Forty-eight Worm Holes
Category: Life

Greetings family and MySpaz friends
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This is one of those rare and unusual blog entries that doesn’t fall in the unusual category of Dreams and Supernatural.  This has been an extrememly unusual day that ended with a feeling (for myself) in a deep philosophical stupor.  In other words, this is a "nothing" blog entry.  Read only at your own peril.
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A couple of grandkids spent the night with my darling young bride and me.  I love them (and all the others) dearly.  Around  1:30 this morning  my bride woke me up saying "I can’t find "the two-year-old little girl".  My mate had woke up to let the dog (Sparky the Amazing Wonder Dog -- we’re amazed and wonder about him all the time) outside to do his business.  While he was outside, she went to check on the two grandkids snug in bed in the guest bedroom of our super deluxe custom-built double-wide.  The little girl was not there in bed where we placed her when we said good night.
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In a panic my dear bride looked under the bed, out in the living room (under, around and behind the sofa), in the front parlor (nothing there but a rocking chair), and in the "children’s retreat" (where another sofa is situatated).  No little girl.
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So she comes into our bedroom and flicks on the light, hoping to see the child curled up in our bed.  Nope, just me ... now wide-eyed.  After frantically telling me "the baby is missing," I jump up and follow her back to the guest bedroom.  We throw on the light and find the little darling curled up on the other side of the bed right next to her five-year old brother.  (In the dark it looked like just one little body.)  Whoo ... I go back to bed.
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The next conscious moment I have is cartoons blaring on the tv set at Oh Dark Hundred this morning.  I crawl out of bed, fetch the morning newspaper in from the front lawn, start an eight cup of coffee pot brewing, and my dear bride begins cooking breakfast.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable chocolate chip pancake, maple sausage, apple juice, chocolate covered doughnut, and cinimon roll breakfast.  Soon afterwards the momma and daddy pick up the kids.
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I take the last of my eight-cups of brewed coffee out to the back porch along with the newspaper.  A calliope of chirping birds out in the little spit of the Eastern Cross Timbers next to my backyard seranade me while I happily read the newspaper and work the Sunday crossword puzzle.  A high-water mark of a Sunday ... I complete the crossword puzzle (in ink).
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Still in my pajamas and nightrobe, my bride informs me that the grandson is on his way over to go fishing (it’s going on noon, but what do I care).  I throw on some clothes and gather my tackle box and brand new Pirates of the Caribbean rod and reel (I didn’t bring my fishing poles from Maryland ... and just recently bought the cheapest thing from Walmart the other day).
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The boy arrives and we trek back to Elizabeth Creek.  We’re able to transverse the winding path, but within a week I know it will be impossible.  The little shoots of briars and thorns and bushes are just young enough now to step over, around and through.  At full growth it will be impossible.
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We silently creep up to the secluded bank of the creek.  I know in my heart that this is the wrong time of day to go fishing, but there they are jumping in the wide pool area of the creek.  I despertly hope we well snag a fish.  However, I know deep inside that my grandson will probably NOT catch his first fish today.
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I test cast the first throw.  The little jig I’m using for a lure skips perfectly across the bottom of the creek.  I think to myself, "how could a fish refuse to take this bait."  I turn the pole over to my gandson.  His first cast is way off to the right ... barely ten feet away from the shore line.  Okay, try it again.  His second is maybe a foot or two better.  The third is almost acceptable.  The forth is tolorable.  It goes on like this, but we are fishing.
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In fact, the time gets away from us.  No fish are caught, but that wasn’t exactly the point (I keep telling myself).  We (I) break down the rod and reel and stow the lures and hooks back into the tacklebox.  My grandson finds a nifty looking rock with a "seashell" fossil.  He sticks it in his pocket to lug back home.
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Transversing the fifty yards back to the homestead (the boy has no sense of direction in the woods) we find grandma greeting us with a "I was worried about you two."  He gave her a blow by blow disertation about our fishing exploits.  She presented us with homemade bowls of potato soup.  The rock with the fossil goes up on the mantle of the new outdoor fireplace.  His momma and daddy and baby sister join us for dinner as well as my dear bride’s sister.  I crack open a brew to go with the soup.  It’s the best soup I’ve ever ate.  And then another beer.
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The little kids, as well as their daddy (my son-in-law) go off to play badminton.  I open another bottle of Fat Tire beer.  I’m enjoying a plesant conversation with my daughter, my wife and my sister-in-law on our new stone outdoor patio with the new fireplace fired-up.  Soon, the next door neighbor lady and her two children join us (the kids are the same age as my grandchildren and they begin to play all together.)  My son-in-law leaves the kids playing badminton and he too joins in conversation.  He hands me another bottle of Fat Tire.
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Soon we hear, "Oh no, the net is broken!"
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I have no idea how two little five-year-olds and two little two-year-olds can explode a badminton net (the dang net was up higher than my head).  But they did.
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The net was twisted up in the center of the yard.  The two poles flung yards away from where they were anchored.  The hooks and cords holding the net to the pole and the guywires were scattered all over (some not found).
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I’m not proud of myself at how I reacted.  It’s just a dang badminton net.  Hell, I don’t even like the game.  I owe my daughter and son-in-law an apology.  I owe a lot more to my grandchildren.
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After darkness fell and everybody left, my dear bride sat down and watched Jane Eyre (or something) on PBS television.  With a double shot of Drambuie and Scotch, I sat down outside to watch the flames die in the fireplace.
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Next to the fireplace I have an old fence post propped up along side solely for decoration.  Now this old fence post is worn.  I have no idea as to how old it actually is.  I do know that the wire fencing that was attatched to it runs out across behind my super-deluxe custom-built double-wide.  These wires are pretruding out of the middle of a dead tree that is wider than what I can wrap my arms around.
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Sitting there in the dark, sipping on that potent potible and watching the flickering embers die down in the fireplace, I began contenplating that old decorative fence post.
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It had a purpose in life.  It began it’s life as part of a tree.  More than likely a strong tree.  Just how old was that tree before someone took it’s tree-life?  Heaven might be able to tell.  Not me.
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That tree was selected by a person to be cut up and used for something.  It might of been for a board to be part of a house, or carved into a bit of furniture, or even to be use for nothing more than fuel for a campfire.  As it was, it was selected to become a post.  It supported a collection of metal wires that kept livestock from going from one side to the other.  How well did it preformed this duty ... God only knows.  I’d like to think that it performed very honorably.
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But tonight it is decoration.  It is decoration along with a gray rock with a dark gray seashell fossil. That decorating fence post also has forty-eight worm holes.  I counted.  Now, just how many worm holes do I have?
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Respectfully,

Gordon Lee
Great Fritain Royal Memorabilia & Lawn Games Emporium
I should have set up a horseshoe pit instead.

