Our
decision to attend the Rimrock church was made earlier in the week, when we
stopped by to learn its Sunday schedule; the signboard outside the church
proclaimed Ken Miller to be its pastor, so we couldn’t resist finding out what
he was like. Two ladies of the church
drove up while we were noting worship times, so I introduced myself to them as
their pastor; they first looked at me as if I were crazy, then laughed when I
told them my name was also Ken Miller.
Then, on Sunday, when we met the pastor, we discovered that each of us
had been born in Fort Worth (many years apart), so he wondered if we could be
related. I told him I had no male
cousins of which I was aware, but, after returning home and climbing the family
tree, found I had a Great-Uncle Ethel (shades of Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue”) whom I had never known,
who might have had male descendants. I
wrote the pastor and told him my findings, but received no reply, so he either
had no great-granddad named Ethel, or, if he did, wouldn’t admit it.
Arlette and I have spent a good part of most Aprils since 1993 away from
home, traveling to, participating in, and returning from spring gatherings of a
small group of Howard Payne College students of the ‘40s; we have participated
in all except two gatherings, which we missed because we were taking care of my
mother. I discuss that group (which has
met numerous times at Texas locations, twice in Missouri, once in New Mexico,
and once in Arkansas) more fully in the segment of these writings entitled TIME
FOR FAMILY/RELATIVES/FRIENDS.
Our longest April outing (in time, not mileage, where Ruidoso wins) was
in connection with the 2000 gathering at the Alto Frio Baptist Encampment grounds near Leakey, Texas. We left home about two weeks before time to
meet with the old gang, camping along our way:
Garner Park, located
about ten miles south of Leakey, is named for John (Cactus Jack) Garner, who
was a native of nearby Uvalde and vice-president of the United States during
the FDR administration.
Our time
in the Garner/Alto Frio/Leakey area was well spent in another respect, for I
was able to locate the grave of Great-Grandmother Zena (Taylor) Stribling. A victim of tuberculosis, she died at Leakey
in 1905 during a trip her family made from Hood County to Uvalde in search of a
healthier climate. My mother and dad
had tried to find Grandmother Zena’s grave many years earlier, but had been
unsuccessful, so Mother was pleased to learn we had found it.
Leakey
Floral Cemetery is rather large, so, after searching unsuccessfully for some time
for Grandmother Zena’s grave, Arlette and I decided I should try to learn
whether someone in town might know gravesite locations. I stopped by the city library and asked if
anyone there knew someone who could help; I was told to call Mrs. Marjorie
Kellner. I called Mrs. Kellner, who
exclaimed when I told her my mission, “I’ve been wondering for thirty-five
years who Zena Stribling was,” and volunteered to meet us at the cemetery to
show us the gravesite we sought. Mrs.
Kellner was a walking encyclopedia, having written a book about the cemetery,
but she knew nothing of Zena Stribling, whose tombstone said simply:
ZENA
Wife of
J.H. STRIBLING
DIED
June 5, 1905
Aged
52 Years
I supplied Mrs. Kellner
with the information I knew about Grandmother Zena and the Stribling family,
some of which she included (although a bit garbled) in her “Roots” column in
the May 10 issue of the Real American;
the subheading of her column read, “A Mystery Is Solved.”
We moved
from Garner State Park to the Alto Frio campground the Friday before Easter,
because all 451 sites at Garner were reserved for that weekend. Arlette painted a scene in town, we did a
little grocery shopping, I got a haircut, and we attended Sunday worship at a
Baptist church on the southern edge of Leakey.
Our Howard Payne friends started arriving at Alto Frio on Monday afternoon; we visited, ate, played games, and went
sightseeing over the next three days; all left by Friday morning. We spent Friday night at Holiday Park on
Lake Benbrook, went by the Masonic Home in Arlington on Saturday morning to
visit Arlette’s mother, then headed for Silver Lake Park at Lake Grapevine,
about fifteen miles from Marty’s house in north Irving. His three youngest spent Saturday night with
us at the RV, we all went to church on Sunday, then Marty and all four kids
spent Sunday afternoon at the park with us.
We came home on Monday, having spent most of April in our RV.
Enjoyment of abundant time doesn’t mean I’m continuously active. I’m not like those retirees who seem always
to be busy, busy, busy – as exemplified by a letter I received from Bill
McClung, an old acquaintance from
Poly High and Weatherford, in which he said, “I retired…in 1988 and have not
had time to do anything since,” then went on to note some of the activities in
which he’s involved. That is typical of
many retired folks I know, who say they can’t imagine how they got everything
done in the days when they had to be on the job every workday. I, however, must admit that I’ve been much
less busy in retirement than I was during my years in the workworld.
Arlette is more industrious than I, for she spends much time at
art-related activities, but we both often relax, usually in our den – where we
nap, read, listen to radio, view cable TV, or vainly try to keep squirrels off bird feeders.
We and the
squirrels have spent many hours frustrating each other. Arlette sees a squirrel on the feeder and
drives him off, only to find him back almost as soon as she turns away. I’ve wasted hundreds of BBs shooting at the
marauding rodents, usually missing – but I’ve enjoyed the few times I heard the
satisfying “splat!” from a BB that found its mark.
We had one
feeder that stood on a pipe; squirrels climbed the pipe as if it were a
sapling, even when I greased it thoroughly.
I’ve tried suspending feeders from above, but the squirrels eventually
learn to climb down supporting ropes or wires.
Perhaps we
should assume a philosophic attitude, reasoning that squirrels need food, just
as birds do – but memories of the troubles they’ve caused by invading our attic
and RV keep us from being kindly disposed toward them.
Gregg Greenway, Terry’s husband and our
son-in-law, sometimes describes my retirement lifestyle as “doing nothing,
slowly.” That’s a pretty fair description; slowing
down without feeling too guilty is perhaps the best part of retirement, although
I’ll admit I often feel as if there must be something important I should be
doing. Even so, I fully identify with
the old Spanish proverb provided me by friend Henry Rivera: "How beautiful it is to do nothing and
then rest afterwards."
Perhaps I should confess that my slowing down hasn’t necessarily been
by choice; three quarters of a century of living has had its effect. I often felt I had inadequate time to do all
I wanted to when I was young and energetic; now that I have time, I no longer
have the energy to do all I’d like.