Dave or Helen’s

Clement S. Stacy, III – Obit

November 9th, 2011

I did not write the obituary that was published in the paper. Mine is different. A balanced view? Perhaps not; but fair, accurate, and real. Listing his resume doesn’t reveal who he was, his impact on the world, or those around him. His death was not impersonal; to me it was very personal.

He had brothers. He had one he was proud of and very close to, he had one he missed, and he had one he never could click with. He told stories of happy shenanigans they played as boys and kept the darker stories of those younger times to himself never revealing them. He laughed a big belly laugh when he would recall the yearly get together of the “boys”. He liked that trip. It was one of the bonds that hadn’t broken for him. He was anxious the week before, dare I say he showed excitement.

He and I spent a lot of time in motion together. We did better together when we were moving. Those were the times we bonded the most. Some psychologist would be able to draw some significant conclusion about that but it escapes me what it is. He was an equestrian. Later in life if his physical limitations hadn’t hampered him and he was given the opportunity to go for a ride I believe he would have climbed right on. We rode together side by side hour after hour many years ago. We’d go for miles without a spoken word, just the sound of leather harnesses squeaking and the steady beat of hooves. Corn fields, sunshine, horses, and us. I loved those times. We were happy together then. I miss those times so. He was car nut. He hadn’t owned as many as I have but he was close. We’d go for rides in old sportscars, often breaking down, and explore not only our surroundings but also what it must have felt like to drive those old beauties when they were new. I remember his big shit eating grin when he looked over at me one winter day and asked, “Warm enough?” when I was busily scrapping ice off of the inside of the windshield so he could see out of the frozen coffin we were in. He loved two wheeled vehicles most of all. Motorcycles and scooters were part of his life to his very last days. He was a nut when it came to 2 wheels. He loved them and couldn’t help having one even if he couldn’t ride it. He and I rode side by side over many a back road. He and his brother did the same. He loved motorcycles. One of my favorite stories about my father and brother is the one about all of us going for a ride. My 7 or 8 year old brother behind my Dad kept falling asleep and would begin to slide off. For 100 miles every now and then I would beep my horn, point to the back of dad’s Harley, and he would have to reach back and grab my brother before he fell to his death. It sounds scary now but it was comical then. He made horrible choices when it came to cars and motorcycles/scooters. His theory must have been “buy high and sell low” since I don’t think he ever broke even on any of those acquisitions; but that wasn’t the point.

He was a wolf of a man when it came to parenting styles. Tender and gentle at times yet would resort to vicious ferocity in order to get his point across. He struggled with parenting. I often saw him speak lovingly about being a parent and believe he was quite pleased with having children. Unfortunately when it came to the actual act of being a parent he was often a fish out of water. Whether from the lack of a learned skill set or from the unwillingness to sacrifice, perhaps both, he was not a shining example of a loving parent. We talked about that behavior early this year. I was surprised he brought it up. I saw great pain in his eyes and heard his voice crack when he spoke of some of the poor choices he had made and the results on his boys. I remember a stillness in time, an instant where roles reversed; I became the teacher and he became the student, “You can’t do anything about that now Dad. You can get eaten by it or you can go let it go. You can’t change what you did yesterday but you can change what you do tomorrow.” He heard me. I saw it in his face. I wish I could say that conversation changed his life or made a dramatic impact on him but I can’t. There wasn’t enough time left with him to find out.

August 23^rd, 1972 changed everything in his life. It changed everything in my life. It was a day which marked like 9/11 does now. 8/23/72 was an important day for him and a day which has to be mentioned in any type of writing like this one. It was one time where he could stand firm on the fact that he thought of someone else forsake himself and did the right thing. Not one person can question it, not one person can help but acknowledge the courage it took, and yet less than a half a dozen people know about that day.

If viewed with a sense of humor his antics certainly were entertaining. Building relationships with women was a strong suit of his; maintaining them was another story. I never knew a time in his life when he wasn’t married and didn’t have a girlfriend at the same time. I knew them all. From the time I was 12 years old he always made sure he introduced them to me. It was odd; it was almost like he was proud and wanted me to see. It was at times uncomfortable. He often used me as his wing man. He’d call and explain that we were at a ballgame from x time to x time, or “um, we had dinner last night in the city, it was late and I stayed with you.”, or some other story. Eventually he always got caught. It always ended in disaster. I saw them come and saw them go. Some were not happy with me because I wouldn’t form a bond. Why would I? I knew they would go soon only to be replaced by another.

He was pleased with his accomplishments at the university and his publications. He would strut around like a proud peacock when he talked about his conference or how others would come to him for advice. He loved teaching at the university. He relished the respect he received and loved the admiration of his students. He had a love/hate relationship with the administration. He truly wanted them to build a better university; he just wanted them to do it his way. I remember how engrossed and focused he was when he was the publisher of his magazine. He would talk about young artists, writers, and poets from around the country and marvel at their skill or future potential. He used to show me cover illustrations, “What do you think?” “How about this one?” My observation is he really liked that part of his career.

During his last days I realized we no longer lived in the same segment of, or under the same rules of, time. My world consists of a day and a night. The sun rises and the sun sets. There is a time for sleep and a time to be awake. My day is measured. He did not live in those terms. In the end time meant nothing to him. Sun rises and sets were no measure of how he should live; his last times were spent living in a never ending linear time. A day of no nights or daylight, rather just the passing of time. 2am didn’t mean sleep; sleep came when he was tired. The proper time to be awake was when he had enough strength to open his eyes. This was how his last time was measured. During those last days our worlds were already separating.

Men who live large make an impact on a huge number of people. Large personalities often take some extra effort to get to know and to understand. My Dad was a large man in stature and in persona. Large men live large lives and my Dad was no exception. His voice carried through a room with a booming bravado. There is not one person who knew him who didn’t know his raucous laughter. Sadly there will be an emptiness now where he was. The effect of his life and of his passing will be felt far and wide. His impact on his beloved university was large and will be felt for many a graduating class to come. His brothers have lost their larger than life leader and will always be minus one now. His youngest son has lost his father and a large part of his ancestry. There are friends and colleagues who now have a void. When large men go they leave large holes in hearts. His oldest son is trying to find a way to stop the bleeding from the hole in his.

Bye Dad,

Tags: Cars, Family, Life
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Tick, tick, tick…..