9:22 PM - 87 Comments - 73 Kudos - Add Comment

ELIZABETH CREEK II, or A Little Naked on the Prairie
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

I must admit I was completely taken by surprise to find a "ghostly" connection as to how Elizabeth Creek, and her sister creek, Henrietta, acquired their names.  [See my previous blog entry entitled "Elizabeth Creek."]  You've probably realized, by the fact that I'm posting another blog entry and that I've given it a title of "Elizabeth Creek II," that I've been surprised yet again.  You guys are pretty clever, because you're absolutely right.
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Doc Harper was immediately smitten with the frontier village of Elizabethtown.  Located at the conjunction of Elizabeth Creek flowing eastward across the Grand Prairie to where it meets the formidable Eastern Cross Timbers, it grew from it's meager beginning as the homestead of Peter Harmonson to a rip-roaring cowtown by 1845.  By 1852 the growing town boasted a hotel, a general store, a doctor, a post office, a church, a wainwright (a maker and repairer of wagons), a grain mill, three blacksmiths, and six saloons.  But during early 1861, like the rest of Texass, almost every able-bodied man of the town went off to fight in the American Civil War.  Left behind, undefended, were old folk, women and children.  This was a bad place to be left undefended; Doctor George Harper, MD soon discovered.
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Doc Harper wanted to fulfill his patriotic duty by marching off with the rest of the men.  He knew an army would severely need someone with medical knowledge when they entered battle.  However, the consensus of his fellow patriots over-ruled his decision.  They figured that by the time they got to where the fighting was it would be all over and wouldn't need any doctoring.  They persuaded him that his valued duty was to stay behind and tend to the medical needs of their families.  So he did.
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Even with the town half deserted, Doc Harper stayed busy.  The remaining Elizabethans provided his practice the need to treat cases of catarrhs, influenza, consumptions, pneumonias, diarrhea and dysentery, bilious fever, and lumbago.  Although the cattle herders, fewer in numbers than before the war, still showed up requiring aid for broken bones, drunkenness, and gleet.  Additionally, George Harper took on the responsibility as the Elizabethtown Postmaster.
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Doc Harper's social life didn't suffer at all.  All the lonely ladies in town and at the nearby homesteads (married or not) clamored for his attention.  Hardly an evening went by in which he wasn't invited to sit at a fully set table and heartedly dined.  His favorite companionship, however, was with the Brown family.
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Sewell Brown, his wife and their five children, settled in Elizabethtown after painting "GTT" on their front door and moving from White County, Tennessee.  Sewell was one of the few men remaining in Elizabethtown.  He ran the General Store.  His dear wife, Sarah, grew up knowing all of Doc Harper's family back in White County.  Doc had consumed many fine meals, played with the children and spent numerable evenings in comfortable conversation by the Brown hearth talking about old family and friends left back in Tennessee.
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[Note:  Brace yourselves.  You know I'm going to interject a bit of a history lesson when I start telling a story.  Well, here's where I interject.  (I promise to keep the lesson short and sweet.)
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Just prior to the American Civil War, the US Army was somewhat successful in protecting the Texass frontier from marauding Indians.  The federal government was right in the middle of making plans to relocate the majority of the Texass tribes north of the Red River into Oklahoma Territory.  But once the War Between the States erupted, federal troops were pulled out of Texass.  Both the Indians and the settlers knew that the troop withdrawal left no organized protection except for just a hand full of Texas Rangers (bless their hearts).  That allowed several tribes of Comanche to run amok like … well, a band of wild Indians.  Basically, if you take a map and draw a line southward from Gainesville to San Antonio (or what is now Interstate 35), everywhere to the west was available as fair game to the Comanche.  Elizabethtown sat right exactly on that line.  Now, the lesson is over and back to the story.]
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Doc Harper often took the oldest Brown boy, Reuben, with him while making rounds at various surrounding homesteads to tend the sick and lame.  Returning home from one such excursion from out on the Grand Prairie during August of 1861 they were ambushed by a party of Comanche.  They opened fire on them before they were even aware of what was happening.  Doc and Reuben were shot clean off their horses.
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Doc felt a fiery explosion of pain at the base of his scalp where a bullet had grazed his skull.  His arms and legs became instantly numb.  He didn't even feel his body hit the ground.  He did notice, however, his blood, pouring from his wound, soaking the tall bluestem prairie grass in which his crumpled body lay.  "I'm a goner," he thought with a certain amount of disbelief.  Then he heard the blood-curdling scream.
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Wounded, but not knowing where or how bad, Doc saw young Reuben scampering through the tall bluestem grass.  In the next instant, a Comanche knocked Reuben down and straddle him. The young boy kicked and put up a fuss, but sure was no match for the much larger man.  Reuben soon quit screaming when his throat was slashed and Doc watch in horror as the ritual scalping took place.
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Doc's attention quickly focused on two Comanche braves standing over him.  One began yanking at his boots.  The other grabbed his hair and, in a swift jerk, lifted his head.  Terrified, Doc waited for the sensation of steel at his throat.  Instead, there was a torturously long minute of exquisite pain as the razor-sharp blade peeled a circle of scalp back from his skull.  Merciful blackness followed.
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It wasn't until darkness started falling across the quiet plain when George Harper, frontier doctor, managed to slowly open his eyes and survey the horrid scene around him.  In excruciating pain but still alive, he discovered that he was completely naked.  A tingling sensation throughout his arms and legs indicated his paralysis subsiding.  He could see the pitiful lifeless corpse of poor young Reuben Brown.  He realized that he had escaped being killed only because the Comanche warriors had thought him already dead.
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A second, darker, realization was that he may have survived the attack only to die a much slower death exposed to the harsh elements of nature.  Doc could barely crawl; he had no food or water; he had no clothing to protect himself from the chill of the night or the day's blistering sun.  Elizabethtown was a good ten miles away, but it might as well have been a thousand.  The situation seemed hopeless.  Doc Harper managed to crawl as far as the nearest tree and prop himself up against its trunk and declare, " I reckon it's here beneath this tree is where I'll die."
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"Nonsense, George Harper."
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The voice was feminine and soft and had a playful, scolding tone.  "Are such dramatics really necessary, George?"

