Athens, Georgia

First timer?  In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48).  I call this “landing.”

I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near.  I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location. 

To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above.  To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”

Landing number 2505; A Landing A Day blog post number 947

Dan:  Today’s lat/long (N33^o 49.261’, W83^o 16.388) puts me in north-central Georgia:

Here’s my local landing map, showing that I landed just southeast of Athens (about 10 miles away):

My streams-only map shows that I landed in the watershed of Big Creek:

And Big Creek discharges to the Oconee River (6^th hit).  Zooming way back, you can see that we’re in the Altamaha River watershed (9^th hit):

Let’s send the Orange Dude to take a look at Big CreeK:

He let me know that he could see a lovely view of the road, looking west:

And then, here’s Mr. Big (Creek) himself:

As you can tell, I landed in the woods, so there’s no use in any attempt to have the OD get a look at my landing. 

I’m going to head right over to Athens, and check out the list of Notable People. 

I’ll start with University of Georgia students Bill Berry, Mike Mills and Michael Stipe.  They (along with another U of GA student – Peter Buck – who for some reason was not listed in Wikipedia) founded the rock band R.E.M. in 1980.

Their name?  From Wiki:

After considering names such as Cans of Piss, Negro Eyes, and Twisted Kites, the band settled on “R.E.M.”, which Stipe selected at random from a dictionary.

“At random from a dictionary?”  That hardly makes sense.  Well, I guess Michael picked up a dictionary (yes, most people had one of those back in 1980), and thumbed through the book, then randomly stopped at a page.  It was in the “Rs.”  He did it again and hit the “Es,” and then, the “Ms.”  Whatever.

One of their big hits was “It’s the End of the World As We Know It.”  The words fly by very quickly, and except for the chorus, I had no clue about the words.  Well, here you go:

 

Now that I’ve seen the words, I still have no clue what this song is about.  It’s probably just me . . . 

Perhaps their biggest hit is “Losing My Religion.”  As someone who lost his religion, I was vaguely interested in this song, but I never really paid attention to the words.  Well, here’s my (and your) chance to check them out:

I don’t really get the connection to religion.  Perhaps that’s because there is no connection.  Here’s a discussion from Wiki about the meaning of the song:

Stipe has repeatedly stated that the song’s lyrics are not about religion. The phrase “losing my religion” is an expression from the southern region of the United States that means “losing one’s temper or civility” or “feeling frustrated and desperate.” Stipe told Q that “Losing My Religion” is about “someone who pines for someone else. It’s about unrequited love.”  Stipe compared the song’s theme to “Every Breath You Take” (1983) by The Police, saying, “It’s just a classic obsession pop song. I’ve always felt the best kinds of songs are the ones where anybody can listen to it, put themselves in it and say, ‘Yeah, that’s me.'”

Back to Wiki’s Notable People.  Before the R.E.M. dudes were at the U of GA, these Athens townies got together to form the B-52’s:  Fred  Schneider, Kate Pierson, Cindy Wilson, her brother Ricky Wilson and Keith Strickland.

Their name?  From Wiki:

The name B-52’s comes from a particular beehive hairdo resembling the nose cone of the aircraft, which Pierson and Cindy Wilson wore in performances throughout the band’s first decade.

Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE knows “Love Shack.”  But I’ll admit that I never saw the official video.  Well, here ‘tis:

 

I’m done with the famous rock bands, and I’ll move on to some way-lesser-known notables. I’ll start with Leila Denmark:

• Born in 1898 in Atlanta.
• Worked as a pediatrician until her retirement in 2001 (at age 103).
• She moved to Athens to live with her daughter, where she died in 2012 (at age 114).
• At her death, she was the 5^th oldest person in the world.

Next on my list is Wadsworth Jarrell.  From Wiki:

Wadsworth Jarrell (born in 1929) is an American painter, sculptor and printmaker. He was born in Albany, Georgia, and moved to Chicago, Illinois, where he attended the Art Institute of Chicago. After graduation, he became heavily involved in the local art scene and through his early work he explored the working life of blacks in Chicago and found influence in the sights and sounds of jazz music. In the late 1960s he opened WJ Studio and Gallery, where he, along with his wife, Jae, hosted regional artists and musicians.

Jarrell’s career took him to Africa in 1977, where he found inspiration in the Senufo people of Ivory Coast, Mali and Burkina Faso. Upon return to the United States he moved to Georgia and taught at the University of Georgia.

Living and working in Cleveland, Jarrell continues to explore the contemporary African American experience through his paintings, sculptures, and prints. His work is found in the collections of the National Museum of African American History and Culture, High Museum of Art, The Studio Museum in Harlem and the University of Delaware.