September 14th, 2011

I tried to laugh a little more often this year. I need to do it more, a lot more. I hear the clock ticking, it isn’t very loud, but I hear it clearly now. Tick, tick, tick….. The mechanics can’t be stopped but living in the moment, soaking up the very second, is the only way to lower the volume. It is so much harder to do than I expected. I admit my struggle. Living life to the fullest and being an active participant is hard sometimes. Thoughts, plans, obligations, fears, daydreams, and distractions all compete for that one moment in time.

The wry grin of my grandson, the sight of an eagle soaring, and the warmth of her hand as it almost instinctively slides into mine are the moments I try to be actively partaking in. The exhilaration that comes from the incredible pressure created on your back as 400 horse power is released all in a sudden burst, the chuckle I emit as I see her and her own sense of style, or even my rabbit friend joining me for my evening martini out on the veranda, these are the moments that need to be ripped from the hands of the thief. Taking that moment, burning it into your memory, relishing in its’ beauty, and realizing it is these brief flashes of living that make your life rich are the only way to deny the hold that time will try to put on them. I’d rather have one day full of heart wrenching beauty and life than 1,000 days of mediocrity.

His world is different than mine. It is fascinating to see how simple it is. Pockets. The word was first used in England around the year 1250; “poket”. For one of my grandsons shorts are all about the pockets. Pockets aren’t an option they are a requirement. They must be big enough to store many a Hotwheels car, the occasional frog, or some other dirt encrusted item. Grandma taught him about pockets. One afternoon she showed him they were there. You could see the look of understanding cross his face. “You mean I can store stuff in here? Anything? A built in hiding place? Oh man!” No shorts have been on his body since that didn’t sport a variety of pockets. Life for him is simple; the ticking is so quiet it can barely be heard. No pockets; no wear. No question.

We’ve spent over 25% of our time there this year. A place we had all but ignored for a while has come back to the forefront of our lives in recent years. It is the place where solace and peace comes, blood pressure levels fall, and where long walks and soft spoken words become the norm. It is the place where the importance of the evening’s financial reports are replaced by the absolute need to spend some time enjoying the colors of, and the long shadows cast by, the rays of the setting sun. It is the place where the joy of s’mores is discovered, where time is made to have an evening cocktail and enjoy the silence, where silliness in adults is not only allowed it is encouraged. It is the place where couples remember why they are with their partner, where loving glances abound, and where the best day is one spent just being together. It can be rough and rugged, yet it exudes the elegance of the finest country estate. I think the clock’s hands move just a little slower there.

I see the behaviors and mannerisms that define her. Her too cute way of putting her hands in her lap, her laughter as she flirts, and her complete ease and satisfaction with the person she has finally become. I think about her beauty. She is blessed with a beauty that most women aspire just to have a piece of. The clock is kind to her. The accumulation of years for her isn’t the continual degradation of a youthful form; rather it is a maturation process not unlike what fine paintings and wine go through. The result is a richness and subtleness that is the definition of classic beauty and timeless. I think not only of the ravishing creature she is on the outside but also the beauty of the incredible persona she puts out as an example to others. Many fall prey to her charms as they recognize the unbending verve of her character. I think about her strength as she was the only one who could gather them all for a family portrait in advance of a day of fun. They were all invited this year but only one came. Oh the stupidity of youth. I hope they see the error of their ways before the ticking gets too loud.

This year I parted the red sea…..

…..ran into an old friend…..

…..stepped in and took her to brunch when others wouldn’t…..

…..grew forearms and shoulders the size of tree trunks…..

…..had dinner with a Hollywood movie star…..

…..went for a lovely ride…..

…..and was able to witness the beautiful sight of her, unknowing, and capture it for eternity…..

I’m watching him fade. It isn’t bad. No injustice has been done. He isn’t being robbed or denied. The timekeeper hasn’t advanced the hands of the clock at an undue pace but that fact doesn’t make it any easier. It isn’t bad; it’s hard. There is a difference. I’ve received the calls at 2am and I’ve held them in my arms after some unexpected event, it is no stranger to me, but I’ve never been part of the slow paced event I find ourselves in. We looked at each other a couple of times, no words were spoken, we saw it in our eyes, there was an acceptance that winter has arrived.

I took her with me. She’d never been there, never seen the skyscrapers of glass, she hadn’t experienced the hustle and bustle, but I am her hero and I would show her. An interesting experience it was. She? A day that will be recalled for many a year in the future. A day of popcorn, towers that reach to heaven, icons she didn’t know in white dresses, deep purple velvet handrails, trains, planes, and yes even a taxi. Me? While my mind doesn’t acknowledge the fact, the calendar doesn’t lie; it has been almost ½ a lifetime ago since I called these streets my home. The hands of the clock have spun around many a time since the youthful man last frequented here. I took her for high tea to the very place I had taken her grandmother almost a quarter of a century prior when I was trying to convince her to be mine. The elegance and romance was not lost on her then, nor was it lost on her granddaughter these many years later. As I gazed down on the drive where I’d run many a sculpture on wheels, at the restaurant where I’d secreted her to a quiet table in a dark corner, and out over land of my youth I realized it was all familiar; but alas it was no longer my home. I will always be a guest here now.

Another one has left. It happens with more frequency now. We spent some time with the wind in our hair, smells wafting in over the top of the fenders and windscreens, listening to the subdued roar coming from whatever piece of automotive history we were driving. We liked each other. We drank together, we tried to figure out how to put cars back together we’d taken apart, we talked, we dreamed, we laughed. I can’t delete your contact info yet; it’s too soon. If you can, wait for me so you can show me the way; I’m afraid I’ll catch up sooner than I expect to. I’ll see you down the road old friend.

….tick, tick, tick………

Tags: Cars, Family, Ferrari, Life, Ranch, sportscars
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This is……

January 18th, 2011

Glistening skylines with colorful lights standing out from deep hued skies, polished marble, and fountains spewing jets of water 30 feet high. Claustrophobia sufferers hemmed in by the confines of other metropolis’ need not worry; there is no bumping or bustle while walking down a main thoroughfare, we have land and we use it. Wide granite walkways and openness; these are our cities.

Tables with chairs, not booths, and cream colored linens are our restaurants. The rich mahogany paneled walls and wide leather armchairs from the northeast and Midwest are not our décor. Our climate influences attire. Elegant matriarchs with large rings and bracelets join beautiful women in a barely there dresses; a voyeur’s delight. Listings of wild game adorn menus. Duck and quail are normal. Mesquite or pecan grilled isn’t special; it is required. Texas style is natural, smoky, local, and heavily fresh. This is our food.