ELIZABETH CREEK, or I Found a Couple of Near Nakid Cuties in My Creek
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

As most of you know my darling young bride and I sold the Lee Mansion in Maryland in June and in July we moved into a brand new super deluxe custom-built double-wide that we had plopped down on a little spit of land on the beautiful muddy banks of Elizabeth Creek abutting a patch of the Eastern Cross Timbers of north Texass. Why Elizabeth Creek? Well, there are many reasons. But if you know me and my love of the strange, eerie, and down right spookiness, Elizabeth Creek hits the spot. Our humble abode is situated exactly one quarter mile from what was once Elizabethtown (population zero since the 1890 census, which makes it an outright certified ghost town) and the still active Elizabethtown Cemetery.
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It wasn't until after we moved here and I start further research about the area that I found out just how strange, eerie, and spooky.
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A quick geography and history lesson inserted here, if I may, because it played an awful important part of what all happened. (I know, who wants to read anything if they might learn something. I'll try to make it short and easy to understand.)
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You probably skimmed across the words "Cross Timbers" in my opening paragraph and probably didn't give it much thought. Even most long-time local folk around here have no idea what the term "Cross Timbers" refers, or why it played an important role in the establishing of the Lone Star State.
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The Cross Timbers of Texass are two long and narrow strips of forest region that extend parallel to each other from Oklahoma at the Red River southward to the Brazos River in Central Texass. It separated the Black Prairies on the east from the wide open Grand Prairies on the west. The Eastern Cross Timbers (the one where I now live) was about 15 miles wide and over 150 miles long. About twenty miles over is the smaller, in area and size, Western Cross Timbers. What makes these timbers important is that the early pioneers found the super dense underbrush impossible to cross these wooded lands by wagon, horse or on foot (thus the name Cross Timbers). It wasn't until the 1840's that the land between the Cross Timbers became settled. Until then it was neither occupied by whites, Indians, Spaniards, Mexicans, Texans, or any others. Any passer-through'ers had to either come down through Arkansas/Oklahoma or come up all the way from the south. Today however, over 150 years of progress and modern expansion, only sparsely scattered patches of the great natural barriers remain. (Evidently because it's out of sight, it's also out of mind. Two of state's most early notable landmarks are almost totally gone and almost completely forgotten.)
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Back in 1836, after the bloody civil uprising by the citizens of the territory of Tejas against the Mexican Government, the newly established Republic of Texass continued the practice of using empresarios, or land agents/companies, to promote and entice new settlers into the new country. (Stephan Fuller Austin being the most famous of these empresarios.)
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Only a few settlers arrived without the help of an empresario. One was the brave and gallant soul, with his wife and six children, the Reverend Captain John Bunyan Denton, Esquire. This young Tennessee orphan worked on a Mississippi River boat until he learned to read and write at the age of eighteen after marrying his beautiful sixteen year old bride. With a bit of education behind him, he became a Methodist Episcopal preacher and rode a circuit throughout Missouri and Arkansas. That didn't pay a whole lot. So, in 1837 he moved his family to Clarksville, Texass, to start farming. At the same time he began studying law. Within six months he became a full-fledged lawyer. He also volunteered in the local militia and was appointed the rank of captain. The folks that knew this gentleman held him in high esteem and thought highly of his honest, hard working character. Many considered him the smartest man in Texass.
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In late April of 1841 the Ripley family was massacred by Indians over in Titus County. The militia gathered itself and took off after the Indians. After twenty or so days the seventy man militia troop thought they had the Indians cornered. What ensued is called the Keechi Village Fight. It wasn't much of a fight. What the militia didn't know was that the Keechi Indian camp on Rush Creek (it runs dead center between the present day cities of Dallas and Fort Worth) contained more than 1,000 braves. When the militia popped up to ambush the Indians they soon realized their bone-headed mistake and the dire lopsidedness of their situation. Fortunately for the militia, only one of them was killed before they fled. Unfortunately, the one killed was what many considered the smartest man in Texass, the Reverend Captain John Bunyan Denton, Esquire.
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At this point in the history/geography lesson, let me interject the relevance of John Bunyan Denton in my research. Texicans are proud of their local history and have a natural proclivity to hang a title, or name, to places and things that remind them of their regal past. Denton County, as well as the city of Denton, is named after the very same riverboat hand, preacher, farmer, lawyer, soldier that was killed during the Keechi Village Fight. John Denton never set foot (while alive … believe me, this is a whole-nother story) in either Denton or Denton County. Besides the city and county, the main tributary flowing out of Denton County is called (get this), Denton Creek. One of the main feeders into Denton Creek is, of course it would be, my very favorite Elizabeth Creek. This creek, as well as Henrietta Creek, is said to be named after the daughters of John B. Denton. But I don't think so. Why? His two daughters were named Sarah Elizabeth and Narcissa Jane. Plus, there's a more compelling reason … and the reason why this little geography/history lesson fits into this "Dreams and Supernatural" blog category. Okay, end of interjection and just a tad more lesson until the stranger than fiction begins.
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Right at about the same time as Denton bit the dust, one of the more successful empresarios was contracted by the Republic of Texass for 800 new citizens. He was an Englishman by the name of Willie Peters (honest, there are some things you just can't make up). Willie round up people from England, and the states of Pennsylvania, the Carolinas, Georgia, Ohio, Illinois, Tennessee, and primarily Kentucky with the promise of free Texass land. Most of these folks left their home with only the possessions they could carry. They left everything else behind with the letters "GTT" (Gone to Texass) painted on their front door informing friends, neighbors and relatives of their expected whereabouts.
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Willie originally named his company the Texian Emigration and Land Company. It soon become shortened and forever now known as the Peters Colony and was assigned land distribution on the Grand Prairie west of the Eastern Cross Timbers. Many of the older townships in Cooke, Tarrant and Denton Counties were established by these early settlers of the Peters Colony, including my Elizabethtown. Before the first of these 800 hearty souls boated up the Red River and landed at Swells Bend to head southward to their promised land, however, a scout for the Peters Colony must survey the uncharted territory. Now the fun begins.
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Hired by Willie Peters to scout and survey the promised-land was Daniel Montague. This transplanted Mississippian, and good friend to Sam Houston, planned on leaving his homestead in Fannin County and head south to the Trinity River, head west through the Eastern Cross Timbers, and then northward back up to the Red River to greet the new arrivals to Texass within a month time. Although a snap with the surveying business, Daniel never had been on the other side of the nasty Cross Timbers. He felt pretty confident that he could get the job done. Atop of his speckled gray mare and loaded with plenty of provisions in his saddle bag, off he set.
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The first part of his journey to the Trinity River was a piece of cake. The trail was fairly well marked and every ten or twenty miles friendly homesteaders waved as he passed, once they noticed he wasn't wearing war paint or sporting a headdress. It didn't take long at all before he reached one of the last safe havens on his trek, the outpost established by John Neely Bryon at a natural ford on the Trinity River.
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Dan spent a whole day at John Neely Bryon's trading post. First, he wanted to give his horse a needed rest before attempting the rigors before them. Secondly, he wanted to extract as much information from Mr. Bryon as he could about what to expect on the other side of the Cross Timbers.
