Last night our West Texas household got a little smaller with the sudden passing of one of our dogs, Cozmo, for reasons that are still unknown to us.
But I won't dwell on what happened last night, because that was but a short blip in the time that I knew him, and the time that his family had with him.
Cozmo (R) and Yogi
Cozmo was one pup out of 13, and was such a voracious eater that when Levi met him, he said he had to pull Cozmo off of the teat just to give the other pups a chance. Cozmo also ended up being the last of his litter.
In the short two months that I knew him, Cozmo was nothing but a big goofball. A large lab mixed with a Newfoundland, Cozmo was a big dog. A really big dog. So big that the first time I took him and Yogi out for a walk, people would stop me on the street to look at him and ask what he was.
And despite his size, he was the sweetest dog. Even when Yogi was bouncing off the walls (literally) and running all over the place, there would stand Cozmo, calmly ignoring his brother's antics. But when you could get Cozmo riled up, there was nothing happier than seeing him lift his big face in the air for a half-hearted attempt to get a ball that was probably already in Yogi's mouth or wrestling his brother down to the ground.
Cozmo was as quarky as he was kind. No, he wouldn't drink from his bowl unless it had just the right amount of water in it; if that wasn't good enough, he would drink out of the kiddy pool outside. If he was hot, he would simply lay down in the same kiddy pool that he just drank from. And don't stand around when he gets up from there, unless you want to end up like that scene from Beethoven.
Just run away.
Levi and Heidi told me that Cozmo was most in his element when he was in the water, and unfortunately we don't have much of that out here in West Texas. But I found some photos from last year of him in his element and with a much, much smaller Yogi.
So Cozmo, here's to you bud. You lived a good life, you brought a lot to our lives, and we're all going to miss you. We'll be looking for you in that big bright sky buddy.
After being in Midland for three weeks and venturing no further than a mile out of town to check out a new Beer Garden, I took a trip up north to Lubbock to check out a car Lance was interested in. The drive gave me a chance to quite literally expand my horizon as I was able to travel further than my eyes could see in their unobstructed view over the West Texas plains.
Recent rains had turned what usually would be golden dry grassland into green bushy scrub with small, scraggly mesquite trees peppered in between. The rain had also turned the local clay/dirt known as caliche (ka-lee-chi) into mud, and the road north was covered in the soft, slippery soil. Lance complained that during rainstorms trucks coming from lease roads that lead to the rigs would drag the caliche onto the asphalt, making already treacherous conditions even more dangerous.
The trucks weren't the only problem. In land that is mostly flat desert peppered with strips of asphalt and pump jacks, rain is an unusual and violent occurrence. Logic flows in the confines of city halls and engineering divisions in these areas (i.e. Midland and Odessa) that because rain is so infrequent, proper (and expensive) drainage is unnecessary. This means that during rainstorms, which are a combination of torrential downpours and lightning storms, streets turn into rivers and, frankly, everything floods.
Land of the Pump Jacks.
But the road was flanked by more than just red mud and green grass. Row after row of pump jacks bobbed up and down like a drinking bird caught in an infinite loop, pulling barrel after barrel of Texas Light Sweet crude oil out of the Permian Basin's many reservoirs. Two hundred foot tall oil rigs drill into the soft mud and rock that that flat Basin is made up of, churning thousands of feet down and out in search of new pockets of oil. Some horizontal drilling, which hits shale oil on the side rather than from above, can extend as much as 24,000 feet from the initial drilling hole.
An oil rig by the side of the road.
Heading further north the landscape changed drastically. There was more green grass by the side of the road while the flat plains gave away to soft rolling hills. Somethign else also appeared within the greenery: little tufts of white balls growing on short bushes. I didn't expect to find it this far to the west, but cotton fields abounded to the east, west and north.
I must be in the South.
Since my trip I've been told that cotton is one of the crops that survive well out here in West Texas, being hardy enough for the harsh temperatures. Unfortunately for the farmers, the rainstorm that had come through had delayed their harvest, and the federal government was agitating for them to turnover their crops because of the threat of boll weevils moving into the area.
Continuing on our journey, Lance and I reached the small community of Lamesa (pop. 9,400 and pronounced Luh-MEE-suh in the local vernacular), which sits at the crossroads of the major North-South and East-West roads. But Lamesa is a ghost community, with rundown buildings devoid of life flanking the road. No one stopped in the town; everyone was just passing through. I imagine Lamesa is what the post-apocalyptic world will look like. Or maybe that's what some towns will look like when the boom fades and the bust hits.
