Tag Archives: Texas Panhandle

Watch out for the fire ants, man!

One of the more underreported aspects of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Harvey needs some attention. So I’ll offer a bit of it right here.

The raging storm water that has inundated communities from Houston to the Golden Triangle has produced another hazard: fire ants!

We moved from the Golden Triangle in January 1995 and we were thankful for many aspects of our new home in the Texas Panhandle; one of them was the absence of fire ants.

In heavy rain the ants come out of the ground and congregate in massive clusters on the surface of the water. They climb aboard any living creature who happens to slosh and slog their way through them. Then they bite, and they keep biting!

Fire ant bites produce welts almost immediately on one’s skin. The welts fill with pus. The bugs are nasty in the extreme.

Moreover, when the water recedes, people’s lawns are going to sprout fire ant mounts. My best advice? Boil plenty of water and add some ammonia to it. Pour it right onto the mounds. It kills ’em dead. Immediately.

Oh, and you folks at People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals — the nimrods who actually complained when President Obama once swatted a fly on national TV? Keep your traps shut on this one.

Fire ants do serious harm to pets and people.

I haven’t even mentioned — until this very moment — the gators and the venomous snakes one might encounter.

So help me, I will feel every bit of your pain as you cope with this consequence of Harvey, not to mention all the other suffering that will endure long after the water recedes.

Water everywhere, not a drop to drink

Is there a more fitting context for the phrase about there being “water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink” than what we’re witnessing in Beaumont, Texas?

The horrific deluge in the Golden Triangle city of about 120,000 residents has damaged the city’s drinking water plant. Neighborhoods are waist-deep in water that flowed in from the Neches River or just fell from the sky as a result of Hurricane Harvey. But the folks who live in those ‘hoods cannot drink the water.

This is where those who “serve the public” really get to demonstrate their service.

My goodness, it is heartbreaking in the extreme.

Texas National Guard troops have been mobilized to bring water in to the stricken region. A young man I know has hauled a significant load of water from the Texas Panhandle to way down yonder in the Houston and Beaumont areas. I have heard he’s having difficulty navigating his truck into the region, trying to find passable roads and highways he can traverse to deliver the precious water.

Knowing this young man as I do, his intrepidity will see him through.

The scope of this tragic event is still playing out. The death toll is at 32; it’s likely to increase. You know, when you think about it, one must be amazed that so few victims have lost their lives. I am. No, it doesn’t minimize the grief of those who have lost loved ones and my heart breaks for them.

Meanwhile, those of us on the High Plains — so high and very dry — are left to pray and to send every bit of positivity and good karma to our stricken friends downstate.

Hating the feeling of utter helplessness

You know the feeling, I’m sure.

Mother Nature levels her immense power onto a region of this great country and you are left only to wish the very best for those who are being affected.

I won’t suggest that “All I can do is pray.” A clergy friend of mine has reminded us many times over the years that “Prayer isn’t the least we can do; it’s the most we can do.”

So we are left to pray and hope for the very best for those being devastated by Hurricane Harvey’s unthinkable rage.

Social media have offered a pretty good device for those in harm’s way to tell the rest of us that they’re safe and sound. My Facebook news feed is full of such assurances and for that I am grateful on behalf of our many friends throughout the Houston and Golden Triangle areas of Southeast Texas.

Here we sit, though, a good distance away from the havoc. We’re perched way up yonder on the Caprock, high and dry and enjoying the sunshine at nearly 3,700 feet above sea level. The Texas Department of Transportation is advising motorists to avoid travel to the Gulf Coast. If only we could transport ourselves into the storm to lend a hand to the friends we have retained many years after leaving Beaumont for a new life in Amarillo.

And, no, I don’t intend to ignore the misery that has befallen all the good folks who are coping with the storm’s wrath.

So … what is there to do? Except pray.

I can do that. However, it does nothing to assuage my feeling of helplessness.

POTUS’s loathsome conduct on full display

That was some performance — yes? — from the president of the United States of America.