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Even though John Neely Bryon charged a small fee for travelers to wade across the Trinity at his self-claimed spot on the trail, he was pretty fair with his dealings at his meager trading post, and completely free with information. There was loads of information he could share with Daniel about the way east, north or south. But he knew next to nothing about out west. "Nobody ever went that away ... well, except about a year ago a family did head off in that direction. They said they'd settle down not far from here, but I've never heard a lick from them since."
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Early the next morning Daniel Montague thanked his host at the natural ford on the Trinity River (today, this little outpost is known as Dallas, Texass), remounted his speckled gray mare, and rode west. He was glad he left early because it was tough going. It took a whole day before he broke out of the dense growth of the Cross Timbers.
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He followed the Trinity River, taking notes about the terrain for the upcoming colonist. If everything went according to plan he should be able to crisscross the plains a dozen times between the Eastern and Western Cross Timbers and zigzag his way 70 miles northward to the Red River. On the way he'd keep an eye peeled for that family, too.
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Daniel Montague found himself surveying a beautiful Grand Prairie; a vast savannah of high, rolling hills with vast vistas of tall grasses and mesquite shrubs, bisected by deep meandering streams. Most of the soil consisted of marl clay with many outcroppings of hard limestone. Plenty of deer, elk and bison roamed between the two Cross Timbers.
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On the fifth morning he awoke looking up into a pink and orange sky. Not wanting to be caught out in the open, Daniel packed his gear to make a beeline towards the Eastern Cross Timbers.
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As the morning progressed darkness descended and looming thunderclouds rumbled ominously on the horizon. A healthy breeze started blowing and rain started falling. Soon the storm grew and the sky got darker and darker and then dark. The rain fell in buckets. Lightning and thunderation intensified to where it seemed almost a constant light and a steady boom. Daniel, who could no longer see farther than his horse's head, decided to give up and simply let the animal follow its own nose.
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Wet and cold, Daniel Montague spied the tree line way off in the distance during the bright flashes of lightning. He knew, at least, that he and his horse were headed in the right direction. On ward he and his gray trudged through the down pour. Dan's focus upon his wretchedness was suddenly interrupted when he discovered that he was not alone.
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A man stood directly in front of him. The feller was just standing there stock still in the wind and rain with his back to Daniel. This tall, heavyset man wore rough homemade frontier clothing, all of which fitted him just fine. Daniel reckoned this man just might be part of the family that old Mr. Bryon told him about back at the Trinity River trading post. If so, then hopefully he can lead him to shelter. Daniel cupped his hands and yelled against the howling wind, "Hey there!"
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The man started walking away. Well, maybe the wind carried my holler away and he just didn't hear, thought Daniel Montague. He yelled out again, "Hey there, mister!"
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Without missing a stride, the stranger quickly glanced back at Daniel. The first thing Daniel noticed was that this stranger was an old man. He sported a long scraggly beard, mostly gray with tinges of aging red and blond hair. The second thing Daniel notice was the man's expression of keen anxiety.
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Daniel spurred his weary gray horse in an attempt to overtake the old gray feller. The faithful speckled mare briskly picked up the pace. Unbelievable, so did the old guy. As fast as Daniel and his mare could go under the circumstances caused by the bad weather, so did the old pedestrian. In fact, the old bearded fellow was pulling ahead. Each stride he took he seemed to skim right over the ground.
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As unnerving Daniel Montague found this situation, he took some solace in having someone to follow, no matter how odd. This strange game of fox and hound continued across the stormy plain for half an hour. That's when they hit upon a small narrow clearing in the trees and bush. Daniel doubted if he could spot this clearing on a clear day without someone pointing it out to him.
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In the shelter of the trees Daniel noticed that the rain wasn't blowing sideways like it was out in the open. Although a bit darker under the trees, it was much easier to see without the raindrops pelting and stinging his eyes. He noticed, too, that the silent old man silently disappeared. But at the far end of the narrow forest alcove sat a crude cabin. As crude as it looked it certainly was a welcomed sight.
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The place gave an impression of being cold, dark and deserted. Daniel dismounted and tied his horse, then pounded on the door. It was unlatched and swung open easily. Daniel stepped inside, pulled a Lucifer match from his waterproof case and struck it.
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He found himself in a large room close to a fireplace, over which a wooden axe-hewed shelf was situated, and on this mantel he found an oil lamp, to which he applied his lit Lucifer.
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As light spread across the shabby interior Daniel was again taken by surprise that he was not alone. At his feet, huddled by the heaped ashes in the fireplace hearth was a little girl of three or four. As Daniel held up the lamp he noticed at the other end of the scantily furnished room laid a man strewn across a bed. There was no doubt that this was the same silent stranger whom he had been following. The fellow had the same bushy beard, the same features, and the exact same clothes. A chill gripped Daniel's soul as he realized that the clothing the man wore was completely dry and the old man was completely dead. Staring at the dead body, Daniel tried to understand how a man could be lying dead in a bed and out walking in the rain at the same time. Next to the dead feller was cuddled another child, even younger than the first. His heart skipped a beat until he noticed that the small body stirred. Meanwhile, a tiny voice near his feet said, "Please, we hungry."
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A quick search produced a couple of eggs from almost bare shelves from the small kitchen. Along with a few vittles from his saddlebag and after boiling the eggs in the fireplace he stocked and stoked, the two little famished waifs were fed. He then toted the dead old man to the doorway. He tucked the little gals into the bed. With their hunger pangs satisfied and the warmth radiating from the fireplace, they dropped off fast asleep.
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Daniel tended to his tired, wet, and neglected horse. After that, he performed, as best he could, a simple burial service for his prairie guide, the dead man. Only then did he plop into a heap in the corner of the cabin, closed his eyes and fell sleep.
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By morning the rain stopped. As the light of dawn spilled through the blackjack and post oaks and the pecan trees, Daniel could see that the cabin, although in disarray, was very well made. A lean-to shed and wagon, as well as a few farm implements sat behind the cabin. There was no sign of horses, of stock or of the hens that laid those eggs he found inside.
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The two little girls slept way past mid-morning. From the older girl's limited vocabulary, Daniel pieced together the tale of the tragic events that befell this devastated frontier family. It seems Pa, Pawpaw, and older brother Jack went out hunting on the prairie. Liz and little Henri (evidently the shorter version of Elizabeth and Henrietta) stayed at the cabin with Ma and Meema. An excited early return of the men folk brought news that a band of Indian warriors were approaching. Pawpaw took the young girls back behind the cabin, out through the dense woods and hid by the creek. Daniel could only speculate the fate of those staying at the cabin facing the Indians.  The Indians probably ran off with the livestock and chickens.
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Daniel Montague wrote copious details in his surveyor notes about the cabin's location and the fate of the family. He bundled the girls and hurriedly headed straight north to the Red River (about seventy miles). Keeping to the edge of the Cross Timbers and keeping his eyes constantly on the lookout for marauding Indians it took two days to reach the little settlement of Swells Bend.