The squall of an electric guitar, not rock & roll yet not blues. Describing it as folk or pop won’t do. Don’t dare call it country. The husky weight of raspy voices that deliver emotion to the ears and have the ability to reach directly into your heart accompany the instruments. Names like Ezra Charles, Jimmie & Stevie Ray Vaughan, and T-Bone Walker influenced so many of the names we know today. There is an old saying, “The road to success in the music business leads through Austin, Texas. If you don’t stop there you’ll never make it.” Songs of love and heartbreak, songs of yearning and joy, songs of passion; this is our music.

You can see it every day if you’re exploring roads marked with thin red lines on maps. Off in the distance through an open gate you’ll see 2 worn tracks leading away from the road. Many are the number of journeys old pickup trucks have made out into this range. Halfway out will sit the truck, paint beginning to fade from the sun; a few scrapes might show themselves. A dent, maybe, this is a working truck. There is something in the bed, always something, maybe a bale of hay, perhaps a bucket, but something. The keys are in it swinging from the ignition. A rancher will be checking a fence-line, the water well, or just walking. He’s wearing a sandstone colored jacket, jeans, a hat of sort. A pair of well used gloves are stuffed in his back pocket. He’ll walk with a comfort knowing each square inch beneath his feet. He has respect for this land, he knows it, he cares for it. Then if you look close you’ll see him. He is always there. He rode there in the back of the old truck, not back there because he is lesser, but back there because he is not a pet; he is a partner. From the bed of the truck he sees all, smells all, and anticipates the destination. Upon arrival muscles ripple and then a smooth leap; stretched out his front feet touch the ground, before his backs hit the dirt he twists his head, his eyes are already focused on the direction he is heading. He is always out front taking the lead, 50 yards or so but not much farther; he wouldn’t want to be out from under the rancher’s gaze and as a strange dichotomy wouldn’t want the rancher too far away from the protection that he provides back. They have an understanding and mutual respect for each other. Man and dog, as natural as the sun and stars. They will spend all day on the range without complaint. Hard work and independence; these are our morals.

When you put your foot into the stirrup of a saddle and slowly add your weight there is a creaking noise that comes from the leather. It happens every time. As you shift your center of gravity from your left foot to the center your face passes closely by the horse and saddle, the smell hits you; leather, horse, must, and wool. Your steed will step forward half a step to get used to the weight. Right leg swinging over and you can feel life beneath you. The connection begins. As you settle into the saddle you realize the height, see the wispy mane, and notice he has turned his ears back to you listening intently. Reigns in hand, a snort, a shake of the head, then just the slightest forward movement of your hands & hips and the journey begins. Horse and rider; this is our culture.

Our elected leaders start a session with prayer. Nothing is open on the first morning of the week. Driving down a suburban street on a Sunday morning you’ll often see someone standing in front of the entry to a church, with a smile and a wave they’ll invite you in. God made, is part of, and has blessed this state; this is our hope.

Bigger than I ever thought I could afford. Mahogany walls, vaulted ceilings, marks on the wall measuring the life and growth of our children and grandchildren. Comfort measured by the amount of potential air conditioning not the “R” rating of thermo pane windows. Walls turned into a home by the mere presence of the lovely woman who holds it all together. Wildlife and flowers, water and woods. The spot where we shared a picnic, an old friend buried over there, the smells, the breeze, the room to be free. The stillness of my soul when the sun touches the horizon. Our suburban home and our ranch; this is where I live.

172 million acres stretching almost 800 miles wide. Encompassing mountains, deserts, prairies, seashores, open ranges and deep forests. Skies so big you can’t see the boundaries. Stars so bright you can’t help but stop in awe. People with character, people with values, people with hope. Conservative; it makes sense to me. A former president referred to it as “the promised land” I believe he was right.

Texas; this is where I will die.

Tags: Family, Life, Nature, Ranch, Texas
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Memories Of Summer

October 20th, 2010

Fall is heading to Texas. The crispness in the morning air can’t be felt yet, jackets haven’t been pulled from the closets, nor have the last of the flowers disappeared; but it is October and we all know autumn will arrive in force any day now. Some of the leaves are beginning to turn. We’ve seen more deer in the past 3 weeks than we’ve seen in the last 3 months. The days are warm but the heat of summer is gone. A season is ending, another is due.

This spring and summer were all about time at the ranch. We lived there, played there, loved there, and cried there. I look back and remember many parts of this spring and summer with fondness.

March

We lost him in March. His memory still makes me smile. It is a sad smile. There is pain in missing him but I am grateful he was my friend. As I held him that fateful day I promised I’d take him back to the ranch. That final promise has been fulfilled. You’re big and strong; run and bark big dog, run and bark.

April

On a cool morning in early April my granddaughter and I watched the sunrise over the ranch. As night changed to dawn her features became clearer and I was privileged to be able to take in the scene before me. Eyes wide in anticipation awaited a sight never seen before. It was beautiful to see the eagerness on her face as she waited for the first ray to break the horizon. The bright light of the sun was matched by the radiance of her smile the moment the giant fireball rose and signaled the beginning of another day. Side by side we spent the day working, talking, and living. We share a bond she and I, we always have. I continue to be amazed and humbled by the strength of Ellie’s character, her self-imposed work ethic, and the vast amount of love she has for me.

The colors at the ranch were so vivid this year. The spring rains brought a plethora of color not seen there for nearly a decade. The wildflowers were breath taking. They began to bloom in late March, in mid October a few still remained. We saw spikes with orange trumpets 7 feet tall the butterflies loved. Bluebonnets, Firewheels, Paintbrush, and countless others laid a blanket of vibrant beauty across the meadows and through the woods. Every morning walk resulted in the discovery of another new small dot of color.

May

There was a lot of work at the ranch this summer. Many times I felt the fear of self doubt begin to rear its’ ugly head when I wondered if I’d taken on projects to large for one man to tackle. Perseverance, faith, and just trying to show off got me through. I reveled in the feelings of accomplishment and pride I experienced. Verandas, fruit orchards, and new entryways, were just a few of the things I was able to look at and whisper to myself, “Look, you did it.”

Dinner was served out on the veranda surrounded by torchlight. Looking up and seeing one of the true wonders at the ranch; the stars in the Milky Way is an awe inspiring sight. We giggled as the evening serenade was provided by the singing frogs in the pond. She wore a sequined dress in the wilderness and, as only she can do, exuded grace and beauty while surrounded by wildlife and rugged terrain. A portrait was taken, a prank was played, there was laughter and love, then another anniversary was marked in the book of memories. A glorious evening spent with a magnificent woman.

