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Putting in the time

Blue skies so vivid it appears unreal in West Texas

Tuco the Dog and I are eating our morning snack — strawberry Pop Tarts and coffee at 5am on a nondescript weekday morning.  What day is it?  What does it matter?  Maybe later, somebody I am checking in will mention it is Monday or Thursday in off hand conversation.  I care about it little enough to even check to see what day it may be.

I guess you are thinking maybe I am in the midst of a black cloud funk but it ain’t so.  Mebbe you got it figured out that a week between blog posts means I am dealing with personal upheavals or cataclysmic happenings or  a paucity of internet availability?  Nah, sorry no personal drama here.   Move along, move along, nothing to see here. If you have been hanging around here long enough you know I don’t write ‘less I got something to say.  Drivel content (ie: we went to the burger and shake again for supper it was good the wind blew it was dusty it rained it was muddy we saw a snake/hog/deer/bird) don’t happen on my pages.

The simple revelation that I am day-clueless  – and it is of no consequence – is actually a good thing.  A further spacing from shiny shoes in upholstered boxes with multi-button phones that lie perpetually at the end of a steel box-rubber shod transit.   You know My Bro commented when the Twin Towers collapsed that ” it ain’t natural to work in a concrete box up that high.”  Being day-clueless dovetails nicely with this oil field business ’cause they certainly don’t care what day or night it is… Sure, the rig hands count down the days of their shift and can’t wait to go speeding out the gate toward that Louisiana with empty coolers and dirty clothes in garbage bags in the back of dusty pick ups.  But, honestly, the day of the week is unimportant. Hell, for that matter, the time of day doesn’t matter either.  They can make a phone call and replace a special broken part as easily at 2am on a Sunday morning as they can at 1pm on Wednesday.  Just the nature of the business….

Morning shadows on the Davis Mountains

So every day tends to flow over to the next, time is marked off and set aside  by an especially brilliant sunrise or Miss Kathy cooking up a fine meal.  We recall events according to what we lived — not by an artificial meter.  It was the day we had chicken tetrazzini or the day you saw the big porcupine  or the day you went to the post office.  Just seems like a more natural way to do things is all I am saying.  Sure sets good on me.

Obviously, we got moved out to the other side of Ft Stockton.  It was uneventful as the logistics choreography becomes easier with each subsequent jump to a new location.  Miss K is getting very proficient at taking part of the load off my shoulders; it certainly helps when you have a true partner. She followed behind me in the Suburban pulling one DTB – her trip report did not include any necessary or important parts falling off the Old Girl that might impede her progress.    Once here, I  saw no vital fluids leaking out of the Old Girl to sink into the dry and sandy soil. I still got some personal unpacking to do as evidenced by some quart food bags still hanging around.  To avoid the inevitable accusatory finger pointing and ‘ Where did you put that???????’ , Miss K has learned to take each section of my personal area and chuck it all in a quart ziploc.  Smart girl; her. Good trip all in all.

Poor country out this way folks; here on the outer verge of the oil fields. Not an appreciable amount of that oil development and exploration money being thrown ever which way – yet.   So it is is scrappy country; you just don’t see any of the all hat and no cows ilk out this way.  Suits me.  We are sitting on the northern lip of the Davis Mountains at about 3000′ so the mornings are still coolish.  I expect it to frost just before daylight this morning as it has the last few.  Light frost as the humidity is in the teens.   Got a C store a few miles down the way but the closest amenities of any type are really back in that Ft Stockton to the east or Pecos/Monahans to the north.

About the only odd thing to report is one of the land owners here is a watermelon farmer.  Must be something of an oddity around this way because when you talk to the locals, they always want to know where you are drilling.  About half way through the directions they light up and say ‘ Oh you are out there at the Watermelon Farmers.’  Must be something to it because there was some traffic in and out of the area yesterday and James stopped on his way out and handed me a big ol’ dark green melon.  I guess I just looked at him like he had something growing out his head because I knew damned well they weren’t picking melons anywhere around here. ‘Mexico’ he said and drove off. He don’t talk much and no shiny wheels on his pick up so I am just thinking he is a real deal.  Gonna keep an eye on this whole melon  business for sure.


End Note: Behind the 8 Ball by Calvin Russell  from the Crossroads  Part II cd.   I have been listening to a bunch o’ that Calvin Russell here lately.  He is growing on me by degrees.  Want a good dose of honest music?  Well, here ya go.

  “Livin’ for livin’ is all I understand.”

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