Here’s his painting of Angela Davis:

And a little about Angela Davis from Wiki:

Angela Davis (born in 1944) is an American political activist, philosopher, academic, author, and long-time member of the US Communist Party.  Born to an African-American family in Birmingham, Alabama, Davis studied French at Brandeis University and philosophy at the University of Frankfurt in West Germany. While in Germany, she became increasingly engaged in far-left politics. Returning to the United States, she studied at the University of California, San Diego, before moving to East Germany, where she completed a doctorate at the Humboldt University of Berlin.

After returning to the United States, she joined the Communist Party and became involved in numerous causes, including the second-wave feminist movement and the campaign against the Vietnam War. In 1969 she was hired as an acting assistant professor of philosophy at UCLA where she was soon fired her due to her Communist Party membership; after a court ruled this illegal, the university fired her again, this time for her use of inflammatory language.

In 1970, guns belonging to Davis were used in an armed takeover of a courtroom in Marin County, California, in which four people were killed. Prosecuted for three capital felonies, including conspiracy to murder, and held in jail for over a year, she was acquitted of all charges in 1972.

She visited Eastern Bloc countries in the 1970s and during the 1980s was twice the Communist Party’s candidate for Vice President; at this time, she also held the position of professor of ethnic studies at San Francisco State University.

In 1991, she joined the feminist studies department at the University of California, Santa Cruz, where she became department director before retiring in 2008. Since then she has continued to write and remained active in movements such as Occupy and the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions campaign.

Davis has received various awards, including the Soviet Union’s Lenin Peace Prize. Accused of supporting political violence, she has sustained criticism from the highest levels of the US government. She has been widely criticized for supporting the Soviet Union and its satellites.

Davis is included in Time’s 100 Most Influential People of 2020.

Back to Wadsworth Jarrell.  Here’s his piece entitled “Boss Couple:”

And finally, “Dizzy Meets Bird:”

FYI, Dizzy is jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, and Bird is saxophonist Charlie Parker.

Why is Charlie Parker nicknamed “Bird?”  From Wiki:

In the Deep South of the United States, yardbird  is a colloquialism for the domestic chicken. In one explanation for American saxophonist Charlie Parker’s nickname being “Yardbird” [and oftened shortened to “bird”], jazz trombonist and blues singer Clyde E. B. Bernhardt writes:

“He told me he got the name Yardbird because he was crazy about eating chicken: fried, baked, boiled, stewed, anything. He liked it. Down there in the South, all chickens are called yardbirds.”

Last on my Notables list is Ben T. Epps.  From Wiki:

Ben T. Epps (1888 – 1937), known as “Georgia’s First Aviator” was an American aviation pioneer. In 1907, he built a monoplane of his own design, now known as the Epps 1909 Monoplane. This was followed by other original monoplane and biplane designs in 1909, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1916, 1924 and 1930. He died of injuries as a result of an airplane crash. The Athens-Ben Epps Airport is named in his honor. In 1989 he was inducted into the inaugural class of the Georgia Aviation Hall of Fame.

Inspired by the Wright Brothers and pioneering European aviators, Epps first conceived of the design at the age of sixteen.  In 1907, he built the aircraft in the workshop of his bicycle, electrical contracting, and automobile repair business on Washington Street, Athens.

In October 1907, he flew the machine in a cow pasture.  After rolling downhill, Epps took off and flew about 100 yards at a maximum altitude of around 50 feet.  The flight ended in a crash, but made Epps Georgia’s first aviator.  In 1949, Lola Trammel told The Atlanta Journal Magazine that Epps had already made a successful flight in the machine prior to the public demonstration, testing the machine by moonlight with the help of friends at two o’clock in the morning.

There’s a replica of the Epps monoplane at the Valiant Air Command Museum in Titusville FL:

I’ll close with a visit to a covered bridge located about 5 miles east of my landing.  I sent the OD to take a look:

Very cool!  They built the rectangular frame to drive through to make sure that the vehicle can also fit inside the bridge.  There’s one on the other side as well. 

The OD fit inside the frame, and got this closer look at the bridge:

And then, to top it off, Mark Jones posted this photo on GE, showing the stream under the bridge (identity of man unknown):

 

That’ll do it . . .

KS

Greg

 

© 2020 A Landing A Day

 

Mitchell, Fulton, Spencer and Farmer, South Dakota

First timer?  In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48).  I call this “landing.”

I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near.  I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location. 

To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above.  To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”

Landing number 2504; A Landing A Day blog post number 946

Dan:  Today’s lat/long (N43^o 41.399’, W97^o 40.260) puts me in southeastern South Dakota:

Here’s my local landing map:

Oh oh.  Where’s Farmer?  I’ll show you in a bit.  My streams-only map shows that I landed in the watershed of Pierre Creek:

Remember class, that we’re in South Dakota, where the locals pronounce “Pierre” as “peer,” just as they do for their State Capital.