June

The greenery of summer in full swing was upon us and catching the rich red flash of a cardinal in flight was easy. Their song carried across the land and their color against the green broadleaf trees made them easy to spot.

Complicated and multi faceted she is. Often viewed as passive there is a ferocity that lies just below the surface most have no idea exists. That is their loss. Many have been dazzled by the beautiful exterior and overlooked the persona. Her depth is amazing. The versatility unmatchable. From silk and satin to shorts and a tee shirt. A loving mother, wife, grandma, and friend she can change to a ruthless competitor in the blink of an eye. Not unlike its’ owner handmade Italian shotguns are works of art. Exquisite engravings and burled woods often adorn pieces of steel with tolerances measured by the thickness of a human hair. A finely crafted shotgun in the hands of a master is a beautiful thing to see. Perfection in person and machine.

July

Be careful what you wish for, you may get it. He is a 100% USDA prime pool of testosterone. Trains, trucks, and tractors are his world. We try to find the substance that covers him so we can wash it off. It must be very sticky because he can’t walk from the truck to the house without being covered in dirt. I don’t understand the mind of a 2 year old but he must believe he is the luckiest boy on the planet. Surely the ranch was given to him by God himself for it contains everything he could ever imagine wanting. How does he know where the light switches are? He is only 2! The guilty grin on his face when he quietly crawls up into the seat and lowers the bucket with a loud crash is a sight to behold.

There is a feeling of being a part of the land. Partaking; not just a spectator but a participant. Working the soil, coaxing it, cheering it, helping the outcome. It was sunny and hot yet we worked with an unwavering enthusiasm. It was amazing to see all the clusters. Some of them were perfectly formed almost unreal in their symmetry, others had been ravaged by the birds, but all ended up in a bucket. We picked, pulled, cut and hauled. When the first bucket of 2010 was put on the tractor we gave one another a sly grin. The harvest had begun!

August

The independence of a 2 year old boy; he is bigger than most, self aware with his own sense of style and comfortable on his ranch. It happened in an instant, a quick moment in time. Most of these are lost but I was lucky, a camera at hand, unknown by both subjects it was captured forever. Walking in the security of knowing his “GaGa” is near yet taking the lead. Grandson and Grandma taking a walk.

There was the week of celebration as 50 was no longer a number used to measure friends more aged than myself. There was the total confusion I experienced as my son walked through the door surprising me the day of my party. Was I just caught off guard, or has senility begun to set in now that we use words like “half century” to mark my age? I belly laugh when I remember Alexander and I playing “spy eyes”. There is a video of Bradley and me shooting fireworks. He covers his ears then makes his only comment. “Again?” I can still feel the over whelming sense of nostalgia and the tears that flowed down my face as Matt asked if I had a minute then presented me with a ball and glove for my birthday. “You have time for a catch?” So many years have gone by since we used to stand in the yard throwing until dusk turned to darkness. Father & son; he grinned, I cried, how lovely.

September

Standing there we looked at each other not sure if it was real. Were we dreaming? Has there been a mistake? Through hard work, sacrifice, diligence, and courage we did something very few people ever do. We stood on our ranch; our ranch, not the mortgage company’s ranch, our ranch. As partners we can do all.

He came in knowing his last days were upon him. How he knew I’m not aware, but he knew. The place was chosen, it was no accident. The tree would provide the shade he’d need to avoid the sun during the heat of the day. Laying at the edge of the pond a cool refreshing drink would be near. I wonder if he looked at the leaves gently moving in the breeze and enjoyed the rustling song they produced. Did he struggle to hold his head high, or did he slowly lower his grand headgear down and close his eyes? He spent his last moments laying there on the ranch under the tree by the pond. I hope he was comfortable.

Much we have not. We have each other. Our name is our pride. It is us, it is family, it is our values. It defines a bond, a group. A simple mark; not one family member knows it not. We leave our mark on those where we have traveled. We pray it spurs smiles and contentment.

October

Signs of the change begin to arrive. The walnut tree has become the daily destination of squirrels who diligently work at an ever faster pace trying to beat the season and store enough to survive the onslaught of winter. The bright, rich greens are slowly being replaced. Yellows, reds, and crisp silvers are appearing through our forests. Soon those to will pass and mottled browns and muted tans will be our color wheel. Nightly bonfires no longer are just a means of disposing of fallen limbs and brush; now they offer a warmth against the late evening chill. The deer are parading through in larger and larger numbers. Small quantities of leaves fall with each rustle stirred by the moving air. Oh yes the winds of change are blowing. With sadness I feel myself beginning to bid farewell. When I look back I discard those not pleasant and burn these great memories into my soul. I am lucky I was able to be part of any of them. I hope I am able to have more. It was a great summer at the ranch; it was one of the best in my life. Thank you.

I say goodbye and await the new.

Tags: Family, Life, Nature, Ranch
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Dying Dreams

February 10th, 2010

Just under 10 years ago my wife and I spent an agonizing weekend. We made ourselves physically ill. We worried, we contemplated, we doubted, and we dreamed. We were deciding whether or not to take the plunge and buy a piece of property in the country. We knew there would have to be sacrifices made. Those sacrifices might cause us some hardship later. We wondered if we were committed enough to accept these unknown events and work through them.

That decision was as it should be; it was hard. Paying for this little piece of God’s earth would be even harder. We weren’t afraid of hard work, nor were we afraid of giving up in order to get a payout at a later time. The instant gratification mentality exhibited by people who believe they are entitled to everything right now is not something we subscribe to. Things that come easy never have as much value as those things that take investment and hard work. If you want a glaring example ask a car dealer about the shape most leased cars are in versus cars that are owned.

My wife and I have been blessed with courage. It’s not something a lot of people have. We aren’t timid people. We’ve moved halfway across the country leaving everything we knew, and all of our support systems, behind. We’ve sailed the open waters of the ocean in boats over a decade and a half old. We’ve launched businesses from an idea on a scrap of paper.

We couldn’t afford it, but we had a dream and the courage to pursue it.

I grew up in the Midwest and the Northeast. Texas; I never thought I’d say it, but I really love it here. I love the geographical variety of this state. You can have breakfast in the 4^th largest city in the country and enjoy a picnic lunch in country so remote that large predatory cougars are the top of the food chain.

The Stacy Ranch is an odd shaped piece of property 125 miles from Dallas, 125 miles from Houston, and yes, 125+ miles from Austin. It’s easy to dive right in and start changing a piece of land to suit your needs but we spent a bit of time thinking about our long term dreams and visions. We’ve drawn an imaginary line across the property where it makes the turn. The “Front 40” is ours. We’ve domesticated some portions of it. We mow parts of it. There are benches in a variety of places, a barn, and a home site. We’ve run water lines totaling over a mile in length. The vineyard was planted 9 years ago. If a tree comes down most of the time it ends up as firewood. There are gates and fences, faucets and fixtures, along with cultured stone and roads. The Front 40 belongs to man.

