Some rain, mostly cloudy and cool. Nice day.
Was out putzing in the barr ditch and noticed my apple trees were turning rusty red. Did the Google search and found what I didn’t want t know. Our Co-Op, a telephone call assured me, does not carry fungicides.
Barf. Not happy about that. Ordered some on line. It’ll be here, I suppose, when it gets here. I wasn’t aware that Apple tree rust was a function of cedar trees and that they exchange energies back and forth.
I know that I’ve published this picture before – although the grocery store is just to the left and I will have to publish it again when I revisit it or a small story of courage and determination.
My thing today is the area behind the boats and car.
Those two store areas are owned by two Indians; perhaps more correctly, by one Indian now. The other died several years ago. They owned, in partnership, these two buildings, a defunct service station across from the present post office, a stripper oil well, and ten acres of land on the old highway. The area has been sold off to various and sundry people over the years and the businesses that wanted to attract passing highway traffic failed and faded away.
Currently up there on that ten acres there is a closed diner, a second rate beer parlor, a defunct ice cream store, a derelict car wash, an operating car restoration business, a failing (after ten years) seamstress/old fashioned blanket store, and the foundations of a home whose owner died and left his things to a variety of folks all of whom took parts and pieces, including the porch timber, siding, rafters, chicken houses, floor joice and most everything else, leaving the roofing shingles to collect dirt and weeds.
The other foundation is the remains of the road house I took the iron from that Ging built the building on.
Anyhow. Back to the picture above. The buildings are occupied by the son of one of the Indians. I’ve written of him before. He went to prison for dope sales and was the subject of his fathers near brush with the law trying to defend his son from the sheriff the night they raded the place. The son is out now, has been for some time.
The boats and cars appear and no one seems to actively work on them’ the old service station around the corner on the other side the insurance building has considerable cars resting in the shade of the trees growing through rusty metal older than the son.
Not sure what the son does, but these things seem to find being on the main drag interesting for they sit there day after day and don’t appear ready to leave any time soon.
The old buildings, I think, without knowing first hand, only glimpsed through dirt streaked windows when the sun is right, to be filled with old oil field parts, themselves out of date and frozen in time by caked oil residue and dirt.
From the reaches,