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One of the first families under the auspicious of the Peters Colony to arrive at Swells Bend was Peter Harmonson, his wife Anna, and his almost grown eight children. Not only did Peter and Anna Harmonson take in young Liz and Henri, they also established their homestead of 640 acres where Daniel Montague found the two girls. That homestead lies mostly between the beautiful banks of Elizabeth and Henrietta Creeks (named after, I now firmly believe, to be the two children rescued by Daniel Montague).
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After Daniel Montague safely left the small child Liz and the toddler Henri with the folks up in Swell Bend he quickly finished his survey of the Grand Prairie. A few years later, he was widely known as a fierce Indian fighter, especially famous for an exploit that occurred at a place now called Montague Groves. He served as a captain with the First Texan Calvary during the Mexican War. After the war he accrued extensive land holdings and was elected a State Senator. Daniel Montague is most famously known as being the jury foreman in the infamous Gainesville Great Hanging (another story that needs to be told for remembrance sake). Another Texass county and a city were named in his honor.
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I can find no record giving the family name of little Liz and Henri. Census records, however, show the Harmonson family leaving Kentucky with eight children. The first Denton County Census (a couple of years later) indicates ten children living with Peter and Anna.
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The Harmonson homestead became a center of activity where Elizabeth Creek meanders across the Grand Prairie and enters the Eastern Cross Timbers. By 1845 the community of Elizabethtown was firmly established. Peter Harmonson was elected as the first Denton County sheriff. In 1854 he and Anna moved to Fort Belknap. There he became the Chief Justice of Young County. He died January 9, 1865, as a result of arrow wounds inflicted by an Indian raiding party.
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The fledgling cattle industry of southern Texass ensured the growth and prosperity of little Elizabethtown. As with all good real estate, the slogan "location, location, location" rings true. The two Cross Timbers acted as solid borders along a highway on which cattle could be herded north to Kansas and on to consumers. This route is the Chisholm Trail. The near constant and easy flow of Elizabeth and Henrietta Creeks provide water to the cattle and the wild tall grass of the Grand Prairie offered the perfect resting place for the herds. The town became a natural supply station for the cowpokes.
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By 1852 the town boasted a hotel, a general store, a doctor, a post office, a church, a wagon maker, a water mill, three blacksmiths, and six saloons.
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Like the rest of Texass, almost all able-bodied men went off to fight in the American Civil War. Left behind, undefended, were old folk, women and children. The Comanche took advantage and raided several outlying homesteads. (This is another story in the works.) That ended after the Civil War when Johnny came marching home. Elizabethtown boomed even greater.
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The Chisholm Trail was running full steam and soon Elizabethtown was really thriving with four general stores, another hotel, two more churches and a Masonic lodge. (This town was way bigger and busier than Fort Worth.) Elizabethtown was also famed for it tent revivals and camp meetings. Folks came from all across Texass to meet at Elizabethtown to set up their tents on the prairie to sing praises to the Lord, shout "Halleluiah" and listen to the traveling ministers preach salvation from the damnation of fire and brimstone of hell. During one fiery sermon, a famous preacher who attracted an unusually large crowd needed to cut his damnations and halleluiahs short because the flames from the campfires attracted so many damn bugs and flying insects that it wasn't safe to open one's mouth. Thence forth, many folks referred to Elizabethtown as "Bugtown."
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Well, the good fortune of Elizabethtown ended for almost the same reason it boomed … location, location, location. The hotshots that ran the railroad, specifically the Texass & Pacific Railroad, decided the surefire-est way to get cattle up to Kansas and make more money at the same time was to lay tracks down to were the cattle come. Besides needing steel for the rails, to build a railroad you also need lumber for the ties. The best place to get hard wood in Texass just happened to be the Cross Timbers. Why chop down a tree and pay to haul from where it falls? Just cutting it into ties and lay the rails on top is cheaper and it's exactly what the Texass & Pacific went and done in 1871, right up through the middle of the Cross Timbers, missing Elizabethtown by two miles.
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Knowing how their bread is buttered, in 1873 when the railroad was completed, the Elizabethans moved (lock, stock and barrel) on over to the other side of Henrietta Creek. There they established a new town. Now I'm not saying they were not good spellers, but they named the new town Runronoke. That wasn't the worse part. The worst part was they set the middle of the new town on a low spot. After the first flood, they moved up onto higher ground and respelled the name of their town to a more comfortable looking Roanoke. The last Elizabethan blew out the light along Elizabeth Creek just before the 1890 census, which showed a population of zero.
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I feel fortunate that my darling bride and I have discovered our little "garden spot." The trees in our backyard are quite beautiful, in their twisted, gnarly way. The birds are entertaining. The majestic hawks surveying their domain, the flitting and colorful humming birds with their comic antics, the flocks of woodpeckers claiming their own special territory, the bright crimson cardinals singing sermons, and the butcher birds devouring their meals after performing their ritual grace, provide us with hours of enjoyment.
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I'm grateful I spent a few hours in the local libraries plugging away at the dusty old history books. I'm more appreciative of knowing where I'm at and what happened here. Although I haven't yet seen him, I do keep an eye open for a silent old bearded gentleman wearing rough homemade frontier clothing wandering the beautiful muddy banks of Elizabeth Creek.
. . .
Bibliography:
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Sam Hanna Acheson, Dallas Yesterday, ed. Lee Milazzo (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1977).
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Sam Hanna Acheson and Julia Ann Hudson O'Connell, eds., George Washington Diamond's Account of the Great Hanging at Gainesville, 1862 (Austin: Texas State Historical Association, 1963).
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William Allen, Capt. John B. Denton, Preacher, Lawyer, and Soldier: His Life and Times in Tennessee, Arkansas and Texas (Chicago: Donnelly, 1905).
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Edward Franklin Bates, History and Reminiscences of Denton County (Denton, Texas: McNitzky Printing, 1918; rpt., Denton: Terrill Wheeler Printing, 1976).
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William Bollaert, Observations on the Geography of Texas (London, 1850).
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C. A. Bridges, History of Denton, Texas, from Its Beginning to 1960 (Waco: Texian Press, 1978).
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Jo-Anne Christensen, Ghost Stories of Texas (Lone Pine Publishing, Auburn, WA, 2001).
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Michael Collins, Cooke County, Texas: Where the South and West Meet (Gainesville, Texas: Cooke County Heritage Society, 1981).
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Seymour V. Connor, The Peters Colony of Texas: A History and Biographical Sketches of the Early Settlers (Austin: Texas State Historical Association, 1959).
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Carrie J. Crouch, Young County: History and Biography (Dallas: Dealey and Love, 1937; rev. ed., A History of Young County, Texas, Austin: Texas State Historical Association, 1956).
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E. Dale Odom and Bullitt Lowry, A Brief History of Denton County (Denton, Texas, 1975).
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George William Montague, comp., History and Genealogy of the Montague Family of America (Amherst, Massachusetts: Williams Press, 1886).
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Frederic William Simonds, Geographic Influences in the Development of Texas (Austin: Journal of Geography, 1912).
. . .
Respectfully submitted,

