Thursday, September 28, 2006
From Old Habits to Good News
Old habits are hard to break. My left foot still itched to hit the dimmer switch on the floorboard this morning as I met a car in the pre-dawn drive to town. I remembered the first night I drove Daddy’s little Datsun, and almost stomped a hole in the floor trying to dim the lights, to no avail. What old fogey would think to look for such a control on the signal light lever? And what kid would believe where it used to be?
The first car I drove was a ‘28 model Buick convertible. It not only had a foot-feed (accelerator for you young-uns), but a short lever in the middle of the steering wheel for speed control by hand. I don’t remember if it ever had a starter, as we usually turned the motor over with a crank, or gave it a little push. When the brakes wore out, we just geared it down or dragged our collective feet. It may have been the strangest convertible yet, as Daddy soon converted it into a pickup, which I have written about before.
This morning’s drive into Albuquerque ended up in Taos, a quiet artsy town where we strolled the streets along the square and had a delicious lunch at Michael’s. Some of the mountain peaks glowed with new-fallen snow, and colors of gold, orange and red among the varied shades of green were a delightful change of scenery. Driving along the rushing Rio Grande made us wish for a raft, and perhaps stronger bodies from bygone days.
The only memorabilia from the day’s outing is a bag of delicious apples from an orchard in the most enchanting location, a secluded valley beneath towering cliffs of sandstone. Idyllic, serene.
Stopping at the mailbox on the way home, I received a letter announcing the upcoming project of paving our gravel road, the perfect end of a perfect day.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
The first car I drove was a ‘28 model Buick convertible. It not only had a foot-feed (accelerator for you young-uns), but a short lever in the middle of the steering wheel for speed control by hand. I don’t remember if it ever had a starter, as we usually turned the motor over with a crank, or gave it a little push. When the brakes wore out, we just geared it down or dragged our collective feet. It may have been the strangest convertible yet, as Daddy soon converted it into a pickup, which I have written about before.
This morning’s drive into Albuquerque ended up in Taos, a quiet artsy town where we strolled the streets along the square and had a delicious lunch at Michael’s. Some of the mountain peaks glowed with new-fallen snow, and colors of gold, orange and red among the varied shades of green were a delightful change of scenery. Driving along the rushing Rio Grande made us wish for a raft, and perhaps stronger bodies from bygone days.
The only memorabilia from the day’s outing is a bag of delicious apples from an orchard in the most enchanting location, a secluded valley beneath towering cliffs of sandstone. Idyllic, serene.
Stopping at the mailbox on the way home, I received a letter announcing the upcoming project of paving our gravel road, the perfect end of a perfect day.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Gypsy Blood?
“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie...” ran through my head upon seeing the cement block tombstone of a lady’s pet cat today. The scene was acres of grass dotted with cactus and sagebrush in open range land, backed by several mountain ranges. The 40-acre plot we had come to see included a nice mobile home with two decks, a well/storage building and camper trailer, well off the beaten track. Spacious. Quiet. Tranquil. Dream like.
Memories of other mobile homes came to mind. When I was about two years old, our family of seven lived in a tiny trailer house north of the little Spring Grove school near Gainesville, Texas.
At perhaps age 14, neighbor Nova and I slept in one a bit larger in the yard of their farm home, dreaming magnificent dreams.
As newlyweds, Harry and I bought the cutest one-bedroom red-and-white doll house I had ever seen, with just enough space on the hall dressing table for a baby’s bassinet when Joe was born.
While our aerial spraying business was floundering, our family of six lived in a two-bedroom trailer in Spur, Texas. What an exciting year that turned out to be!
After buying the Trent family farm, we added to the small house by parking a two-bedroom trailer near the back door. It housed our three girls awhile, then Joe and Rhonda, Mama and Daddy, and eventually Tom and Peggy when they pulled it to Odessa during oil boom days.
Retired from farming after the kids were grown and gone, we moved to a three-bedroom mobile home in Childress, a very comfortable abode for 11 years. We expected to buy a small piece of land in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico, and park a mobile home on it to live out the rest of our days, but Molly insisted on buying the lovely house that has now been home for almost seven years.
Will we begin another adventure on the 40 acres and start planning their retirement home, or keep looking for the perfect spot? I’m glad the decision is theirs–not mine.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Memories of other mobile homes came to mind. When I was about two years old, our family of seven lived in a tiny trailer house north of the little Spring Grove school near Gainesville, Texas.
At perhaps age 14, neighbor Nova and I slept in one a bit larger in the yard of their farm home, dreaming magnificent dreams.
As newlyweds, Harry and I bought the cutest one-bedroom red-and-white doll house I had ever seen, with just enough space on the hall dressing table for a baby’s bassinet when Joe was born.
While our aerial spraying business was floundering, our family of six lived in a two-bedroom trailer in Spur, Texas. What an exciting year that turned out to be!
After buying the Trent family farm, we added to the small house by parking a two-bedroom trailer near the back door. It housed our three girls awhile, then Joe and Rhonda, Mama and Daddy, and eventually Tom and Peggy when they pulled it to Odessa during oil boom days.