The area between Lamesa and Lubbock is more agriculture. Cotton dominates, but there were other greens and some wheat interspersed throughout the white balls of fluff. With the recent rains, waterwheels stood still, thankful that the downpours had lessened their burden to keep the parched and thirsty earth hydrated.
Take a break waterwheel.
Throughout our trip we had been pelted on and off with torrential downpours, but when we got north of Lamesa the rain got even worse, making visibility limited and the roads even worse. At one point we came across a totally flooded part of the road. With Lance's guidance we navigated the road-turned-river, following in the path of much larger and well suited trucks. With the flooding forded by the little Prius, we made our way safely north.
Lubbock is a college town with Texas Tech University at its core. For me, my short foray into Lubbock showed me a few things: the town is very much like Midland, but with (somewhat) better roads; the landscape is more fertile; and they have at least one very good Cajun restaurant (which Lance and I took advantage of).
Otherwise, Lubbock was thankfully uneventful. Lance got his car (a 2003 Lincoln Marauder), I got to see another city, and we had a good lunch.
Heading home allowed me to see the landscape from a different perspective and break out my camera. A few miles outside of Lubbock something tall and graceful caught my eye; the slowly revolving blades of large windmills. Row after row of them lined the cotton fields, spinning in the gentle wind, their blades occasionally cutting through a bank of low-lying clouds. Even in a land where the black barrel of crude oil reigns supreme, alternative energy has grabbed a foothold.
Some complain that they kill birds, but they're a sign of change a-coming.
Seeing the land post-rainstorm reminded me of what Namibia looked like through the eye of my brother when he went to Namibia. The arid desert turned green as life burst forth in a desperate race against time and the sun.
Framed by flowers.
Being surrounded by beauty, I came across some things that were so typically Texan. Signs bearing the words "Don't Mess With Texas" lined the road, but rather than talking about trampling on Texan's rights to bear arms/be religious/do what they want, they proclaimed the cost of... littering. I don't think that was the message Mr. Geroge W. Bush was conveying when he used the phrase at the Republican National Convention in 2000.
Just don't do it.
And then, the normal signs that I am indeed in the Bible Belt.
Self-explanatory.
Coming back into Midland felt like leaving an agricultural heartland and descending into an industrial desert. But there's nothing like cottonfields with pump jacks and oil rigs dotting across their greens rows.
The oil is never far away...
And despite the rain, which at some points left oil rigs surrounded by a deluge of floodwaters, the pump jacks, automatons with a single purpose, keep pumping.
Water? No problem.
And then, poking out through the haze was the so-called Tall City, given the name not because it sits at 2,700 feet of elevation, but because it contains the tallest structures for miles around. I was home.
It was a lazy Friday, my second day off from work after working four days on the breaking news beat. A storm had blown through Midland earlier, bringing a torrential downpour, lighting and thunder, and of course flooding. But the storm had passed by the time I hit the road to Odessa, driving 20 miles in the no-mans lands between the two cities. Pump jacks and green bushes, lush with life after two weeks of rain, framed my view as I took the 191 to Ratliff Stadium. Clouds hung in the sky flanked by blue sky. The weather my just hold.
Odessa's two industries
Ratliff is a name that holds as much meaning to Odessa as oil does. The town of over 100,000 was made famous in Buzz Bissinger's 1990 book "Friday Night Lights: A Town, a Team, and a Dream" chronicled the story of the 1988 Permian High School football team as they made their way in a failed attempt to get to the State Championships.
Ratliff Stadium, Home of the Permian Panthers
The centerpiece of that story: Ratliff, which cost $5.6 million when it was built in 1982 and can seat over 19,000 people. Bissinger's book was full of triumph, anguish, and the pride of a city turned destitute after the oil crash in the early 1980s and cheap oil from the Middle Eastern oil kingdoms had bled Odessa's economy dry. Friday night football was what distracted the 90,000 Odessans from their troubles in their dusty, windswept outpost, if just for three-and-a-half months.
But thirty two years has not been kind on Ratliff. The white paint on the hundred-foot tall light poles is chipping away, worn by the beating heat, wind and dust. The press box is a shade of yellow that the 1980s invented, the old shades sagging from age. The aisle numbers, painted on the concrete steps long ago, have nearly rubbed away from the thousands of feet that have shuffled up and down them. But none of this matters, because when it comes to high school football, you only need one thing: a field. And Ratliff's field is the crisp green of a turf field flanked by yellow goal posts and ringed by a new all-weather track. And backing this all up is a massive jumbotron complete with instant replays and close ups of the referees. Some colleges would drool to have such facility.
On this Friday night the mood was different. It was homecoming weekend, and many of the girls, no matter how big or small, wore massive "homecoming mums." Some girls' mums were so long that it was a surprise that they didn't trip over them.