Gordon Lee

4:55 AM - 90 Comments - 74 Kudos - Add Comment

WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES, or Who's Your Daddy?
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Attention:  After reading this story, please visit the blog site of Little Sister :).  This talented young lady took this following story and converted it into verse.  It's absolutely amazing!  (You can link to her profile page by clicking her avatar, the ninth comment after this story.  You won't be sorry!)
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WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES
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Here are the TRUE FACTS:
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Stephen Strand, born in 1790 at Becket Corner, Massachusetts, went to sea at the age of 16 on a whaler out of New Bedford.  He returned to Becket Corner after four years and married his childhood sweetie-pie, Molly Lawton.  During the next five years he worked as a storekeeper and at a livery.  At age 25 he took to the sea again aboard a merchantman and sailed to France (Marseille?).  Bound for home the ship detoured to Ireland to take on additional cargo.  The ship, during a violent storm, wrecked upon the rocks near Cornwall (Lands End).  Only one person survived.
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Jacques Beaumont, a Frenchman, was a passenger aboard the merchantman that broke apart and sank off the coast of England.  He was married and had a daughter named Lily.  He possessed an elaborate gold match-safe (match box) engraved with his name.
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Harper Allyn, born and raised in Battle Creek, Michigan, led a simple life.  He worked as a wool-carder at a mill owned by Capt. William Wallace.  In his spare time, he enjoyed exploring the forests and coves around Goguac Lake.  That is where, in 1850, he met the old "Hermit".
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The mysterious HERMIT OF THE LAKE:
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The Hermit of Goguac Lake seldom ventured into Battle Creek. The townsfolk knew of him but did not know his name nor where he came.  He spent his time alone, except for an old dog and a mangy black cat, in a small cabin on Seven Mile Brook Island.  He kept himself alive by fishing and trapping.
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Harper Allyn didn't intentionally seek the acquaintance of the hermit.  It happened quite by accident.  During one of his exploring modes, he came across the mangy black cat, cornered betwixt rocky crags by a coiled, ready to strike rattlesnake.  After saving the cat from the snake, and knowing there weren't that many cats roaming Goguac Lake, Harper figured the feline belonged to the hermit.  Mr. Allyn returned the cat and introduced himself to the strange looking old man at the log cabin.
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Thankful for rescuing and returning the cat the old man invited Harper into the snug but barren log cabin.  A storm was approaching and the old hermit explained that he never, ever, ventured outside during a storm, especially thunderstorms.  Harper aware of the vague tales told by the townspeople about the strange old hermit, accepted the invitation to enter the rickety, but neat and tidy cabin with the hopes of finding out (from the horse's own mouth, so to speak) the true story of this lonely old gentleman.
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The two men exchanged small talk at first, by candle light, while coffee brewed on the wood stove.  But while the water in the coffee pot boiled, so did the sky above Goguac Lake.  The clouds reeled about and suddenly a crack of lightning flashed nearby.  The logs of the cabin shook from the foundation as the thunderclap reverberated across the lake.  Harper was shocked by the reaction of the old man.  The hermit cowered in a corner of the cabin, shaking with fear.  Not just fear, but pure unadulterated fear.
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Attempting to console the old man, Harper asked if there was anything he could do for him.  "Yes," the hermit replied, "you can listen to what I am about to say.  You can believe it or not.  But this is something I must tell to someone before I die!"
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"My name is Stephen Strand.  I died in a ship wreck.  My soul floated like smoke above the awful tossing sea swirling my lifeless body and the lifeless bodies of my shipmates.  However, I noticed one body still alive.  I pleaded, "Give me his body and I will give you my soul."  In that moment lightning ripped the air to pieces.  Like an arrow shot from a bow, I saw the man's soul depart and mine enter his body.  My name is Stephen Strand but this body you see before you is Jacques Beaumont."
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[Editorial TIME:  Okay, this is kinda far-fetched and freaky, right?  Now, put yourself in Harper Allyns' shoes.  What do you think?  What do you do?  Let's find out.]
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Back at the LAKE:
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"Well, Mr. Strand ... errr ... it's been nice talking with you ... errr ... meeting you.  Goodbye, sir."
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"Wait! Wait a minute, Mr. Allyn.  Before you leave, please let me give you something in exchange for saving my cat and listening to my story.  Here, please take this."
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The Hermit of Goguac Lake gives Harper Allyn a very heavy and expensive looking gold match-safe.  Besides an exquisite design it is engraved "Jacques Beaumont".  For some reason, Harper Allyn is impelled to give a daguerreotype (old-time photograph) of himself to Mr. Strand.  Harper signs his name on the back of the daguerreotype and gives it to the old man.  After the exchange of gifts Harper Allyn beats a retreat from Seven Mile Brook Island back to his home in Battle Creek.
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Our hero Harper steers a wide berth from the crazy old coot resident of the log cabin on Seven Mile Brook Island in Goguac Lake for the next several weeks.  Wouldn't you?  But Harper is intrigued by the story told by the old man.  Just for kicks, he writes to the editor of a newspaper near Becket Corner asking for information regarding Stephen Strand.  Was there ever such a man in Becket Corner?  Did he go off to sea?  Marry?  And, most importantly, was he still living?