The Back 40 is a different story. No electricity, no graveled roads, no structures. When the earth shook from the oak tree with an 8 foot diameter trunk crashing to the ground 5 years ago it stayed right there. No firewood pile for this fallen giant, now it is a refuge for the snakes, rodents, and rabbits that call its cover home. It’s a good feeling when you’re walking through a nicely manicured city park with the sun on your shoulders. The claustrophobic feelings of office buildings disappear and you can enjoy some time outside. It’s nice. Our ranch is far enough out that the Back 40 is still a wild place. When the sun is on your shoulders and you’re strolling through the meadow, or walking the path wandering across the back forest, you know you’re out. Not outside; out. Out of the circle of man’s touch. I like it there but I’m never in my element. The back half of the ranch is not for man, it is God’s, it is wild.

I don’t hear very well any longer but I still have a pretty good nose. There is a smell at the ranch. It is slightly musty, organic, and perhaps dusty. There is sweetness to it not unlike the smell of new mown hay. Unfamiliar to those accustomed to the city. Pleasant? Yes. It reminds me of my younger days. Days filled with the smells of horses, the scents of leather bridles and gloves, and the aromas of distant farmer’s fields brought in by the summer breezes. I think smell has always been a powerful sense for me. I drive my wife crazy, although she loves me too much to say anything about it, with my passion for leather. I must have 10 pairs of leather gloves, 3 or 4 leather briefcases, jackets and sweaters with leather patches, all because I love the smell. Her perfume and skin is an intoxicating aroma that has stirred me from my sleep more times than I care to admit. All of my sportscars are set to run just a little rich. Why? Well first it’s better to run rich than lean, but also because I love the pungent, carbon rich, smell of unburned fuel emitting from the tailpipes.

In the past I’ve gone a year or two without feeling any passion for the ranch but it always comes back. It comes back in memories, dreams, and hopes. She’s always there in all of them.

My memories remind me of her strength and toughness when the vision of her raising the walls of our barn return. How can she be so pretty and elegant yet be so tough? I laugh when I remember the time she jumped out of the truck, no fear, ready to take on a 1 ton Texas Longhorn bull and the bull, figuring he’d been bested, ran from the fury. I sigh and smile when I remember the day she curled up next to me and took a nap under the big tree which overhangs the pond, its big limbs providing cooling shade on a warm summer’s day.

In those dreams she’s always there. Her femininity shines as I see her in a pretty sundress and hat going for a walk with me. Her delicate hand tucked safely in mine. I bask in the boundless expanse of her love as I envision her watching over her grandchildren as they romp across her land playing some made up game on a future afternoon. The dreams are so real I can actually hear the crickets over by the pond, I feel the warm summer evening breeze across my face, and I can see the firelight glinting from her eyes as I sit across the table from her enjoying a dinner under the vast expanse of the Milky Way.

My hopes are that I can somehow be anywhere close to the man she sees me as. That I can manage and maintain the ranch in a way that God will smile upon. That I’ll have the opportunity to live these dreams with her for many years to come.

The values for ranch property in Texas have changed in ways that most Wall Street brokers could only hope to match. If we couldn’t afford it back then we definitely couldn’t afford it now. We had the courage. It was hard at times and we doubted ourselves. We did it together, the two of us as one united front.

We had a dream.

But some dreams must die.

Our dream is about to go away.

In 5 months, 2 weeks, and 6 days the mortgage on the Stacy Ranch will be paid in full. We will close the back cover and dream the dream of buying a ranch no more for as Mother promised you as she tucked you into bed……some dreams do come true.

Tags: Family, Life, Nature, Ranch
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Another one is infected….

October 15th, 2009

It all started years ago. It was before the internet, before cell phones, it was before Paul McCartney

formed a band and sang solo. Maybe it came from my Dad he liked cars, maybe it came from me, maybe it was a gift from God himself, who knows?

I was a pubescent boy when I first heard the gurgling exhaust note of a European car. The symphony of sound they created as they pulled away from a stoplight sent shivers down my spine. They all sound different but nothing sounds like them. I’m not sure how to describe it; they gurgle. Every time that sound reached my ears my head would snap from side to side, my eyes desperately scanning the streets around me, searching for what I hoped would be another never before seen artwork of steel & chrome. Some were swoopy and little; they all were different. They came from faraway places with exotic names. We called them “sports cars” because, while they could be used as transportation, they were built for fun.

When I was an early teenager the holy land was a place in the southern suburbs of Chicago. It was a small, off the beaten path, dark, and oddly built building that housed an independent repair shop owned by a man named Rick. He specialized in little foreign cars with high revving engines, long muscled brutes with big V12’s, and various other cars most of which were from “across the pond”. Rick’s Sunbeam Tiger usually sat, nose out, waiting for the call to go run. I remember a few things about his place like it was yesterday, which is pretty good considering how little I can remember from yesterday. I remember the smell of oil, fuel and exhaust. Why did it always smell a little better there than in a garage full of Chevys? My Dad would take an old Mercedes Benz to Rick’s place for service. Dad always got there late in the day often armed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I think the bottle was Dad’s attempt to bribe Rick into lowering the bill. He and Rick would sit over in the corner drinking whiskey and talking about who knows what. I can still picture Rick’s dog, who was mostly a wild wolf from the mountains of Colorado mixed with some domestic canine. He would keep an eye on me as I wandered from car to car.

These were the days of wire wheels, carburetors, and wood steering wheels. Names like Jaguar, Triumph, Jensen, Alfa, Fiat, Ferrari, & Maserati were the names I whispered. Astons and Austins, Bug-eyes and Bugattis, Lolas and Lambos, Spitfires and Sunbeams; it was a grand time to like cars. There were scantily clad chromed women adorning the radiators and handmade cloisonné badges proclaiming the manufacturer’s name. Interiors were covered in acres of leather all of it rolled or pleated. Carpets were Wilton wool. Oh the smell was pure heaven. Wooden dashboards had gauges inset. Shiny chromed bezels surrounded black or white faces with white or red needles. There were no “idiot lights”, no true enthusiast would ever trust a light. Oil pressure, oil temperature, water temp, amps, volts, rpm, fuel pressure, vacuum, and many other functions were all monitored by these little dials. I can still remember the odd feeling of seeing cars where the hood and the fenders were one unit so the entire front end was rotated forward in order to get to the engine.