So, Pierre Creek discharges to the James River (22^nd hit); on to the Missouri (442^nd hit).  Of course, we’re in the mother of U.S. watersheds, the Mississippi (967^th hit).

Moving over to Google Earth (GE), the Orange Dude can get a good look at my landing:

And here’s what he sees:

Moving a short ways west, the OD can get a look at Pierre Ck:

And here ‘tis:

I’ll start with Mitchell, with its well-known “Corn Palace.”  I was vaguely aware that there’s a strange building in Mitchell called the Corn Palace, but I didn’t really know anything about it.  Well, here’s some info from Wiki:

In the late 19th Century, a number of cities on the Great Plains constructed “crop palaces” (also known as “grain palaces”) to promote themselves and their products. As the idea succeeded, it spread, and from 1887 to 1930, at least thirty-four corn palaces were built across the Midwest United States; only the Mitchell Corn Palace has remained intact.

The original Mitchell Corn Palace (a wooden castle known as “The Corn Belt Exposition”) was built in 1892 to showcase the rich soil of South Dakota and encourage people to settle in the area. In 1904–1905, the city of Mitchell mounted a challenge to the city of Pierre in an unsuccessful attempt to replace it as the state capital of South Dakota. As part of this effort, the Corn Palace was rebuilt in 1905. In 1921, the Corn Palace was rebuilt once again, with a design by the architectural firm Rapp and Rapp of Chicago. Russian-style onion domes and Moorish minarets were added in 1937, giving the Palace the distinctive appearance that it has today:

The murals are actually made of corn and other grains, and are changed every year.  Naturally, it’s a tourist attraction, attracting about 500,000 visitors per year (pre-covid, of course). 

Minor historical footnote:  George McGovern, who ran against Richard Nixon for president in 1972, is from Mitchell.  The Watergate scandal broke before the 1972 campaign, but it hadn’t picked up sufficient steam for George to actually win the election.  I’ll say he didn’t win the election:  he lost the stupid Electoral College (sorry, I can’t type the words “Electoral College” without putting the word “stupid” in front of it) 520-17.  He lost the popular vote 47 million to 29 million. 

Moving to Fulton.  From Wki:

The town was laid out in 1887. Some say that the town was named for Robert Fulton, inventor of the first commercially successful steamboat, while others believe the town has the name of a railroad employee.  A post office has been in operation in Fulton since 1887.

My vote goes for the railroad employee, but I’ll use the above as an excuse to take a quick look at Robert Fulton:

• Born in rural Pennsylvania in 1765.
• Lived 6 years in Philadelphia, making money as a portrait artist.
• When he was 23, he moved to Europe, where he stayed for 23 years.
• He became interested in improving steam power for ships; successful steam-powered ships were built by others in France, and in America, but Robert thought he could improve them (which he did)
• In 1800, Fulton was commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte, leader of France, to design a submarine; he produced Nautilus, the first practical submarine in history.
• In 1806, Fulton returned to the United States. In 1807, he and Robert R. Livingston built the first commercially successful steamboat, North River Steamboat (later known as Clermont). Livingston’s shipping company began using it to carry passengers between New York City and up the Hudson River to the state capital Albany. Clermont made the 150-mile trip in 32 hours, averaging a less-than-spectacular 4.7 mph. But hey, nobody could go any faster . . .

 

Here’s a 1908 replica of the Clermont:

Spencer is best known for nearly being destroyed by a 1998 tornado, with six fatalities.  From StormEyes.org, this shows the path of destruction through Spencer:

Also from StormEyes:

From the Argus Leader:

Moving on to Farmer.  First, I need to locate it:

From Wiki:

A post office called Farmer was established in 1890, and remained in operation until it was discontinued in 1992. The town was incorporated in 1920.  A majority of the early settlers being farmers caused the name to be selected.

Farmer is home to Saint Peter’s Grotto. The grotto was built between 1926 and 1933 by Fr. Peter N. Scheier and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2001.

Here’s a closeup:

First, the grotto, then the name.  South Dakota Public Broadcasting (SDPB.org) has a 2015 article about the grotto by Michael Zimny.  Here are some excerpts:

St. Peter’s Grotto in Farmer, South Dakota is a devotional reminder of the German Catholics who emigrated to Hanson County, beginning in the late 19th century, from the rural Eifel region of then-Prussia.

