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Too busy to post...
Dec. 14th, 2014 10:20 amActually, I suppose a more accurate subject would be "Too tired to post," the "tired" part being the result of the "busy" part.
Friday started a new year for me, and while I am told there was no connection, it just so happened that the crowd Galina and I "run" with arranged to have a night out at the George Ranch, which is a museum over in Richmond, Texas, about 37 miles from where we are located. The facility was putting on a Christmas-themed event, consisting of dinner and a visit to various ranch facilities staffed by individuals who would "interpret" history for us.
Galina and I used the Google map app—in non-give-us-instructions mode—to help get us there sooner than if we had taken the obvious route using main arteries, but even that didn't keep us from encountering traffic that, at times, came to a standstill.
Our fancy navigation began after we turned south on Interstate 69 from Beltway 8, as the Google app showed a solid red line (indicating heavy traffic) starting a few miles ahead of us and extending past our intended exit. So we got off the interstate and found our way via secondary roads. And while the app helped, it didn't prevent us from arriving late. In the end, however, that really didn't matter.
Our evening began with dinner, served chow-line fashion, with table seating arranged inside a barn. The food was not particularly memorable, except for the name of a variety of mashed potatoes served with something called "bubble and squeak"—an expression I had never heard before—which turns out to be, essentially, fried leftover vegetables.
We were entertained as we ate by a youth choir, dressed in what I guess was period clothing (Victorian?), belting out Christmas carols for all they were worth.
There was no lingering after dinner, and soon, we were in a tractor-drawn wagon, heading off to a house representing the ranch as it was in 1862. Upon arrival, there was some kind of dance going on under a tent out in front of a small house, and we were met by a southern belle, who explained the rules of the museum (basically, don't touch things and no flash photography) and proceeded to fill us in on the background of what was going on at Christmas in 1862.
It was, of course, the era of the Civil War (or, as the young lady informed us, "the war of Northern aggression," though I am not aware of the use of this expression going back to that era). Inside the "mother" of the family read the text of a letter sent home by her soldier son, after which we moved to another room and met a gentleman who was waiting to speak with "the Colonel" about buying some land, the question being whether said land would go for $4 or $5 per acre. Despite the use of a kerosene lantern and numerous candles, the rooms were quite dimly lit.
The dining room and kitchen were separated from the main house, though it was never made clear just why. (If heat was the issue, then why not just keep the kitchen apart?)
From there, we were taken to a campfire that represented the staging area for a cattle drive that was soon to depart for Kansas or Missouri. We learned that cattle worth about $5 a head in Texas brought $45 or so each in Kansas, if they were healthy and well-nourished. Then a banjo-player entertained us with some Northern music from the Civil War era, followed by a carol ("Silent Night") and a spiritual ("Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," which we were told was written by a Choctaw freedman). If it weren't for the fact that I was acutely aware of being a member of an "audience," I think I could have stayed right there for the rest of the night.
From there, we visited a house that represented the ranch in 1929, but it did not hold as much interest for me, so I sort of coasted through that phase of the tour.
* * * Yesterday was spent doing hard labor, getting rid of some plants that had become "weeds" by virtue of now occupying space now intended to be used for another purpose, which will include a backyard water feature.
Among the unwanted plants is a very hardy bush that I eventually cut down to a nub sticking out of the ground and then—taking the idea from the campfire of the previous night—decided to burn out of existence.
To do so, I dug out a pit around the nub and piled the remnants of a bag of charcoal and some scrap wood around it, but after several hours of burning, all the charcoal and wood was gone, but the nub is still there (blackened, to be sure). Naturally, it is as solidly anchored in the ground as it was before my little experiment. I'll have to think about my next step.
More later...
Friday started a new year for me, and while I am told there was no connection, it just so happened that the crowd Galina and I "run" with arranged to have a night out at the George Ranch, which is a museum over in Richmond, Texas, about 37 miles from where we are located. The facility was putting on a Christmas-themed event, consisting of dinner and a visit to various ranch facilities staffed by individuals who would "interpret" history for us.
Galina and I used the Google map app—in non-give-us-instructions mode—to help get us there sooner than if we had taken the obvious route using main arteries, but even that didn't keep us from encountering traffic that, at times, came to a standstill.
Our fancy navigation began after we turned south on Interstate 69 from Beltway 8, as the Google app showed a solid red line (indicating heavy traffic) starting a few miles ahead of us and extending past our intended exit. So we got off the interstate and found our way via secondary roads. And while the app helped, it didn't prevent us from arriving late. In the end, however, that really didn't matter.
Our evening began with dinner, served chow-line fashion, with table seating arranged inside a barn. The food was not particularly memorable, except for the name of a variety of mashed potatoes served with something called "bubble and squeak"—an expression I had never heard before—which turns out to be, essentially, fried leftover vegetables.
We were entertained as we ate by a youth choir, dressed in what I guess was period clothing (Victorian?), belting out Christmas carols for all they were worth.
There was no lingering after dinner, and soon, we were in a tractor-drawn wagon, heading off to a house representing the ranch as it was in 1862. Upon arrival, there was some kind of dance going on under a tent out in front of a small house, and we were met by a southern belle, who explained the rules of the museum (basically, don't touch things and no flash photography) and proceeded to fill us in on the background of what was going on at Christmas in 1862.
It was, of course, the era of the Civil War (or, as the young lady informed us, "the war of Northern aggression," though I am not aware of the use of this expression going back to that era). Inside the "mother" of the family read the text of a letter sent home by her soldier son, after which we moved to another room and met a gentleman who was waiting to speak with "the Colonel" about buying some land, the question being whether said land would go for $4 or $5 per acre. Despite the use of a kerosene lantern and numerous candles, the rooms were quite dimly lit.
The dining room and kitchen were separated from the main house, though it was never made clear just why. (If heat was the issue, then why not just keep the kitchen apart?)
From there, we were taken to a campfire that represented the staging area for a cattle drive that was soon to depart for Kansas or Missouri. We learned that cattle worth about $5 a head in Texas brought $45 or so each in Kansas, if they were healthy and well-nourished. Then a banjo-player entertained us with some Northern music from the Civil War era, followed by a carol ("Silent Night") and a spiritual ("Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," which we were told was written by a Choctaw freedman). If it weren't for the fact that I was acutely aware of being a member of an "audience," I think I could have stayed right there for the rest of the night.
From there, we visited a house that represented the ranch in 1929, but it did not hold as much interest for me, so I sort of coasted through that phase of the tour.
Among the unwanted plants is a very hardy bush that I eventually cut down to a nub sticking out of the ground and then—taking the idea from the campfire of the previous night—decided to burn out of existence.
To do so, I dug out a pit around the nub and piled the remnants of a bag of charcoal and some scrap wood around it, but after several hours of burning, all the charcoal and wood was gone, but the nub is still there (blackened, to be sure). Naturally, it is as solidly anchored in the ground as it was before my little experiment. I'll have to think about my next step.
More later...