He walked this afternoon into the Trump Tower lobby, talked a little bit about infrastructure improvement and then opened the floor up for questions from the “enemy of the people,” aka the media.

Then it got real nasty. In a major hurry. Reporters weren’t there to talk about roads and bridges. They wanted to talk about another matter that’s on the minds of millions of Americans.

Donald John Trump Sr. has motivated me to explain why I loathe this man to my core — and to his core, for that matter.

It’s not ideology, because he doesn’t have one. It’s not his partisan leaning, because he doesn’t adhere to any partisan doctrine.

It’s his conduct, his demeanor, his utter lack of dignity, his ignorance and arrogance. It’s strictly personal, dear reader.

Trump put on a disgraceful display at that Q&A with the media today. It laid bare with absolute clarity just why I stand more strongly than ever behind the view that this man is unfit for the nation’s highest office. He is unfit to be called “president.”

Trump defended his hideous initial statement about the Charlottesville riot. Then he equated the Klan/Nazi/white supremacists with those who oppose them. He attacked the media yet one more time. He took a moment to chide Sen. John McCain — a celebrated Vietnam War hero — for his vote against repeal of the Affordable Care Act.

The president demonstrated clearly and without a trace of ambiguity why he is such a loathsome individual.

I won’t restate the myriad examples he provided for us while campaigning for the presidency. We’ve been down that road already.

He pledged to become more “presidential” once he was elected and getting ready to take office. He has gone in precisely the opposite direction. He has become an absolute embarrassment to the greatest nation on Earth. He has demonstrated to those of us who opposed his election precisely why we continue to detest him.

Yes, he has his supporters. I am acquainted with a number of them who live here in the Texas Panhandle, which voted overwhelmingly for his election in 2016. I choose to avoid discussing Trump with them; thus, I am not entirely certain if their faith in Trump today is as strong as it was when he took office. That’s for them to ponder.

Me? My mind was made up long before the election, let alone long before this shameful opportunist took the oath for the only public office he ever sought.

On this day, my loathing of this individual is stronger than ever.

It’s kind of like returning to previous haunts

LAKE BOB SANDLIN STATE PARK, Texas — The author Thomas Wolfe once wrote that “you can’t go home again.”

That may be true, but you can return to places that remind you of where you used to live.

This East Texas state park has a curious way of reminding me of a place where my family and I spent more than a decade of our life together just straight south of here.

It’s hot here. And damn humid, too! This state park is near Mount Pleasant, about a two-hour drive east of Dallas. If you drive about four hours straight south, you end up in Beaumont, where my wife, sons and I moved in the spring of 1984.

We weren’t used to the sticky air that shrouds this part of the world when we got to the Golden Triangle. We grew to accept it every late spring and through the summer.

My sons went off to college in the early 1990s and my wife and I moved to Amarillo in early 1995. We moved away from the stifling humidity and into the wind of the Texas Panhandle.

I mentioned to my wife as we walked through the woods at Bob Sandlin State Park, “You know, I am looking at billions of leaves on all these trees and I don’t see a single one of them moving. Nothing is fluttering in anything approaching a breeze.”

We remained holed up in our RV. The air conditioner was running full blast. Our windows got wet with moisture collecting on the outside of them.

We’re likely going to need to get used to this kind of weather all over again. Our plan is to move from the Panhandle to a location in the vicinity of the Metroplex, where our granddaughter, Emma, awaits.

Until then, a lot more travel is on tap for us. A good bit of it will take us back toward this part of Texas, where we’ll be reminded of our prior life when constant perspiration became the norm.

I get that you can’t really “go home again.” We do plan to relearn how to live with what we used to know.

Who needs mountains to enjoy nature’s splendor?

A former mayor of Port Arthur, Texas, once told me upon returning from vacation in Wyoming that the “mountains were nice, but they kept getting in the way of the sunsets.”

Well, tonight some family members and I got a glimpse of what the mayor once mentioned.

We peered east down our street and saw some “mountainous” thunderheads forming not terribly far away. OK, the sun was setting in the other direction, but its bright light shone on the clouds, lighting them up in this fashion.

