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| Tolar, TX where my Dad last saw his father- photo by Renelibrary |
The shooting at Rough Creek Lodge in Erath County Texas sent me to the web to look it up. It didn't sound like the Erath county I remember, which is hardscrabble and flinty. My dad grew up there, although no one would remember him after all these years (1910-1986). We have kin buried in the cemetery and also at Morgan Mills, and more kin still living in Stephenville, a lovely town and the county seat. Years ago we went to a family reunion in Stephenville. As at all reunions on this side of the family, we jumped into cars and drove around to all the cemeteries.
After
the reunion, we followed instructions to the old family homestead,
little more than a cabin. We have a similar but smaller structure in Gerlach, Nevada. The house still stood, but the gate was
closed and the deserted property looked like a prime spot for rattlers, so
we didn't venture close enough to see the musket balls embedded in the
walls or the marks left by arrows. This is a far cry from the
upscale lodge with all of its amenities.
Here is the poem I wrote after visiting the cemetery.
Here is the poem I wrote after visiting the cemetery.
Hightower Cemetery,
Erath County, Texas
©
"The trees all
died up here," they said.
Dusty zephyrs whirl
atop the hill.
A sere September
sun
Bleaches tilting
headstones
The desiccated
white of desert bones.
Flora from the Five
and Ten
Sterile blossoms,
Jello red
Wax strong on vinyl
stems
Unwithered in the
hot wind.
The horizon rolls
Into a vastness of
desolate hills.
We remember
hardscrabble lives
Stark and
beautiful.
Stubborn in the
sparse grass
Small yellow
flowers
Born on pale lean
stalks
Sprout from the dry
Texas earth.
One
thing that bothers me is why anyone would think that a shooting range
would be a good locale for someone suffering PTSD. Not sure I understand
what "shooting therapy" is. To this admittedly ignorant observer, it
seems like the sound of gunfire would bring all the bad stuff back. I
know vets that cringe at the sound of thunder. A tragedy for all
involved, hence the memory of the poem written 20+ years ago.
Sometime around 1930, my grandfather drove my father to Tolar, Texas, handed him $5.00 and said "get out." My father's sin was an extreme reluctance (i.e. refusal) to enlist in the army. He changed his name and never saw his parents again. A few years later, he owned a suit, a car and had $200 when he met my mother in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His missing years are still missing. Good story, huh? He had 6 younger brothers and was his mother's helper. All of the brothers were in the military, all except my Dad. Maybe sometime I'll write about that, but perhaps never. Some thing probably left buried.
Thoughts on a cold February morn.
Sometime around 1930, my grandfather drove my father to Tolar, Texas, handed him $5.00 and said "get out." My father's sin was an extreme reluctance (i.e. refusal) to enlist in the army. He changed his name and never saw his parents again. A few years later, he owned a suit, a car and had $200 when he met my mother in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His missing years are still missing. Good story, huh? He had 6 younger brothers and was his mother's helper. All of the brothers were in the military, all except my Dad. Maybe sometime I'll write about that, but perhaps never. Some thing probably left buried.
Thoughts on a cold February morn.
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| Old historic wood structure in Gerlach |
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