I won't go into the details of how I got my latest wound, courtesy of my country existence. It simply involved a baby kitten, a crowbar, a stormy night, a scared dog and a roll of barbed wire.
One of my little sisters, who's in med school, told me once and for all that I needed to get a tetanus shot.
Still haven't. Still alive and able to chew gum.
What can I say. I'm a country girl. I don't need no stinkin' shot.
That's just how I roll.
Our adventuring has led to many interesting stories, such as a couple we published in January about the crumbling old schools throughout our region.
Torin's photos truly told the story of the old schools better than my words could. In one, an old piano sat expanded and exposed to the elements. Roofs were caved in. Gym floors buckled.
Torin got one shot of the old stove in what, we assume, was once the kitchen at the old school in Elbert, which is located in Throckmorton County.
It's a photo neither of us will ever forget.
As Torin readied his shot of the stove, we both heard wood crack.
And down Torin sank as the floor caved in.
Luckily, the ground was only about a foot below, or else we would have had a much more interesting story to tell.
Of course, I made Torin take an "after" shot of the stove . . . and the personal mark in the floor that he made on the old building.
It's a photo that still makes me chuckle.
So, here's some catch-up posts. This first one I wrote after photographer Torin Halsey and I traveled to the region to cover a major wildlife sometime back in the spring.
Here goes:
(Wait a minute, that sounded a little dirty. Let me try that again.)
When I'm riding out in the region with our photographers, who are all male, and two are married and the other is in a serious relationship . . .
(Let me try one more time.)
So Torin the photographer and I are literally driving through clouds of smoke. We're out in what is either very northern Jack County or very southern Clay County getting photos/interviews for a story about a massive 3,000-acre grass fire that is blasting across the countryside.
We're driving through clouds of smoke. We've been doing this for 30 minutes or so. Several times, the local firefighters tell him to back up, get away, etc..
I swear that his truck STILL smells like smoke.
That's how close we were.
And so we are driving down FM 1288, flames shooting up on both sides of the road, when we hit a thick wall of darkness. I could barely see the windshield, much less the end of his white truck.
And his truck is still moving forward. He's STILL DRIVING THROUGH IT!!
A million-and-forty cuss words are zooming through my head and all I want to yell is, "Stop the F&*$%&! truck!!!!"
But I don't. Cuz I don't want to be the typical woman passenger, telling the man what to do. I don't want to be a backseat driver.
And so very calmly, and nicely, I simply say,
"Torin, are we safe?"
He looked at me with total confidence, mixed with total doubt, and goes, as only a guy can go when he doesn't really know what's going on,
"Uh, yeah."
Within 20 seconds or so, the cloud of smoke clears and I can actually see the road.
We made it through safely, yes, but not because we were actually safe but because we were damn lucky, or at least that's my womanly opinion.
Torin and I stopped off in Bellevue to reward our bravery with fried pies and pretzels after we were done with the story. He made a few "are we safe?" cracks to me.
And even now, several months later, he still kids me every once in a while.
Are we safe?
Stengel died in 1911 and is buried in the Rhineland Cemetery behind the old Catholic Church there.
Mr. Albus sent me copies of two articles that appeared in the Munday Times in 1911 after Stengel's death. One of them was a typical obituary. The other one, titled "Necrology of Mr. John F. Stengel," was simply written by "A Friend."
I thought I'd share it with you, mainly because I find the wording fascinating. Gosh, why don't we write like this anymore?
Here's the article:
]]> Again has Death, the merciless reaper, mowed down with his terrible scythe a man, well honored, and highly esteemed by all his fellow citizens, John F. Stengel. The grave has closed over the remains of a dear friend, a grand, great man has gone, we have said the last fare-well, the last good-bye.Deceased was born on 10 November 1854, down in Louisiana. His young life was full of manifold privations and wanting in those great benefits, which, by his tireless labor to bestow upon his own beloved children. For a few years he dwelled in the city of Austin, Texas, but city life could not fascinate him, who was accustomed to the roaming life of a farmer's lad. Texas, being at that time the home of the cowboys and rangers, he entered their camps and shared for many years with them their work, dangers and joys of a perilous, adventurous existence.
In the late eighties he settled down at Menardville, Texas, married, after having entered the more peaceful life of a farmer. Five children were born to him, who helped him along on the hard path to relative prosperity. In 1900 Mr. Stengel moved with his family and relatives to Rhineland, where he bought an extensive tract of fertile land, three miles west of the town. A few years ago his loving wife was taken from him, and only the sacrificing true love of his children consoled him in his great sorrow. Together with his children, he managed his well-tended farm. It was a sweet, sweet home.
Often had Death sent his unpleasant messengers, the rough life of a ranger, had undermined his health, and although he was looking the picture of robust health, there lurked a mortal disease in his system. Last Saturday, Death called again, the last time, while Mr. Stengel was in Munday. It was a terrific struggle of three days between grim Death and his assigned victim; and Death was the conqueror. Fortified with the religious consolations of the Catholic faith, John F. Stengel departed life on the 16th of May, in his 57th year of age.
The funeral took place from the Catholic Church at Rhineland on the Mount Calvary cemetery. The members of the St. Joseph’s Society, wearing their regalia, with their banner draped in the colors of mourning, attended the interment in a body; Mr. Stengel having been a devoted member of this beneficial society. There has been in the history of this colony a funeral as well attended as this, proving the true respect held for the deceased by all, and the friendly sympathy felt for the surviving members of his family. During the singing of the somber liturgical plain chant of the Church the coffin was lowered, and praying that God may grant him the eternal light and balm of consolation to his children, the procession returned to the church. On the following day a solemn Requiem was celebrated for the deceased at the church of Rhineland. The sweet voices of the children blending with the more somber tones of the male choir helped to heal the deep wound struck into our hearts by the untimely departure of dear Mr. John F. Stengel.
When you come to the courthouse
Beware of the birds in the trees
For the courthouse birds are bureaucrats
And they do it where they damn well please.
This time of year, this year of all years, brought
The homeless one home again;
To the fallen house and the drowsing dust
There to sit at the door,
Welcomed, homeless no more.
Her dust remembers its dust
And calls again
Back to the fallen house this restless dust
This shape of her pain.
This shape of her love
Whose living dust reposes
Beside her dust,
Sweet as the dust of roses.
This Tuesday, Torin and I drove up to the elevators to get pictures and interviews for a story about the demolition project.
And the first thing we both noticed were the blue doors.
The glass was broken. Someone had kicked in the bottom one of them.
They sat open, sadly open, as all of the memories floated out.