The obsession that started then has gone on now for years soon to be measured by the half century mark. Over the years many of these moving sculptures have spent time in my stewardship. Recently an attempt was made to name them all. The number is staggering, embarrassing, un-nerving, and humbling. Another acquisition or two and it will take three digits to count them all. Some of them were as new as could be; others required a huge imagination to be considered anything other than scrap. Oh my, they were so much fun. A few were the definition of frustration. Some of them were true history. A couple were my friends. Some are missed to this day.

There was the GT6 that shed its wheel on Lake Shore Drive. The Reynard that tried to kill me. The Stag that was so eager to get to its new home it tried to pass me by as I was towing it to my garage. The Z in which I stole that first kiss. The 275 I drove in the funeral procession as I followed my friend who was killed in his E. The 6 in which I took her for her first ride in a convertible. Many a fond picture has been burned into my memory. The sunset in the mountains of Tennessee behind the wheel of an Italian V12. The sound of the exhaust echoing off of the walls of an old covered bridge in southern Indiana. Seeing the firelight glint off the chrome bumper at a campsite in the boundary water country. Ripping down a mountain road, tires throwing gravel out over the valley, wondering just how close I was to the edge of the cliff wall. Watching the sun break the surface of the ocean as I laid my head in the crook of my arm resting it on the roof of another one of these beauties.

Oh yes, the memories are rich.

The beautiful blonde who took a chance on being my bride has seen them come and go. On more than one occasion she has rolled her eyes and gone back inside after I’ve sheepishly said, “It was lonely and followed me home. No kidding, honest.” Or steadfastly shouted, “No!” when I’ve just merely mentioned the name of some make or model she hasn’t heard of, only to later say something like “Where in God’s name are you going to put it?”

I’ve tried to share my passion with my family. My son learned to love boats and the water when we had boats and the car bug never bit him. My oldest grandson would rather spend the day conquering the world with some electronic contraption. My grand-daughter loves to go for rides, but the sickness, err, passion isn’t there.

My 2 year old grandson has been walking by some of my artworks on wheels. He runs his hands along their flannel covered sides and clearly says, “Car”. His name, Bradley, was the name of a sports car in the late 60’s. So the other day I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride. As he nodded his head I told him to get his hat and meet me in the garage. My beautiful daughter and his grandmother weren’t quite sure of this plan but we were too far along to stop at that point. He was quiet as we buckled him in. He watched intently as the 35 year old engine roared to life and I reached out to tap the oil pressure gauge, a habit performed by all pilots and sports car owners. He didn’t move a muscle. Even grandma Bradley with short hair thought he was frozen with fear. As we backed out of the driveway he slowly waved his little hand “bye” and we were off. I tried talking to him as we drove around the block but he wouldn’t answer. His face was covered by his oversized baseball cap. When we got back to the house I asked him if he wanted to go again. A small nod of the head, a wave to grandma, and we were off. I thought he might be saying something so I leaned over to get closer to him. That’s when I heard him. I admit it, a tear came to my eye as he turned to me and said, “Vrrrrrr Vrrrrrrrrooooooommm”.

dave-signature

Tags: Cars, Family, Ferrari, sportscars, triumph
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The Hunter and The Hunted

September 15th, 2009

Ever since I was a young man I’ve enjoyed going for drives out in the country. Driving top down in a convertible, or at least with the windows down in a sedan, is the only way to go. You can hear bird songs, insects chirping, and the melancholy sounds from the cattle. The smells of new mown hay, the freshness of a stand of pine trees, and the delicate aroma of life come wafting in. These are the moments when I feel part of the earth, not merely a spectator just watching it go by. This is the time my head clears and my shoulders suddenly lose the burden they have been carrying.

I love this time.

Rain came to south and central Texas during the night. The parched soil eagerly absorbed the life giving moisture. It came in quantities that created small areas of run-off; pockets of water collecting in depressions. Early in the morning rodents, snakes, insects, deer, and all matter of wildlife emerged to quench their thirst. It was a celebration. Life would go on. Rain has come!

Then the hunters arrived.

Central and south Texas play host to the largest hawk migration in North America. Kettles of hawks numbering in the hundreds can be seen riding the thermals in the Texas sky. North of Corpus each year the count exceeds three quarters of a million birds of prey soaring through the area. Mid September is the peak time of this migration with over 30 different species of migrating raptors calling the state of Texas their temporary residence.

The year long drought in Texas, the migration, and the rain falling during the night and thus the clearing at sunrise created the perfect storm for the hunters. Usually Texas Hawk seen soaring high in the sky hawks and eagles were abundant at eye level. With every turn I saw the flash of feathers. Great wings stretched out, their spans riding the ground effect cushion of air just over the tops of the wild grasses. From all points they came; across the valleys, down the hillsides, from the tree tops, and through the fields. Big birds so close I looked them in the eye. Talons held at the ready. To be small, on the ground, and to move meant sure death.

In addition to the nutrients the rain washed into the rivers it also awakened the insects creating a smorgasbord for largemouth bass. As I took a break from my drive and gazed into a river I could see swarms of insects hovering at the surface. The smooth plane of the fast moving water was broken by a large black shadow emerging from the depths. It happened so fast all I saw clearly was the large tail of a 20+ inch largemouth flick slowly sending it back down into the murky waters as it took one of the flying bugs with it.

The hunters did not arrive only from the sky or sea, they waited in the wood. The forests helped to conceal their intent. Pine needles carpet the ground; dropped from the trees above who, due to a lack of rain, could no longer spare the water to keep them green. These same needles muffle the sounds of padding paws as they slink through the shadows in search of prey.

As I crest a hill out of the corner of my eye I see a deer dart across the road to the cover of the other side. As I feather the brakes to bleed off some speed I smile and think to myself, “where there is one deer a second will surely follow.” True to form moments later a second smaller doe bounds from the woods on the left and crosses at full speed to the right.

I have seen much. While not in the winter of my life I’m also no longer called a young man. In all my years I have never witnessed the scene that was about to unwind in the next few seconds. I don’t believe I would be disappointed if I never saw it again

Racing at full speed, low to the ground just prior to the leap onto the back of its prey coyote a coyote came crashing through the brush to the left. Razor sharp teeth bared, its tail fully extended acting as a rudder in midair to help with sudden turns, the adrenalin in its system would naturally dilate its pupils so it could gain the upmost advantage of sight; singularly focused on one thing, the running deer. The time span of a heartbeat, not seconds but tenths of seconds, separated it from victory.

