GOT MY GOAT: Before (top) and after (bottom).
THE KID'S ALL RIGHT
TRAVELING WEST FROM San Antonio, I noticed a sign for the Davy Crockett Monument in Ozona, Texas. Don't really know much about Davy Crockett. So, sensing an opportunity, I pulled into the truck stop on the next exit. I asked directions to the monument it at the front desk of the Super-8.
I must have got my signals crossed somewhere between the desk clerk’s Texas twang and my New England ears. She said it's six miles that away.
TRAVELING WEST FROM San Antonio, I noticed a sign for the Davy Crockett Monument in Ozona, Texas. Don't really know much about Davy Crockett. So, sensing an opportunity, I pulled into the truck stop on the next exit. I asked directions to the monument it at the front desk of the Super-8.
I must have got my signals crossed somewhere between the desk clerk’s Texas twang and my New England ears. She said it's six miles that away.
At least, that’s what I thought I heard.
Six miles? I went 10 - that away down a road that varied from unpaved to used-to-be paved, along a country route that was surrounded by a curious mix of small ranches - sheep, goat and cattle - interspersed with some dry oil wells. I passed no cars. Saw no town or big statue. So, lost, I finally turned around.
I spied a pack of goats I had passed on the way out there and stopped, marveling at these goats’ ability to make a meal from cactus and mud, when, about 20 paces away, I saw a adult male goat with its head poking through the fence. Not one to miss an opportunity for an easy photo, I snapped away. But then I realized that it was caught in the fence, with its horns ruling out any escape.
If I left it there, it was going to be a coyote casserole after dark. As I approached to appraise the situation, it began thrashing and bleating wildly. Maybe I didn't want to get too close. But then, the goat’s family split away from the pack and came over near the fence, bleating at me in concert..
Six miles? I went 10 - that away down a road that varied from unpaved to used-to-be paved, along a country route that was surrounded by a curious mix of small ranches - sheep, goat and cattle - interspersed with some dry oil wells. I passed no cars. Saw no town or big statue. So, lost, I finally turned around.
I spied a pack of goats I had passed on the way out there and stopped, marveling at these goats’ ability to make a meal from cactus and mud, when, about 20 paces away, I saw a adult male goat with its head poking through the fence. Not one to miss an opportunity for an easy photo, I snapped away. But then I realized that it was caught in the fence, with its horns ruling out any escape.
If I left it there, it was going to be a coyote casserole after dark. As I approached to appraise the situation, it began thrashing and bleating wildly. Maybe I didn't want to get too close. But then, the goat’s family split away from the pack and came over near the fence, bleating at me in concert..
I'm easy. I was sold.
I got some wire cutters from the trailer, grabbed the panicky goat by the horns and cut the wires holding him.
I wanted to stick around, kibitz, you know, meet the kids, but this goat was having none of it, shambling off, bleating all the while. So I also shambled off, in search of Davy Crockett, set in stone.
Located in the heart of Crockett County, Texas, the Crockett Monument was no great shakes, but Ozona itself has some real nice houses – like Beverly Hills nice! I did learn (by reading the back of the monument) that Davy Crockett was a Congressman from Tennessee before he surrendered himself to history at the Alamo. I had thought he was just something like an itinerant muleskinner in the wrong place at the wrong time. Should’ve rented that movie (or maybe actually have paid just a little more attention in American History class!).
After leaving Ozona and continuing west through the Pecos (didn't Tony Soprano mention Judge Roy Bean last Sunday?), I encountered some huge windmill farms atop the striking-looking buttes abutting Interstate-10.
I got some wire cutters from the trailer, grabbed the panicky goat by the horns and cut the wires holding him.
I wanted to stick around, kibitz, you know, meet the kids, but this goat was having none of it, shambling off, bleating all the while. So I also shambled off, in search of Davy Crockett, set in stone.
Located in the heart of Crockett County, Texas, the Crockett Monument was no great shakes, but Ozona itself has some real nice houses – like Beverly Hills nice! I did learn (by reading the back of the monument) that Davy Crockett was a Congressman from Tennessee before he surrendered himself to history at the Alamo. I had thought he was just something like an itinerant muleskinner in the wrong place at the wrong time. Should’ve rented that movie (or maybe actually have paid just a little more attention in American History class!).
After leaving Ozona and continuing west through the Pecos (didn't Tony Soprano mention Judge Roy Bean last Sunday?), I encountered some huge windmill farms atop the striking-looking buttes abutting Interstate-10.
Hundreds upon hundreds of windmills.
Now I know that the crowd on Martha’s Vineyard doesn’t want any windmills anywhere near Nantucket Sound (something about Teddy K having a problem seeing while sailing), but I’ve got to say that all I see when I spot a windmill farm…..is the future!
Now I know that the crowd on Martha’s Vineyard doesn’t want any windmills anywhere near Nantucket Sound (something about Teddy K having a problem seeing while sailing), but I’ve got to say that all I see when I spot a windmill farm…..is the future!
* * *
In the good news department, I had made arrangements to bring the trailer into a Jiffy Lube sometime before I left San Antonio. Nothing serious. Just a precaution. I wanted them to look at the undercarriage, maybe give it a good greasing. And I finally got it over there just before I hit the road. The guy in charge at the garage took me down into the pit and showed me the springs, axles, etc. and said they looked “in pretty good shape.” Hope he’s right. After all, the trailer is 38 years old.
* * *
At a truck stop today, in Sonora, Texas I finally paid three bucks for a gallon of gas (really $2.99.999, But why quibble?). That shock was offset by the fabulous double cheeseburger I had inside. For anyone who’s eaten at the redoubtable Galley Diner in South Boston (and you know you are!), this Lone Star delight rivals the giant “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on Rumpy’s menu at his P Street eatery. (Be afraid, Rumpy! Be very afraid!)
At a truck stop today, in Sonora, Texas I finally paid three bucks for a gallon of gas (really $2.99.999, But why quibble?). That shock was offset by the fabulous double cheeseburger I had inside. For anyone who’s eaten at the redoubtable Galley Diner in South Boston (and you know you are!), this Lone Star delight rivals the giant “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on Rumpy’s menu at his P Street eatery. (Be afraid, Rumpy! Be very afraid!)
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