Retired from farming after the kids were grown and gone, we moved to a three-bedroom mobile home in Childress, a very comfortable abode for 11 years. We expected to buy a small piece of land in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico, and park a mobile home on it to live out the rest of our days, but Molly insisted on buying the lovely house that has now been home for almost seven years.
Will we begin another adventure on the 40 acres and start planning their retirement home, or keep looking for the perfect spot? I’m glad the decision is theirs–not mine.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Travels
Travels
On a six-hour trip back to Texas, I visit many spots
in order to make my time worthwhile, and I've hit many jackpots:
A book signing in Amarillo, two nights there with Floye and Guss,
church service at Flomot on Sunday where they lovingly welcomed us,
great food at Quitaque's Sportsman Café, then a big anniversary bash
for Ben and Myra's fiftieth, old memories to rehash.
A week in Lubbock with Rhonda and Joe, their kids and granddog Humbug,
two days with Ronald and Waydie in their beautiful home so snug,
where we cowboy'd a bit in early morn and hauled calves to the sale,
returning in time for the Do Gooders' meet, to stitch on a quilt, swapping tales.
'Twas mentioned that our morning's work amongst the herd of cattle
could not compare to the b.s. served with the quilters' prattle.
To the Rhodes B&B at Carey and the renovated old school
where Harry attended in bygone days in misery, as a rule.
Two nights with Peggy Stewart and visits with other friends,
then back to Turkey for the Jamboree where music never ends.
In the beautiful Gem Theater, Waydie and I once again
joined our voices in gospel harmony, fifty years of silence to span.
Marie, my usual hostess for sweet rest through the night,
is always so gracious and helpful, her home a welcome sight.
One more anniversary party for Weldon and Helen Hayes,
then westward toward the setting sun after seventeen glorious days.
Two inches of rain in the gauge was icing on the cake
when I arrived home safe and sound, a long, long rest to take.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
On a six-hour trip back to Texas, I visit many spots
in order to make my time worthwhile, and I've hit many jackpots:
A book signing in Amarillo, two nights there with Floye and Guss,
church service at Flomot on Sunday where they lovingly welcomed us,
great food at Quitaque's Sportsman Café, then a big anniversary bash
for Ben and Myra's fiftieth, old memories to rehash.
A week in Lubbock with Rhonda and Joe, their kids and granddog Humbug,
two days with Ronald and Waydie in their beautiful home so snug,
where we cowboy'd a bit in early morn and hauled calves to the sale,
returning in time for the Do Gooders' meet, to stitch on a quilt, swapping tales.
'Twas mentioned that our morning's work amongst the herd of cattle
could not compare to the b.s. served with the quilters' prattle.
To the Rhodes B&B at Carey and the renovated old school
where Harry attended in bygone days in misery, as a rule.
Two nights with Peggy Stewart and visits with other friends,
then back to Turkey for the Jamboree where music never ends.
In the beautiful Gem Theater, Waydie and I once again
joined our voices in gospel harmony, fifty years of silence to span.
Marie, my usual hostess for sweet rest through the night,
is always so gracious and helpful, her home a welcome sight.
One more anniversary party for Weldon and Helen Hayes,
then westward toward the setting sun after seventeen glorious days.
Two inches of rain in the gauge was icing on the cake
when I arrived home safe and sound, a long, long rest to take.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Monday, September 04, 2006
End of Day
End of Day
1951
Toward evening, nearly milking time, at pinking of the sky,
we wander through the pasture -- my buddy, Dink, and I.
Around the bend, down to the pond, the worn trail leads us on
to where the cows and Sugar graze, and sure enough, they’re gone.
Off in the farthest corner we find them swatting flies,
their tails almost in rhythm, recognition in their eyes.
We have no rope or bridle, just jump on Sugar’s back.
She knows we’re only going home if she isn’t wearing tack.
She turns the cows and starts them up the trail in single file.
This is important business; she’s boss now for awhile.
She kicks up her heels, just teasing, to see what we will do.
A handful of mane and strong muscled legs have once more seen us through.
The whole procession enters the waiting open gate,
and we alight with sweaty pants as milking chores await.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
1951
Toward evening, nearly milking time, at pinking of the sky,
we wander through the pasture -- my buddy, Dink, and I.
Around the bend, down to the pond, the worn trail leads us on
to where the cows and Sugar graze, and sure enough, they’re gone.
Off in the farthest corner we find them swatting flies,
their tails almost in rhythm, recognition in their eyes.
We have no rope or bridle, just jump on Sugar’s back.
She knows we’re only going home if she isn’t wearing tack.
She turns the cows and starts them up the trail in single file.
This is important business; she’s boss now for awhile.
She kicks up her heels, just teasing, to see what we will do.
A handful of mane and strong muscled legs have once more seen us through.
The whole procession enters the waiting open gate,
and we alight with sweaty pants as milking chores await.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