Then it all changed.

While I don’t know the thought process, instinct, or all the details, I do know what happened.

Those ears that can hear a leaf rustle hundreds of yards away heard a sound foreign to it. A sound of danger. The sound of its only predator; man. No mufflers, no catalytic converters, just straight stainless steel pipes leading to two small baffles. Those ears heard the scream of an Italian V12 engine down shifting.

“STOP!” “TURN!” “RUN!”

And in the blink of an eye the chase was over.

I know it was how God intended it. I know there was no malice, no evil thoughts. I know it was as it should be.

I know all that.

I don’t know why, but I also know I’m glad he turned around and the doe lived to see another day.

dave-signature

Tags: Cars, Ferrari, Nature, sportscars, Texas
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Things That Stir My Soul

August 20th, 2009

The rich reds that flash against the muted earth tones of the Texas countryside as a cardinal flies.
My son when he calls for no reason at all. The boy who turned his back has become a man with morals and a strong character that enable him to move from the past and anticipate the new. I’d like to think I had something to do with how tall he stands.
The overwhelming of the senses that happens when driving a big, powerful, sports car. Windows down. The smell of fuel and oil. Engine and exhausts emitting a symphonic scream. Your surroundings rushing at you so fast that tunnel vision occurs and your peripheral sight degrades to flashes of color. The feel of the tightly wrapped leather steering wheel. Ahhhhh, glorious.

Dave in '80 Ferrari

Dave & 400 in TN

The reflection of light when it hits the beautiful auburn hair of my daughter just right. A color so luxurious it can’t be described.
The sight of a flag flying on a farm or ranch house out in the country. Patriots; may God bless you.
The people, men and women, who can truly mark their names in the column titled “friends”. People who even when I’m wrong, right, stupid, witty, vulgar, sophisticated, lethargic, passionate, despondent, or joyous will stand behind me and proclaim to whoever passes by, “I’ve got this man’s back and he can’t change that.” There aren’t many, but their conviction, dedication, and love humbles me.
A moonrise in the big Texas sky. Slowing down to drink in the beauty of this sight; how serene.
The power of just one smile, kiss, look, or word from my grand-daughter. 100% unconditional love; oh to be worthy.
Dusk in the back meadow of our ranch. That fleeting moment when it isn’t quite day, yet night has not arrived. Quiet descends.
My wife’s profile when she doesn’t know I’m looking. All my mind keeps saying is, “perfect, perfect, perfect, ……….”
Horses on the run. Nostrils flared, tails raised high, stretching out, hooves in absolute rhythm. If you’ve seen it there is a punching motion in the first 3 or 4 steps, almost digging in before the explosion of speed comes. The definition of poetry in motion.
Realizing that God was there even when I swore he wasn’t.
When she holds me tight, tilts her head up, gazes into my eyes, and very softly tells me she loves me. How can anything be wrong?
Old books, when did we stop reading? Old furniture, how many have rested themselves in that chair? Old trees, how many boys have climbed to the top trying to impress a young girl? Old houses, how many families have seen triumph and tragedy within these walls? Old people, how many mistakes could have been avoided if we’d only asked? Oh the stories they’d tell if you’d only listen.
Shauna
My memories of the Cape. Horsehoe crabs at the edge of the surf, wind, clams, big dunes, independance, and new smells brought from across the sea.
People who make the investment, who actually get to know me. Still water runs deep? Ever seen how deep the water is at the very base of a huge waterfall?
Young or old, big or small. Pups; I like them all.
The angel who came on a summer day to the shore of an Adirondack lake and delivered a victory to a little boy who hadn’t seen many of those in his time. Soon they’ll be marking that day with a half century mark.
The way her hand fits perfectly in mine.

Tags: Cars, Family, Life, Ranch, sportscars, Texas
Posted in Cars, Family, Misc, Ranch, Texas | 3 Comments »

Spring Is Coming….

February 24th, 2009

Maybe it’s the time of year; outside it is quiet and brown, winter is ending, there is hope of new growth in the coming spring.

Maybe it’s the years piling up and the realization that there are more of those years in the past than I can hope for in the future.

Maybe it’s the romantic inside me that steals away for long periods of time and exposes himself to the light of day when the pent up feelings can stay hidden for not another hour.

Maybe it’s all of those. My mind is wandering through, pondering about, and reveling in the thoughts of life.
Spring is coming.

I had to drive out of town for business recently. In days past I would have checked the internet for the shortest route making plans to leave at just the precise moment where I could blaze along wide paved interstates full of vanilla scenery, rest stops, and other drivers in their zombie like state; their brains turning to mush with the lack of stimulation. There would be no time for stopping, the schedule must be kept, the average speed mustn’t fall below the speed limit. Those days have gone now. Happily I admit I haven’t missed them once. Now I shuffle through my stack of maps and travel guides searching for the perfect route. Small little red lines, sometimes dashed lines, call my name. I still take a fairly direct route, but speed is not the leading reason for road choice.I hope to stumble upon some sense of normalcy, some place where things just make sense. Rejuvenation of the soul and finding something real is the goal.

Driving northwest out of Houston the landscape changes and it changes fast. Ah Texas, what a place. Within 30 miles a sky full of 737’s carrying people to another meeting quickly becomes the domain of eagles soaring over their grounds. They are the F16’s of the Texas sky. They own the air; nothing enters it without their permission. As the sun rises I notice a few take to the sky riding the thermals as the sun warms the earth and creates towers of rising currents. We have many species of hawks. They outnumber the eagles 10 or 20 to 1; yet they all steer clear of an eagle soaring overhead on the hunt. The eagle is King.

I find myself thinking about this huge state and the impact it has made on me in the past 20 years. As you drive through the Texas countryside something seems different, maybe domesticated, almost festive. Then it hits you. These are proud people. They are patriots. It isn’t the ranch or house that flies the American and Texas flag that catches your attention; it’s the one that doesn’t. They are everywhere out in the middle of nowhere. This time of year the crisp red, white, and blue colors make a stark contrast to the muted browns and mottled greens.

I grew up in liberal northern households; I don’t mind, they have a right to what they believe. I do miss the opportunity to talk about some of those issues though. Those discussions weren’t wise, heated words and personal attacks were always the result. That subject matter is best left to others.