The grotto was designed and constructed by parish priest Father Scheier between the years 1926 and 1933. The unique-to-the-region, Byzantine-style design incorporates a wide range of building and decorative materials, including rock carved from the Badlands and Black Hills, petrified wood from North Dakota, marble from Tennessee, seashells from Hawaii and a single stone from the Catacombs of Callixtus in Rome.

Farmer once had a thriving agriculture-based economy. According to documents filed by the South Dakota State Historical Preservation Office, “in 1926, the town boasted of four grain elevators, two banks, three grocery stores and a hotel, along with other support businesses.”

The town was hard hit by the Great Depression and never returned to it’s former prosperity.  The grotto suffered a lack of maintenance after the parish grade school closed its doors in 1959,

When the South Dakota State Historical Society won recognition for it on the National Register, the funding was provided to restore the grotto to its former state of serene beauty, and so it stands as a kind of meditative focal point in the quiet heart of Farmer.

And now, the name “Farmer.” Don’t worry, loyal readers – I won’t launch into a multi-page fictional naming story, but I will say this:  The town was named “Farmer” because there were a bunch of farmers who founded the town??  With that logic, there’d be at least one “Farmer” in every state, not to mention Coalminer WV; Steelworker PA; Lobsterman ME; Lumberjack OR; Goldminer CA; Autoworker MI; and Beachcomber FL.

I’ll close with this shot posted on GE by Jay Reeve, taken about 12 miles SE of my landing:

That’ll do it . . .

KS

Greg

 

© 2020 A Landing A Day

 

Chloride and Antares, Arizona

 First timer?  In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48).  I call this “landing.”

I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near.  I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location. 

To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above.  To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”

Landing number 2503; A Landing A Day blog post number 945

Dan:  Today’s lat/long (N35^o 29.764’, W114^o 8.328) puts me in northwest Arizona:

Here’s my local landing map:

For my watershed analysis, StreetAtlas is worthless.  But Google Earth (GE) is very helpful.  Here’s my drainage pathway:

And here’s a double duty GE shot that shows my drainage pathway and my landing:

And here’s what the Orange Dude sees:

Look back at the aerial photo, and you can see the circular patterns associated with irrigation.  But there are also peculiar-looking rectangles that I assume also have something to do with irrigation.  Here’s a close-up:

 

I haven’t a clue what’s going on here.  If any of my readers know, please leave me a comment . . .

I’ll start out with a quick look at Chloride.  From WesternMiningHIstory.com:

Chloride is the oldest continuously inhabited mining town in the state of Arizona.

Nestled in a pocket of the Cerbat Mountain Range, the town is at an elevation of 4000′. The name Chloride came from the silver chloride found in the hills among other minerals in the area. Today, silver chloride is used in photographic emulsions and antiseptic silver solutions.

Sometime during the 1840’s, prospectors canvassing the area stumbled upon numerous veins rich in silver surrounding the area that would someday become Chloride. But silver wasn’t all they eventually found. Gold, lead, zinc, and turquoise were abundant in “them thar hills.”

Chloride was founded about 1863, but turmoil with the Hualapai Indians slowed mining considerably. In 1870, a signed treaty with the Hualapais cleared the way for extensive mining of the area.

[I’m sure it was a great deal for the Hualapais.]

In 1873, the United States Post Office Department opened an office in Chloride and the Chloride Post Office has been in continuous operation since 1893 making it one of the oldest continuously operated post offices in the state of Arizona.

From DesertUSA.com, here’s a shot of the touristy old Main Street today:

It’s time to move on to Antares.  I’ll start with a map I made that shows a historic section of Route 66:

Since the interstate was built in the 1970s, the old Route 66 has kind of withered on the vine, as documented in the movie “Cars.”  The movie was loosely based on the town of Peach Springs – somewhat east of Antares.  You may recall that I featured Peach Springs, back in October of 2018.  I can’t resist lifting one of the more memorable events associated with my writing of ALAD:

So how about Peach Springs.  Well, there’s a story.  I had just landed at this location and was taking my first look at the Street Atlas landing map.  (This is before my hard drive crashed).  As shown on my local landing map, the nearest town was Peach Springs.

So, of course, I Googled Peach Springs, went to Wiki and read this about the Route 66:

Route 66 runs through the town and brought large numbers of cross-country travelers.  However, in 1978, Interstate 40 was opened 25 miles to the south. Overnight, Peach Springs went from being on the main drag to being more than thirty miles from the new interstate.   The new road shortened the highway distance from Kingman to Seligman by 14 miles at the expense of turning villages like Truxton, Valentine and Hackberry, Arizona, into overnight ghost towns. Peach Springs survived as the administrative base of the Hualapai tribe but suffered irreparable economic damage.

