Essays

Moseying: Locations of Interest

Stanton Historical Museum
November 6, 2002

On the only sunny and warm day in late October I made a run over to Stanton. June Reid had invited me to visit the Stanton Historical Museum whenever I had a little spare time. June was one of the main instigators of its creation – she is a wonderful role model for citizen activism. Her leadership in the effort to preserve and conserve the history of Martin County is inspiring.

What a beautiful day for a visit! Rainwater pools sparkled in the bar ditches, surrounded by the greenest grass this drought-stricken land has seen since the August rains of 1997. Midland Draw still had running water, with detritus festooning the barbwire fences to show how high the water had been. The big old soapberries in the central median of old Highway 80 sparkled with the first gold leaves of autumn. The red and white seed heads of KR and Cane Bluestem grasses danced in the steady west wind that is the harbinger of yet another norther sweeping in with the clouds. In an irrigated cotton field, a harvesting machine sat idle with only half of the field processed. It was a bittersweet sight, as it has been a long time since the fields have been too wet to work.

It is surprising in some ways that Stanton has not developed into a “bedroom community” for Midland like Greenwood. Lots of folks like the idea of their children attending a smaller school and enjoying the more intimate community life. Stanton has the added benefit of being a county seat. At first glance, the older buildings along Saint Peter Street give the heart of the town a cozy, settled atmosphere; but when it is noticed that some are empty, a certain melancholy sets in. The community does its best to revive the vigor of the town. The thrice-yearly Old Sorehead Days has become a wonderful southern Llano Estacado tradition.

I had lunch at the Stanton Drugstore – one of the biggest and best burgers I have ever had. Afterward I moseyed around a little while, waiting for Curator Helen Thrailkill to return to the museum from her lunch break. I wandered up the hill to the old convent – John Kennedy and his crew of preservationists have been making slow and steady headway over the last fifteen years. Originally a Carmelite monastery and site of the first school in west Texas, the view of the building stimulated a daydream. I imagined a nun standing at the door with children gathered in front of her on a spring day, flowers blooming around them. A sentimental image to be sure, replicating the best of the hopes and dreams of the early settlers.

I love visiting the historical museums of small towns. When people do things themselves, without the traditions imposed by professional training, the result is often fresh and creative. Inside, a visitor may find several glass-faced cabinets filled with small collections of family keepsakes. Each collection reflects the personality and interests of the person commemorated. One shelf was filled with early-day veterinary tools, another with the tools of a barber. Others had photos, jewelry, fine china, and another had a collection of horseman’s tack.

Another display that captured my imagination was Grandma’s Attic. With walls and roof, the eight-by-six “mini-room” perfectly captured the essence of a family’s collection of treasured items too dear to throw away or sell. Old books, clocks, a big trunk, a well-built hardware cabinet, “ancient” typewriters and sewing machines filled the display. My Granny’s attic looked like that, too.

A large, framed hand-tinted photograph depicting the first registered Hereford cow of Martin County fascinated me. The bovine filled most of the scene, with a lanky cowboy standing off to the side in the background. Underneath the cow, a scrawny leafless mesquite sprawled over bare ground spattered with cow paddies. In the background to the left, a big wide draw was revealed, with somewhat perpendicular bluffs. I wondered what the scene would look like today – a lot more mesquite, I am sure; but also a lot more grass despite the long drought. (Martin County pastures are not as bare as those in Midland County, thanks to their big rain of April of 2000.)

I was pleased to find that the museum had an archive room as well, filled with old Martin County newspapers and several hundred books and items waiting to be displayed at later dates. With pen and notebook, I settled in for some serious browsing and before I knew it, three hours had passed. I filled half a dozen pages with notes about intriguing stories.

Here’s one. In the early days of settlement, one of the very first ranchers saw an enormous “herd” of turkeys migrating west. Hundreds of thousands of turkeys in a solid stream stretching some five miles in length marched past him. Coyotes by the dozen walked along beside the mass of walking gobblers. Did they used to migrate from the Mohr Oaks of the Colorado River breaks to the Havard shinoaks of the sand dunes west of the Mescalero Escarpment? Or were the turkeys following an incredible swarm of Rocky Mountain Locusts, the now-extinct grasshoppers that once plagued and decimated the crops of early farmers on the Great Plains? As one settler described the locusts “at first, we thought we could see faint smoke, far away. The plumes were rising and sinking, dilating and contracting with every vagary of the wind. The cloud glittered like swirling snowflakes struck by sunlight as it approached, and then the sound a billion wings filled the air, crackling like the roar of a giant bonfire.”

We are all deeply indebted to those who preserve the stories of our homeland, fueling the fires of imagination. Who needs television, anyway?