A mum.
Two boys holding a big "MOJO" sign started marching down the track, eliciting cheers and hoots from the crowd. The venerated "Pepettes," the varsity cheerleaders of Permian High, followed in their silver dresses and pom poms. The 120-strong band marched behind them in lock step. They wore white caps topped with white feathers and crisp white and black uniforms marching in step like a unit marching into battle, fearless as the drums rolled.
As the band completed their round of the stadium, the Permian football team, already warming up on the field, gather in the center. One player stood in the middle of the mass of white and black uniforms and the team chanted "Mojo, Mojo." As the players ran off the field to prepare for the opening ceremonies, family members shouted to their sons from the stands. Little kids jumped up and down, each with their own mini-Permian football jersey.
An honor guard made up of young cadets from the junior ROTC marched into the center of the field and were followed by the Permian marching bang, still in formation. As the band started their rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner," a light breeze picked up. The national flag was wrapped upon itself, while the Texas flag flapped happily in the wind.
In the far corners of the field both teams had unveiled their banners. The visiting team, the Coronado Mustangs from Lubbock, had inflated a giant golden helmet emblazoned with a red mustang. On the other corner was a massive banner 15 feet tall with a big white "P" and "Mojo Nation." The banner was held afloat by no less than a dozen students. At the bottom of it read: "Theirs Will Be A Glorious Victory."
A the teams set up to run onto the field, some of the Coronado players and assistant coaches began taunting the Permian side. One Permian player walked out to the goal post to shout back insults. He was soon joined by three more, who shouted at the Mustang's while pulling their comrade back. The tension was already building and the game hadn't even started.
The far side of the field held both school bands and the Permian student section. Aside from the bands and the students, the stands were mostly empty. The opposite side of the field, on the other hand, was packed with Permian fans. White and black dominated, and the white P of Permian was emblazoned on many hat, foldable chair and jersey.
The Mustangs blasted out of their inflated helmet, chasing their cheerleaders down the field in a primal show of power.
The Permian squad, showed gathered behind their banner on the jumbotron, undulated back and forth as one of their players gesticulated like a warrior. Then with a roar they ripped through the banner, chasing their own Pepettes and cheerleaders as they ran down the field screaming with glee. One student ran down the field with a flag that red "MOJO" and below that "7th Flag Over Texas."
As the teams lined up on the field, the sky darkened as the sun set over the dusty plains of Odessa. The lights blazed down onto the field, lighting up the field as if it were day.
High school football is not the epicenter of talent and good play. But Permian held Coronado off for the majority of the game with a scrappy playing style and plenty of swarming the ball. There were some hard hits, which usually resulted in some groans before people cheered the (Permian) player when he got to his feet.
But the Permian that I saw on the field was nothing lie what I had read about in Bissinger's book. 1995 marks the last time the Permian's made it to State, losing 31-28 against Converse Judson. The last time they won State was a 27-14 victory over San Antonio Marshall. The lack of good days on the field was marked by a more subdued crowd that struggled to get a rousing "MOJO" chant going and the lack of attendance. But the atmosphere was one of a communal gathering, one where neighbors shout to neighbors, friends plop down next to friends and shoot the shit, and kids run rampant. While the on-field play may not have been spectacular, the atmosphere was still lively.
With 1:30 left on the clock in the fourth quarter, and Permian ahead 14-12 and with the ball, I decided that I had seen enough. It didn't help that I hadn't eaten dinner and my attention was quickly slipping, but I was about to sorely regret my decision. A I left, the people around me gave me loos of amazement, as if it was crazy to leave in the waning seconds of the game. They were right.
Permian was unable to run the clock out, and the Mustangs were able to put together run and get to the Permian 37 yard line. With seconds remaining they made a desperate 44-yard field goal kick that knocked off of the top of the field goal bar and went over. With that, the Mustangs won 15-14. I can't even imagine what the feeling was like in the stands.
And then, when the teams came together in the middle of the field, they got into a melee that has embroiled both teams in controversy over who threw the first punch. What was caught on camera was Permian players swarming a Mustang, and a Mustang player using his helmet as a hammer against a Permian.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l89OUNFg3_Q (I couldn't embed the video for some reason)
Needless to say, the tension and intensity that was rippling across these teams from the beginning show how, even though football may be far past its prime, the machismo and importance that is put upon these teenagers still lights the fire of passion and intensity that Bissinger saw all those years ago. It's an intensity that I never experienced at my own high school in Palo Alto, and one that, like the flares that light up the night sky over the oilfields, still lights the Friday night skies in the fall.