Personal aside – and this is truly amazing:  At the very moment that I was doing my Peach Springs research, my four granddaughters were in the next room watching the Disney Pixar movie “Cars” (which I had never seen).  I was invited to watch, but I decided that I’d rather work on my landing.

So, there’s a Wiki section entitled “In Popular Culture.”  My jaw hit the table when I read this:

A similarly named and situated town, Radiator Springs, is depicted in the 2006 animated film “Cars”. A map with no local off-ramp from I-40 to a largely-parallel US 66 is described in the movie (“the town was bypassed to save ten minutes of driving”) to explain vacant, abandoned storefronts after the new road reduced Main Street traffic to zero.

Wow!  What are the odds?  A quick calculation shows that I have about a one in 2,000 chance of landing within 20 miles of a particular town in the Lower 48.  So what are the odds that the movie Cars would be playing in the next room at the same time I was landing?  One in a million?  And remember, we would have to multiply those two numbers, so we’d be at one chance in two billion! 

The Landing God was getting a good chuckle when He set this up for me!

Moving on to Antares, this, from TheRoute-66.com:

Antares was named after a gigantic red star in the constellation of Scorpio. It resembles Mars hence its Greek name, which means “the rival of Mars”. But not because it competes in brightness, but because of their similar red color.

When the Atlantic & Pacific Railroad laid its tracks through the area in 1883 they came across an obstacle: the Peackock Mountains just West of Hackberry.

They opted to route the tracks along a longer but easier alignment with a comfortable gradient that ran along the northern foothills of the mountain range.

Six miles north of Hackberry the tracks took a wide sweeping 90° curve, crossing the range and taking a straight course towards the southwest, all the way into Kingman.

It was, on this curve that a siding was built. It was named Antares.

Route 66 was built along that same alignment in 1926.

Here’s a GE shot of the town:

So.  We know that the town is named after a star.  But why is it named after a star?  Hold on, here we go again, off on another ALAD fictional town name origin story!

Jake and Morgan both worked for the Atlantic & Pacific railroad, in their Kingman office.  Jake was an advance man, and Morgan was a draftsman.  They had both spent months working on the route of the line from Seligman to Kingman.

[This route is shown on the Route 66 map, above.]

Jake and Morgan weren’t really friends; Jake was from Florida and Morgan was from Maine; the year was 1882 and the Civil War was a recent memory.  They knew each other and interacted just as much as necessary.  But one Tuesday night, they realized they were the last two folks in the office, and that they were headed out the door at the same time.

“Good night, Morgan.”

“Good night, Jake.”

They both hesitated out in the street in front of the office. 

Morgan was a married man; Jake was single.  There was a moment of awkward silence, when Jake asked, “Headed to your house for a home-cooked dinner?”

“Well, actually, no,” replied Morgan.  “Nancy is out of town – she’s down in Needles visiting her sister for a few days.  You’re a single man, Jake, what’s on your agenda tonight?”

This was now the longest conversation the two men had ever had.

“As usual, not much.”

Jake took the plunge:  “I’m thirsty for a beer.  Care to join me?”

Morgan hesitated. 

“Come on, Morgan.  You’re a single man tonight.  No harm in a couple of beers.”

“OK, Jake, you’ve twisted my arm.  Where to?

“The Silver Dollar Saloon, of course.”

The two men took a table, ordered a couple of beers and two bowls of beef stew.  They talked shop, about the new rail line running from Seligman to Kingman.

Morgan mentioned that it was just decided that a new rail siding and water tower were going to be built at the sharp corner as the line headed southwest towards Kingman.  “A bunch of guys were sitting around a table trying to figure out what to call the siding.  Pete mentioned that it was my turn to name a siding, and that they expected me to suggest a name tomorrow.  Do you have any ideas, Jake?”

“Nope.”

The conversation moved on to a more personal level, as they were asking each other about life in Maine and life in Florida.  Morgan was a good-looking man, and garnered attention from eligible Kingman ladies before he settled down and married Ruth.  Jake said: “I bet when you were a young man in Bangor, you were quite the ladies’ man.”

“Actually, no.  I was so shy, I was scared to even look at a pretty girl.  I was pretty much a loner.  My big brother thought I was a little weird – he told me that the only thing that got me excited was looking up at the stars.”

Jake prodded Morgan on this: “You liked looking at the stars?  Did you learn all of them constellations and stars and such.?

“In fact, I did.”

“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” exclaimed Jake.  “I was a bit of a loner myself and was drawn to star-gazin’.  On a clear night, I used to impress folks by namin’ all the stars and constellations.  In fact, I’ll bet I can name more stars than you!”

Morgan had no choice: “You’re on!”