It reminded me of something I observed about the Texas Panhandle almost immediately upon our arrival here in early 1995. It was that God Almighty didn’t bless this region with lofty peaks, but it did grant us the pleasure of looking at the biggest damn sky I’ve ever seen.

I saw it as God’s payback. It’s as if he’s saying, “So, I gave your neighbors to the west all those mountains and tall timber. They can enjoy that. I’ll give you folks out here on the Caprock a chance to relish that big ol’ sky that lights up at dawn and again at dusk. And I just know you’ll enjoy that as much as the mountain folks enjoy the snow-capped peaks.”

I believe God was correct.

Then again, is God ever wrong?

The sunrises and sunsets in this part of the world are nothing to sell short. What’s more, even the sky at the opposite horizon from where the sun is setting — such as tonight — can take one’s breath away.

There’s just so much of it out there.

Yep, that long-ago Gulf Coast mayor was right. The mountains can get in the way.

Elections provide a valuable education

I listened today to a candidate for the Amarillo City Council tell his audience about the things he has learned about running for public office.

Eddy Sauer is seeking to be elected in Place 3 to succeed incumbent Councilman Randy Burkett, who isn’t seeking re-election.

Sauer gave some fairly standard remarks to the Rotary Club of Amarillo about how a lifelong Amarillo resident can have his eyes opened about the complexities of governing a city of roughly 200,000 residents. He spoke mostly about economic development, speaking intelligently about how the city should continue to seek companies willing to locate here; offer them financial incentives and then seek to ensure that they provide sufficient numbers of new jobs to make the investment worthwhile.

He also spoke of improving “transparency” on the Amarillo Economic Development Corporation.

Yes, the man is learning about the city, about its challenges. Sauer is an impressive fellow who I hope gets elected on May 6.

***

Sauer and I visited for a few minutes before he stood behind the podium. I mentioned to him how elections have been educational to me during more than 22 years living in Amarillo and, for most of that time, commenting on them as a full-time opinion journalist at the Amarillo Globe-News.

Indeed, these municipal elections have managed during every election cycle dating back to my first year here — 1995 — to tell me something about the community I didn’t know previously.

I suspect that is perhaps the most gratifying aspect of these elections. Twenty-two years after settling in at my new post at the G-N, I’m still learning about this community.

Before you ask what precisely have I learned, I must tell you that I cannot define it in tangible terms. Early on I learned about the landmark 1989 city election that resulted in a dramatic turnover of the five-member City Commission; the local economy was in deep trouble, the city had been feuding with leading business leaders; folks were angry.

By the time I arrived at my post, much of that anger had subsided. The city, though, had plenty to teach this newcomer to the Texas Panhandle.

I’ve been learning a little more every odd-numbered year when the City Council’s five members are selected by city voters.

Think, too, about this: Given that Texas elects its Legislature every even-numbered year — as do the state’s 254 counties — we residents get a chance to be “educated” every single year.

I told Sauer that even my perch in the peanut gallery — given that I no longer “work for a living” — provides me with an election-year opportunity to learn something new about Amarillo.

This, I suppose, is my way of revealing my biggest takeaway from these local elections. It happened in Beaumont, when my wife and sons and I first moved to Texas back in 1984. I can go back even to my first full-time journalism job in Oregon City, Ore., which bears little resemblance to my familiar surroundings in big-city Portland.

The upcoming election is likely to teach me more, still, about Amarillo. Indeed, elections can provide teachable moments if we all keep an open mind.

The good news is that the learning curve isn’t nearly so steep these days. Still, it never will level out. Nor should it.

Ranchers respond with kindness

You think humanity has gone to hell? You worry that we’ve become so very cynical that we care little about other human beings, that we no longer feel empathy for their heartache?

Perish the thought.

A lot of ranchers in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles have endured more misery than anyone should endure. Wildfires scorched thousands of acres of grassland, from which these ranchers harvest their hay to feed their cattle, which they send to market and, thus, earn their livelihood.

