, "Well done, My good and faithful servant."  (I think He'll say the same to Granpa, too.)

I Love Lucy

I'm so glad that there was an "I Love Lucy" show because there are so many times in my life that I've had those "I Love Lucy" moments.

The most recent was last week.  I had to have a few days to put it all in perspective because, you see, it was a Granpa-induced event...

We drive a van that has what I call wing-windows at the very back.  The way far back.  So far back that you almost have to open the hatch to get to them.  Granpa likes to open those wings up to improve the flow of fresh air.  He never tells me that he's done that, and he usually forgets to close them.

Last Monday, after our trip to Chimney Rock, I decide to fill up the gas tank and run the van through the car wash.  Mmm-hmm.  You guessed what happened next, but let me play it out for you.

When you pull into the bay, a sign lights up telling you it's time to stop and put the car in neutral.  This is when I usually start cleaning the steering wheel and dashboard, etc. with my handy-dandy baby wipes that no car should be without.

The mechanism that sprays water and moves itself around the car kicks on, and high pressure water begins to bombard the car.  I'm scrubbing away when I think I feel water coming at me from somewhere.  Granpa also has a tendency to lower all windows just a tad during the summertime because it can get so hot in Texas that if you don't, the windows may break.  (Our son sent me an iPhone photo yesterday of the reading on his digital thermometer that he had pointed at the ground on our lil' hobby farm back home: 157.  The weatherman only tells you the ambient air temperature not the ground temperature...)  So, guessing that's where the water came from, I hit the electric window buttons to make certain all windows are up tight.

I go back to my cleaning; the high pressure spray is now putting out soapy water.  Suddenly I'm being hit with globs of soap!  What in heavens name?  I twist in my seat and realize that Granpa has done the wing-window thing again!  Good grief!  I can't get out of the car, open the hatch and close the windows while that thing is moving around the car, not to mention the tons of water spraying everywhere.  If those windows are going to get closed it's going to have to be from the inside.

I shut down the engine (because I can just see me hitting the gear shift when I try to climb over the console and through the front seats...), unbuckle the seat belt, shove the seat all the way back, and try desperately to twist my enormous ol' buttinsky out from under the steering wheel and over the console.  I essentially fall headfirst through the two front seats onto the back floorboard, all the while trying not to think of what the guy monitoring the security cam for the car wash is seeing.

As I raise up, my head smacks the clothes rod that our hanging clothes go on when traveling.  It falls, and as I try to step to the back of the van, I trip over it landing in a heap on the back seat.  Just then the rinse cycle of water sprays in under high pressure from both wing-windows, and I'm drenched - as is the whole interior of the van.  The cup holders now have a half-inch of water in them...

I know that what comes next is the wax, and I must get those windows shut before that stuff gets all over the upholstery!  The problem is, I never can get that silly latch to un-latch so that the window can close, and this time it's covered in slippery soapy water!  It's a race against time, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna lose.  Granpa is in SO much trouble!!

I clamber back to the front of the van to grab the roll of paper towels we keep under the console, then back to the windows.  How does this latch work!?  Truthfully, I still don't know, but somehow I manage to dry it off enough to get a grip, release one and close it, but by the time I get to the next one - whoosh! in comes the rainbow colors of the foaming wax right in my face!  He's gonna pay.  Granpa is gonna pay, and pay, and pay for this one!

More paper towels to wipe my face enough to see, close the window, try to get as much wax as possible off the upholstery, ceiling, side panels, and floor.  Then back to the front seat before the rinse cycle is done and the "go" light comes on.  My blouse catches on the arm rest, flipping it down so that my behind lands on it as I try to straddle the console and slip under the steering wheel.

The light goes green.  I have to start the engine!  Put it in gear, calm down, and inch forward (no easy task since I'd been on an adrenaline rush the last few minutes...) so that the monster blow dryer could dry the van on the outside.  I suppose it's up to me to dry it on the inside since Granpa doesn't get off of work for another eight hours!  Trouble.  The man is in trouble.

* * * * * * * *

I am so tempted to call him at work and give him a scolding as only wives can, but that's not something to do when he's at work.  Besides, I need a lil' distance from this event before discussing it with him.  I need a lil' perspective...

* * * * * * * *

About noon-ish my phone rings.  It's Granpa.  He very, very rarely calls me during the day.  I don't even remember what he called about, but I begin telling him about my morning.  I choose to give him the "I Love Lucy" version because, no matter how much trouble he's in, he doesn't need to get chewed out at work.  By the time I'm through he's laughing pretty good.  I calmly tell him how much trouble he's in.  I can still hear a big smile on his face - but he knows he's done a bad thing.

* * * * * * * * 

Throughout the evening, after each string of conversation, I end by saying, "Oh, by the way, I'm not talking to you."  After I say our bedtime prayer to the Lord out loud, I pause, and quietly say to Granpa, "I'm still not talking to you."  Granpa hugs me tight and kisses my ear.  "I know," he says, "I know."