The two men finished their stew and quaffed a couple of more beers before heading out.  It was a clear night, and they walked a few blocks to a darker part of town that had no street lamps.

“How we gunna do this,” asked Jake.

“I’ll flip a coin; and the winner gets to name the first star.  The first person who can’t name a star is the loser, and the loser gets the privilege of paying for the next round of beers back at the Silver Dollar.”

Jake agreed, and pulled out a penny.  “You call it in the air.”

“Tails,” said Morgan just before heads came up.  “Well Jake, you go first.”

“OK.  I’ll start out easy, with the brightest star up there, Vega.”  Jake pointed straight overhead to the bright star.

“As you probably know, Jake, Vega is part of the Summer Triangle.  I’ll name another one of the triangle, Deneb.”

“Thanks, Morgan, you’re leaving me the third, Altair!”

Here’s a sky map from Kingman AZ in July of 1883, showing the Summer Triangle:

“Well,” said Morgan “I see that we’re in for a real contest.  What’s next.  Well, it’s not news to you that the Big Dipper is sitting right there.”  Morgan pointed to the obvious constellation.  I’ll take an easy one.  The Pointer Stars are pointing right at Polaris, the North Star.”  Morgan moved his finger from the Dipper up to Polaris.

“I’ll keep it easy.  I remember an expression – arc to Arcturus.”  Jake’s finger traced the arc of the Dipper’s handle, and landed on Arcturus.

“Why thanks much, Jake.  I’ll finish the expression:  ‘Arc to Arcturus, speed to Spica.  And there it is!”

Here’s a star map showing what they’re taking about:

Jake:  “Well, I think I’ll stick with the Dipper.  You’re probably going to hate this, but I actually know all of the Dipper stars.  I’ll start at the upper edge of the pot, Dubhe.”

“I hate to break your heart, Jake, but I know them as well.  Just down from Dubhe – Merak.”

Jake:  “Phad.”

Morgan:  “Megrez.”

Jake:  “Alioth.”

Morgan:  “Mizar.”

Jake:  “Alkaid.”

Both men started laughing.  Morgan said “You’re the only other person I’ve ever met who could name the Dipper stars.  I don’t know about you, but here’s what I was saying to myself just now:  ‘dump mama . . .’

Jake interrupted to shout out “But dump the “U.”! 

Their laughter turned into full-throated guffaws. 

[D.M.P.  M.A.M.A. – The initials of the seven stars, but dump the “U”.]

“Imagine that.  Me from Tallahassee and you from Bangor, and somehow we both knew the same stupid little memory trick!”

“So, Morgan.  It’s your turn.”

Morgan looked up, scratched his head, shuffled his feet a little.  “I hate to admit this, but I’m afraid I’m tapped out.  Does that mean you win?  Or do you have to name one more to win?  I already forget the rules!”

“Well,” said Jake, “just so we’re both sure, I’ll name one more.”  He turned to look near the southern horizon.  “That bright one there – that’s Antares, in the constellation Scorpius.”

Here’s what they saw:

“Now you just wait a second!  I don’t think I’ve seen that star before!” exclaimed Morgan.  “Now I’ll admit that I haven’t paid much attention to the stars since I left Maine, but I swear you can’t see Antares from Bangor Maine.”

Morgan paused a little, thinking back to his farm outside of Bangor.  “Now that I think about it, I didn’t have a clear view of the southern horizon.  There was this damn little ridge in the way.”

“Excuses, excuses.  Well, I’ll tell you that in the summer, Scorpius was clear as a bell from our place outside of Tallahassee, just like it’s easy to see here in Kingman.  My daddy – who inspired me to learn about the stars – spent some time on a sailing ship, and he told me that when he sailed to the Caribbean, Scorpius was way up high in the night sky.  I reckon that way up north in Bangor, you can hardly see it!”

 Here’s a July 1880 star map from Bangor showing Antares very close to the horizon::

 

Morgan: “OK, OK, you win!  And I guess it’s not cheating just because you’re from Florida!  Let’s head back to the Silver Dollar so I can buy you a beer!”

The two men (now apparently good friends) walked in and sat at the bar.  Morgan said: “I’ll take a beer, and one for my friend here.”

After a long sip, Jake took a breath and said: “Since I’m the winner, how about if I get to name that new rail siding you were talking about.”

“Sure, why not?  What’s your choice?”

“Antares.”

It’s time for a couple of pretty pictures posted on GE.  Here’s a shot posted by Summaya of the road that runs north-south east of my landing (looking north):

I’ll close with this shot of the mountains near my landing.  I’m quite sure my landing is in here somewhere:

That’ll do it . . .

KS

Greg

 

© 2020 A Landing A Day

 

Pandora, Texas

 First timer?  In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48).  I call this “landing.”

