Trip to North West Texas

Painting a picture with words is truly easy for some but to me a full palette of colors are easier to manipulate than the written word. When no brush is near and the only medium to dip ones brush appears to be ones mind, then a pen and words must convey the images within your head. The eyes convey to the brain the earthy colors of the land, trees, and barren waste one sees before you.

Your heart and mind reaches out expressing the solitude or peace one finds among the red clay mesas and sage brush that abound. Now and again a windmill blows cool, its blade rotating in the recesses of your mind with nature's own breath. The sun warms the earth though a winter lingering still, but almost gone. You find yourself basking in the glory of God's great handiwork in a land some would say is far from heaven, or might be even considered hell.

Naked trees with birds nests perched among the branches, look like small wads of chewing gum as they cling to the skeletal shapes. Some are bent and crumpled fingers reaching for the heavens to grab the sunshine's warmth with arthritic hands. While others have fingers to tired to reach anymore and appear to the highway passer-bys to be shooting 'the finger' in one last burst of defiance against the elements. Some stand in groups, gossiping, while others lean away in order not to hear.

Many are dressed in mistletoe pretending to be leaves growing, while others are dressed in shrouds of quickly decaying vines. On a small barren hill two trees sit crouched in conversation, with a group of mungo pines squatting, shading, the busy ants from a burning sun.

Occasionally spring explodes in a popcorn flowering of pink and white, for spring is not far away even in this land that seems to have been forgotten by time. Tired tan and green grasses rest against a bed of bobwire giving in to restless winds across the plains.

Telephone poles standing along the sides of the road, appear like needles pointing down, their sagging threads hanging between them. Man made fences fascinate the eye of the beholder as the ingenuity of man's own mind and natural resources inter-mingled. Sage brushes poke their head up among puffs of greenish gray weeds in a landscape swept by brisk winds and shifting sands.

Here and there are gullies, some gapping wide while others are narrow and almost minute. Most are caused by erosion and they look like rivulets that were once alive and bubbling water from a lake not far away. Little bushes dot the hillsides like a small child's dotted Swiss dress. A dried riverbed awaits needing the spring rain to renew its hidden life.

Ah, look over there, a tree lays down sleeping in the parching sun and then there is a sign of a man. A tall black silo silhouettes itself against a dust bowl sky. Strands of evergreens, proud and staunch, stand in rows like guards at Buckingham Palace. They guard man and his land against their greatest enemy, erosion. The sky is washed in pale azure blue with strings of long white clouds with a few marshmallow thrown in for interest.

An ancient house trimmed in rickrack, obviously once touched with love, peers out on a land that pumps oil from its earthly bowels. Its oil will be used for the ever hungering power that sates man's lust. Nearby, a rickety old building stands proudly proclaiming "this is Fort Sims" and the land laughs at the desolate statement with mild amusement.

Civilization! Just see the red, white, and blue patriotic liter it celebrates. It has even worked its way into the ruffled land where men have used his plow wheels. It is a land almost void of railroad tracks, but a maze of roads play tic-tac-tow across the horizon.

Can't you see the crucifixes of the power and phone companies telling you that civilization has arrived in the west? No more buffaloes grazing on the sloping hills. The only thing growing untampered with, is a small town cemetery, for civilization tries not to think about it as the weeds embrace its bounds.

Look there! We spy a house on a hill. It looks like it was stumped by a giants toe, with a patchwork quilt of missing shingles, all tattered and torn. A cracked sidewalk runs to its door but folds are put to good use by ever present green weeds sprouting from the crevices. The little dwelling has invited the weather in, letting it rest awhile upon its floor. It is a place that looks like it was blown over by good strong fart.

Don't despair it is not dead, life still is there. I see a horse that has broken away from the pasture. Now he is free the grass within the pasture is much greener back across the fence he and he strains to reach it. Could that be in defiance to man also?

The sky begins to turn a pale shade of gray blue, brushed with bright pink, and deep lavender as the veil of dusk descends. Like a harem dancer it gently swirls the clouds against the ever changing sky it now intermingles with cream and gray slashes.

The moon is rising higher now, as the sky darkens into solitude. The milky way and hazy clouds turn the moon into a glowing golden orb with creamy green cheese trim. Other stars linger about waiting to see the display. It is now Sunday evening and five or six hours of traveling have passed.

A starched, white-washed church with lonely gray steeple, harbors prim and proper people singing. And I, well I am still moving south down the road reaching for my haven, my family and my home, always gathering impressions into the night. Travel is grand but there is absolutely nothing quite as wonderful as going home. Is there?