In Texas I have found people with ideals that I respect. These are the epitome of hard working, god loving, ethical, and moral citizens. If you pull over to the side of the road and ask the rancher working on his fence if he’d like the government to stop by and give him a hand you’ll likely get a response that’s has something to do with him not minding the work and his belief that he can do it; it might be hard but he has faith. With a confused look on his face he’ll say, “It’s not the government’s fence, why should some other taxpayer have to fix it?” There is an independent spirit here that thrives. Nobody here talks about needing bailout money, they only shake their head and wonder why their tax dollars need to pay someone else’s mortgage when for years they’ve saved, worked, and sacrificed just to pay their own.

When you’re driving through Texas and you come upon a slow car ahead of you they will often pull over to the shoulder to let you by. We don’t call that dangerous; we call that kindness. By the way, they’ll offer a friendly smile and wave to you as you pass by.

Driving through towns with names like New Ulm, Frelsburg, and Lone Oak small farms and large ranches are the backdrop to Texas Longhorn cattle swinging their monstrous headgear side to side. Horses graze behind miles of wooden fences while goats, sheep, and yes even an emu or two enjoy the day.

Wildlife abounds here. Regardless of the time of day I see deer each time I drive this route. They’re not as big as their northern cousins but just as enjoyable to catch a fleeting glimpse of as they race across open ground towards the next patch of cover and safety. Armadillos, skunks, and opossum are a common sight. I’m reminded that while man has been in Texas for 100’s of years this is still a wild place; rattle snakes will often cross the road and cover the width of an entire lane as they do. Coyotes can be heard at night howling to their brothers across the valley. Cats, puma and bobcats, still slink through the stands of live oak and mesquite. Each bridge I cross as I drive my little road hovers over ponds or streams swarming with large mouth bass.

Oh yes, nature is thriving here.

I wonder about friends current, those that are now gone, and those who I’m sure think my same thoughts…I need to call. Is it just me or do they see the same thing in the field across the way? A live oak dominates the area. Boughs stretching out well over 40 feet, so heavy that gravity has pulled them to the ground. This grand old man has been here through most of the entries in a high school history book. When I married the love of my life, he was here. When I took my first step, he was looking over this land. In 1861 when the 11th Texas cavalry chased Unionists through this very county did they pass by this tree? He was smaller and younger then, but he was there. I wonder how many couples have stolen away on a late summer evening listening to the crickets, speaking soft words, and watched the sunset while perched on one of the great arms emerging from this giant.

Crossing through an area North of LaGrange on a road so small it isn’t even on most maps I look for a familiar sight; two old horses one white and one brown with 3 white socks. They’re always together; friends, mates, who knows? I’ve seen them over a dozen times. They live in a pasture exceeding 10 acres yet they are never more than 10 feet apart. They share a bond.

Ahead there is a rancher working on his water well. I didn’t want to interrupt him but I wondered if I stopped to say hello, I’d be miles from nowhere, would others think I was not being careful? If they were here would they worry about their well being? Texas, you have to love it. We’re armed. He has a gun handy and so do I. If we talked about this subject we’d probably both laugh at the thought of making our country safer by outlawing all the guns. Wouldn’t it be great? All the law abiding people wouldn’t have protection and only the law breakers would have the guns. Yep, that makes sense to me!

I thought about this water well repairing rancher’s reaction to this subject when I remembered a news show where a guest was saying that we need to control guns because they are the deadliest weapons. The statements and application of logic that some of these people use is beyond me. Considering that a motor vehicle kills or injures people at a rate of over 100 to 1 versus a gun I wonder what the rancher would say when you showed up to take his Ford F250!

Argue it anyway you want but get over it. It’s our right and it makes sense, period.

Outside of Winchester I always draw a sigh and my heart goes quiet for a second as I come upon a scene. At the top of a hill is a steel statue of a horse and a cowboy on his knees, hat in hand. He’s kneeling in front of a cross. Respect and faith; nothing more needs to be said.

There is an area in the foothills of West Central Texas that always makes me smile and then launch into a belly laugh. It’s the place where on a spring afternoon I took a picture of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen while she was sitting in a field of Texas wildflowers.

That’s the smile part.

The belly laugh comes from the look on her face when a 6 foot rattle snake crawled out of the flowers after I helped her back into the car.

Why she ever agreed to marry me I’ll never know but I drop to my knees often and say a word of thanks for her having the courage to take a chance.

The Colorado River wanders in and out of view as I begin to enter the Lost Pines area. Loblolly pine trees that live here are separated by over 80 miles from their nearest relatives in East Texas. The legend is Native-American runners carried seedlings from East Texas to comfort a homesick girl who married into a Central Texas tribe. Botanists say they are left over from glacier activity.

I like the first reason better.

As I look at the beautiful scenes around me my mind wanders.

I also see the headlines. I see the frightening trends we march ever onward to. I see the lack of responsibility of one’s own actions. Around this country I see apathy. Why should I work hard when I can get someone else who works hard to pay my way? If you make me be an individual then I have to rest on my words and actions. You might actually hold me accountable. If I’m quiet and allow us to fall into this homogenized society with socialistic agendas at least I won’t have to put forth any effort. Life will be grey.

You can never truly appreciate the view from the top of the highest peak unless you’ve seen that peak from the bottom of the valley below. I hope we wake up and choose color, rich vibrant color. I hope we stand up, be right, be wrong, but at least we do it ourselves and don’t ask others to do our share.

It is dry here. Dangerously so. Lives are at stake. The native grasses are trying to maintain a foothold. The rabbits and rodents are losing weight from the lack of tender vegetation to consume. The ground is cracking. Open fissures cross the land and the wind picks up dust from their crevasses throwing it high into the air. It has been over 140 days since some of this area has seen moisture.

….but Spring is coming.

Tags: Life, Politics, Texas
Posted in Family, Nature, Politics, Texas | 1 Comment »

“the photos are coming, the photos are coming!”

October 8th, 2008

A few of the other teams have sent us some photos they took during the rally.

As we were traveling along the Natchez Trace we entered a national forest, I can’t remember the name, it was peaceful, quiet and beautiful. This serene scene was shattered by “the mad avaitor” as he is now known. This cropduster appeared between the trees at a altitude of around 20 feet and proceeded to buzz all the cars. Dave remembers seeing in the rearview mirror smoke curling off of all the car’s tires that were behind us. Everybody panicked and stomped on the brakes!

The Mad Avaitor

John Steger is a nice man, a true enthusiast, and a nut. John owns the MG that has doors which close when they feel like it and, even worse, are known to open at highway speeds. A quirky car owned by a quirky guy. We are so very glad we met him. Years from now he’ll bring a smile to our faces each time we think of him.

John