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In a few weeks he received a reply.  The editor said that a man named Stephen Strand had lived in that village.  But, he continued, Strand was lost at sea.  Many years ago, a stranger had arrived in Becket Corner claiming to be Strand, but nobody believed him, including Mrs. Molly Strand (nee Lawton), as he looked nothing like the man he was impersonating.  He was driven from town by an angry mob at the urging of Mrs. Strand.  Molly Strand and her children had eventually left Becket Corner to live with her wealthy brother in the West and hadn't been heard from since, the editor concluded.
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"Holy smokes", thought Harper Allyn, "this is a real mystery."
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The next day after receiving the reply from the editor Harper goes back to the little log cabin on Seven Mile Brook Island in the middle of Goguac Lake.  A massive thunderstorm, it just so happened, blew through the night before, so it took longer to traverse the paths and lake because of the storm damaged trees and fallen tree limbs littering the way.  When he finally arrived he didn't expect to find as much damage inside the cabin as what the storm did outside.  The inside of the cabin was in shambles.  Furniture broken, supplies strewn about, and the lifeless body of an old cur dog.  Nowhere could be found the mangy black cat nor the Hermit of Goguac Lake.
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What do you suppose happened?  Harper Allyn didn't know either.  He went about living his simple life as a wool-carder at the mill owned by Captain William Wallace in Battle Creek, Michigan.  That is until late in 1851.  Because of circumstances entirely unrelated to this story, Harper Allyn received an inheritance, became filthy rich, and began living the life of Riley (figuratively, hee hee ... no exchanging bodies here).  He literally took that proverbial "world cruise".
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Life is good for Harper Allyn.  He's traveling the world over, seeing places he only dreamed about when he work for the Captain Wallace in the mill.  He's began having a wonderful time, enjoying the pleasures of luxury.  What could possibly happen?  You are sooooo right.  Something does happen.
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Harper Allyn is attending a high-society ball, a gathering of artists, literary figures, royalty, financiers and social elitists of Paris.  A good friend from Michigan, Charley Bushnell, a student at the Academy of Arts, is with Harper.  Across the room Mr. Allyn sees a "drop-dead" gorgeous gal.  "Ah," sez Charley, noticing that look of lust on Harpers face, "let me introduce her to you."
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Charley pulled Harper across the ball room dance floor and attempted to catch the young woman's attention.  She looked surprised as she noticed Mr. Allyn.  And when Charley Bushnell mentioned "Harper Allyn", the attractive miss fainted, dropping to the dance floor -- out like a light.  The attractive young woman's name ... Lily Beaumont.
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When Mlle. Beaumont came to she explained that she just seen the daguerreotype with Mr. Allyn's picture and his name written on the back.  It originally was in the possession of a man claiming to be her father.
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A strange man just recently showed up at her mother's house, claiming to be her long missing husband, Jacques Beaumont.  He says his soul had been fighting to regain his body for the last forty years.  Madame Beaumont called the police and had the crazy man committed to an asylum.  Lily apologized to Mr. Allyn for the way she reacted upon seeing him.
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Harper told Mlle. Lily that an apology was not necessary because ... and he told her about what happened at Goguac Lake.  To show proof of what he told her he removed from his pocket the match-safe he carried wherever he went.  Both Lily and Harper left the ball immediately to go to the asylum to see the man who claimed to be her father.
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Upon arrival, they were met at the door along with a Catholic priest.  The priest just arrived after being called to administer the last rites to a dying Jacques Beaumont.
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Allyn sat at the old man's bedside, not knowing what to say or even where to begin.  But he had to know.
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After the last rites were spoken, Harper asked the dying man, "Will you now tell the truth?  Are you Stephen Strand or Jacques Beaumont"?
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The priest translated ... the dying man claiming not to know English.
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"In the presence of the Almighty and by the Sign of the Cross, I swear ... ," the priest began to translate.  Then Strand-Beaumont sank back against his pillow, opened his mouth to speak again and collapsed.  And that was how he died.
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The tale that Harper Allyn heard on that island in stormy Goguac Lake would forever remain in dispute.  Who was this man?  An imposter, claiming one of the most fanciful cases of possession in history?  Or had he, for most of his life, been two men, the body of one and the soul of another?  The answer went with him to the grave.
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http://www2.willard.lib.mi.us/bcphotos/houses/r10_0926.htm
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"Journal of the American Society for Psychical Research" Vol 57, 1963
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Mrinal K. Ghosh, Life Beyond Death, 1934, Calcutta [Asia Book Corp. 1985]
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New York "Mercury", September 13, 1851
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New York "Progressive Thinker", 1911
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Philadelphia "Morning Inquirer" 193?
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Scott & Norman, Haunted Heartland, 1985, Stranton & Lee Publishers, New York
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No cats, dogs or rattlesnakes were harmed during the typing of this blog.
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Respectfully,