So, how do other ranchers who have been spared the flames respond? They load up big flatbed trucks with bails of hay and send them many miles down the highway to their stricken ranching brethren.

I’ve heard about the convoys of trucks tooling down Panhandle highways. They come, of course, from neighboring ranches in the immediate region. They also are coming from neighboring states.

This kind of response helps me purge any latent thought I might have when I hear about cruelty and heartlessness among my fellow human beings.

We are proud in this region of the spirit of community that resides in the hearts of those who live here. We express it from time to time when disaster strikes. Lord knows the High Plains region is prone to heavy wind and Mother Nature’s violence. Fires do plague the region on occasion at this time of year.

That community spirit demonstrates itself when tragedy does strike.

Such as when we see trucks loaded with bales of hay heading toward the scorched Earth.

It’s the onset of spring, baby!

I’ve heard it a bazillion times: Oh, I love the fall season.

Not me, dear reader. My favorite season is about to arrive. The vernal equinox will occur in a little more than week and it will signal my favorite time of the year.

I noticed something quite welcoming Thursday while mowing my lawn: the Oklahoma redbud in our front yard is beginning to show its buds. Bring it, Okie tree!

I totally understand why many folks love the autumn in this part of the world. Our summers can get blistering on the Texas High Plains … although,  hey, it’s a dry heat. I also welcome the cooler temps that arrive about the time of the autumnal equinox.

The spring, though, presents an entirely different dynamic.

We turn quite barren around here in the winter months. Grass goes dormant, turning the fescue more brown than green. When you drive along the rural highways, you see even more of it; vast expanses of it, to be honest.

Rain? Sure, we get some. Snow? That, too. The cold, though, gets pretty damn bitter even without the precipitation.

My wife and I do appreciate the seasonal changes we get here. They are much more pronounced on the High Plains than where we used to live on the Texas Gulf Coast, in the Golden Triangle region of Southeast Texas.

We saw snow one day during our nearly 11 years in Beaumont; it was gone by noon that day, if memory serves. It wasn’t until after we left Beaumont for Amarillo more than two decades ago that our former city of residence got pounded by a serious winter storm of snow, ice and assorted weather-related miseries.

Here? That kind of winter pummeling is a much more regular occurrence. Which brings me to my point.

It is that our lengthy winters make me long for spring, the time for renewal. It signals an emergence from the cold, the dark.

I totally understand that Mama Nature doesn’t always respect the calendar, which tells me that spring arrives officially on March 20. We well could get another winter-type blast; that’s happened too over the years. Indeed, today the temperature is about 30 degrees cooler than it was Thursday.

The redbud in the front yard, though, tells me that spring is at hand.

I shall welcome its arrival with great glee.

Time for prayer as we enter fire season

I believe it’s time to say some prayers.

For firefighters who are battling blazes across the vast landscapes of the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles. For those who seek to assist the firefighters. For everyone with homes that might be in the path of destruction.

We’ve had a couple of pretty rough days along the High Plains.

Some firefighters were injured battling blazes in Potter County. What’s more, three individuals have died in Gray County while trying to protect their livestock from the murderous flames.

Livestock has been lost. Property has been destroyed.

There might be much more to come as spring’s arrival approaches and as the traditional “March winds” ratchet up.

This is a dangerous time to live in this wide-open region, in this area with little natural obstruction to the winds that howl across our landscape.

City and county officials impose burn bans. They tell us to take care when operating open flames. They warn us of the consequences if we turn a deaf ear to those warnings.

And yet …

People continue to flout the common-sense advice that flows their way. They flip cigarettes out motor vehicle windows. They light barbecue grills in howling winds, allowing red-hot embers to get blown way beyond their reach.

Let’s all understand something. It is that we’re a chronically dry part of the world. Sure, we had some good moisture earlier this winter. The grasslands are dry at this moment. Never mind the snow that blanketed the region earlier this winter.

The March winds will blow. There’s nothing we can do about them. We can, however, seek to minimize the effect of those winds if we just take a bit of extra care, heed the warnings our local leaders want us to hear.

And some earnest and heartfelt prayer surely cannot hurt.