I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near.  I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location. 

To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above.  To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”

Landing number 2502; A Landing A Day blog post number 944

Dan:  Today’s lat/long (N29^o 12.695’, W97^o 33.351) puts me in South Texas:

Here’s my local landing map:

I moved right over to Google Earth (GE) with Hydrographic Features enabled to get a local look at my watersheds:

I landed in the Rocky Creek watershed, on to Fivemile Creek; on to Sandies Creek.  Heading over to the StreetAtlas streams-only map, you can see that Sandies creek makes its way to the Guadalupe River (6^th hit):

I couldn’t get a decent GE Street View shot of my landing but I could get a look at Fivemile Creek:

And here’s what he sees:

Check out this regional GE shot:

Every white dot represents an oil and/or gas drilling location.  With a little bit of research, I discovered that the oil-bearing formation is the Eagle Ford Shale, which has its own website.  Here’s some of what it has to say:

The Eagle Ford Shale is quite possibly the largest single economic development in the history of the state of Texas and ranks as the largest oil & gas development in the world based on capital invested. Almost $30 billion was spent developing the play in 2013. The Eagle Ford had more than a $60 billion dollar impact on the local South Texas economy in 2012 and over 116,000 Eagle Ford jobs were supported in the 20 county area impacted by the play. Add the jobs created in surrounding counties and the picture of a modern oil boom begins to take shape.

From record drilling levels to wells producing over 4,000 barrels per day of oil initially, the play is redefining South Texas as an oil industry hotbed. If you own a business in South Texas, begin thinking about how the Eagle Ford is changing the economic landscape and your future. Oil & gas production is bringing new-found wealth to the region.

The Eagle Ford is the most active shale play in the world with over 100 rigs running. Operators are indicating the play will be developed for decades to come.

What the above write-up doesn’t say is that all of this drilling & investment is centered around fracking.  A fluids (gas or oil) don’t flow in a shale formation.  That means that if you put a well there, no matter how hard you pump or suck, you’re not getting any significant production.  Unless, of course, you frack, which creates fractures in the shale that act as pathways for the collection of gas and oil in a well.

As you might expect, in spite of the huge economic stimulus, there’s a fair amount of controversy created by environmental impacts associated fracking.  Plus there’s a more philosophical debate about how fracking feeds our petroleum habit, reducing impetus for alternate energy sources..  I could go on with the pros and cons of fracking, but I won’t . . .

So let’s check out Pandora.  Here’s a GE shot of the “town:”

I sent the Orange Dude to downtown Pandora to take a look around.  Believe me, there’s not much to see, but just to verify that in fact, the OD was in Pandora:

From Texas Escapes, here’s some Pandora, Texas “History in a Pecan Shell:”

Little, if anything, is known of Pandora’s early years or how it got its slightly uncomfortable name. Those familiar with Greek mythology, will remember that she was the first woman on earth – created by order of Zeus. She was given a jar (or box) which she was told not to open for any reason. But curiosity got the better of her and when she removed the lid, evil escaped and things have never been the same since. Looking at the town of Pandora today it appears that the lid has been removed, but it should be remembered that one thing remained in Pandora’s box – and that was hope.

In the 1890s, Pandora became a stop on the San Antonio and Gulf Railroad. A store opened in 1900 and by 1906 the town had a post office. In 1914 Pandora was thriving with three stores, two blacksmiths, a gin, druggist, butcher and a population of 100. The population doubled by 1947 but since then the town has declined to its present condition. The post office has closed in recent years.

Here are some pictures from the website.  First, this of the old Post Office:

And for you doubters out there,  here’s a close-up of the sign:

Strangely, this tile mosaic is at the entrance to the Post Office:

I guess before the building was a post office, it was a bank.

Based on the Texas Escapes article (which was clueless about how Pandora got it’s name), I see an opportunity for one of my fantasy ALAD town name stories.  Here goes:

Robert Schmidt was raised in a family of five in Oak Park, Illinois (just west of Chicago on the West Side).  He was the oldest of the three children, but only ten when the great Chicago fire wiped out almost all of downtown Chicago (while sparing Oak Park).  His father was a civil engineer, who was part of the rebuilding of Chicago after the fire.  Chicago architecture (and engineering) in the 1880s led the way towards the modern skyscraper, built of steel, concrete and glass.

His father’s firm did the engineering design of the Isabella building, a then-astounding 11 stories, supported entirely by a steel skeleton.

