West Texas is a quite a ways from the closest ocean – about 500 miles – so it is a little bit of a mystery about these oyster shells that have been pressed into the rough concrete on these graves. I see this sort of regularly in my wanderings and always wonder about the process of it all.
These markers are in fairly good condition; most of the time all the shells are broken, by our wicked summer hail or by vandals: I do not know.
This town was my parents’ favorite in all of England. They talked about it a lot. The Patient Spouse and I took my dad on a last trip to England after my mom died, and of course he planned a trip around this town. And then, when the Patient Spouse and I took Miss Hannah Harvey on a trip to England, we wanted to go back and see it again.
All that aside, what do you suppose that woman in the window is thinking about. Maybe it’s “why do SO MANY Texans think they need to keep coming here?”
One thing – OK, maybe it is the main thing – that I like about the desert is the way everything’s spiky. It’s like it doesn’t really care if you visit or not, but if you do, it’ll be on the desert’s terms and not yours. No soft grass to lie in or any of that sort of thing. I mean, even the fence sections are pointed…