When Robert was a child, he dreamed of following his father Frank into engineering, but he began to realize that he didn’t have the methodical and analytical mind of his father.  More like his mother Mabel, he was a day dreamer who had difficulty keeping his mind on any difficult task.  And as is often the case for creative dreamers, he didn’t have a clear sense of what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Robert didn’t do well in school; he realized (as did his parents) that there was no way he should go to college.  As Robert moved through his teenage years, his father became increasingly annoyed by his eldest, and Robert felt more and more distant from his father. 

After Robert graduated from high school, Frank reluctantly found a job for him in his engineering firm, working as a glorified errand boy and messenger.  Robert didn’t hate his job, but he certainly didn’t love it.  He avoided his father as much as possible, which suited them both. 

One of the secretaries at the firm was named Elizabeth.  Everyone called her Betty.  They shared a common bond, as Betty was the daughter of Henry Oliver, one of the senior engineers at the firm.  Like Robert, she had disappointed her father, and like Robert, her father (somewhat reluctantly) set up her with a job.  But she was pretty, and she could type.

Robert – not a bad looking young man himself – found himself inexorably attracted to her.  And much to his delight, she returned his subtle advances with body language and facial expressions that encouraged him.

Robert finally got up the nerve to talk to his father about his attraction to Betty.  He knew he’d have to have his father’s permission before he dared to ask her out.  Frank (who knew nothing about his son’s feelings for Betty) was appalled.  Henry Oliver (Betty’s father) was an important partner in the firm, much more senior than Frank.  Frank knew that Henry would never approve of his ne’er do well son getting involved with Betty.

As time went on (and his flirtation continued), Robert noticed that another young man was paying extra attention to Betty.  Charles, a young engineer several years older than either Robert or Betty, was a serious young man, poised to begin climbing the corporate ladder at the firm.   Although he knew he couldn’t compete with Charles (“Chas” around the office), Robert didn’t give up on Betty.  But then came a fateful day.

Robert was just returning to the office after dropping off a set of engineering plans at City Hall.  When he entered the office, he saw Chas standing right next to Betty at her desk.  Robert slipped down a side hallway, where he wouldn’t be noticed, but could keep an eye (and ear) on Betty and Chas.  Chas pulled a gayly decorated box from behind his back, and Robert couldn’t help but hear him say, “Happy Birthday, Betty.”

Happy Birthday!?!  Robert had no idea it was Betty’s birthday!  He watched as she opened the box and took out a lovely bracelet.  He saw the expression on Betty’s face as she slipped the bracelet on her wrist. 

Later that day, Robert happened by Betty’s desk.  Although they made eye contact as Robert approached, she turned away, and began going through some files in a drawer behind her desk.  Robert knew it was an act.  He also knew at that moment that he had no chance with Betty.

He strongly suspected that Betty knew all along that she wouldn’t be accepting Robert on any romantic level.  But for him, it was the moment of opening the gift that sealed his fate.

Strangely, his mind drifted back to a high school history class where his teacher was talking about mythology and the story of Pandora’s Box.  Although he was vague on the details of the story, he remembered that bad things happened after Pandora opened her box.  Because his whole world turned on his head when she opened the box, he saw Betty as his Pandora . . .

In the days following the gift and Betty’s cold shoulder, Robert decided that he needed to leave his family home in Oak Park; leave Chicago, and head out on his own.  He knew he wanted to go out west, to try his hand at . . . whatever came his way.  He had read magazine articles that glamorized the wide open spaces in Texas, including one that in particular espoused San Antonio.  He liked the name of the City; and off he went.

Years go by .. . .

Robert – good looking, quick on his feet and quick with just the right turn of phrase – realized that he was a born salesman.  He held various jobs, but really found his niche with the ever-expanding railroad system, when he fast-talked his way into a job with the San Antonio and Gulf Railroad.  They needed agents (or “advance men”) who could scout out potential routes and get sweetheart land and right-of-way deals.

Robert found himself about 50 miles east of San Antonio, scouting a potential rail route between for a new line connecting Victoria and San Antonio.  He happened upon a little cross-roads settlement that was on one of the possible routes.  He began his usual approach, letting the locals know that he had great influence to determine the route the railroad would take, and would be all ears if a good deal was offered him. 

Jessop Hawley, who appeared to be something of a leader, approached Robert and casually mentioned that their little crossroads town didn’t have a name, and maybe he would like to suggest a name for the town.  Robert knew that his last name – Schmidt – wasn’t a great name for a town, and on a whim, he thought of his first love and his first heartbreak.  “How about Pandora?”

“Why not?  Sounds good to me.” replied Mr. Hawley.  The other town fathers agreed, and Pandora it became.  And in fact, the railroad was routed through the town.

It’s time to close this down with a lovely shot posted on GE by Gene Brown, only about two miles from my landing:

 

 

That’ll do it . . .

KS

Greg

 

© 2020 A Landing A Day