Gordon Lee
Great Fritain Royal Memorabilia & Lily Match Box Emporium
I didn't believe in reincarnation the last time, either.

8:42 AM - 126 Comments - 110 Kudos - Add Comment

THE CRASH OF AIR FLORIDA FLIGHT 90 – a True Ghost Story on TV
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Today is the eve of the 25^th anniversary of a very horrible day in Washington, DC.  I sat totally mesmerized as the bleakest parts of a life and death situation unfolded live while aired on local television broadcasts.  No, it had absolutely nothing to do with sleazy knuckleheaded politicians.  It involved a real life, non-scripted drama and the life saving accomplishments of one ghost.

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THE CRASH OF AIR FLORIDA FLIGHT 90 – a True Ghost Story on TV

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Just about every fatal plane crash has a "ghost story" involved.  A fantastic story that I watched unfold live on television (and seen many times on re-runs) was the rescue attempts of the six survivors of the Air Florida crash into the Potomac River in Washington, DC.   I am recalling this from feeble memory and may have a few facts fuzzy, but this is my story and I'm sticking to it.
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The morning of Thursday, January 13, 1982, started as a usual day.   Snow flurries were forecasted, but people went to school and work as normal.  By late morning, however, the snow fall was really nasty.   Schools, businesses, and local/federal governments shut down and people told to go home.  Because of the mass exodus, snowplows were unable to do their job and the streets and roads became massive gridlocks.  I left my office shortly before noon and did not reach home until just after 4 pm.  On a regular day, this would have taken only 45 minutes.  Just before arriving home a radio news bulletin announced the crash of an airliner.  As soon as I reached home I turned on the television and all local stations were covering (or trying to get film crews to) the scene.
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Air Florida, Flight 90, was due to leave Washington/National Airport at 2:15pm to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  Because of runway snow plowing and de-icing, the plane didn't depart until 4pm.  Pilot error caused the 737-222 aircraft to crash on take off.
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A de-icing procedure was not followed correctly.  When the plane lifted from the runway, ice built up on the wing caused the nose to lift and the plane to stall, thus dropping from 500 feet and tail-slapping the center span of the jammed-packed 14th Street Bridge.  The forward momentum took the plane right into the icy Potomac River.
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When the tail section hit the bridge it wiped out 97 feet of guard railing and parapet.  It flattened seven automobiles, killing four people.  Traffic was at a standstill before the crash, now the situation was totally hopeless.  Commuters on the bridge and people on the river bank could only watch in horror as the broken plane went under the ice.  The broken tail section was the only part visible above the swift flowing ice.
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Of the 70 passengers and crew of four, only five people and one ghost clung to the wreckage.  Eventually, fire/rescue emergency vehicles arrived on the Virginia side of the river.  They were helpless to offer assistance.  The ice was not thick enough to venture out onto the river and the ice near the shore prevented whatever available boats to reach the stranded survivors a mere 150 yards away.
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Enough praise can not be given to crew of the US Park Police, Eagle One Rescue Helicopter.  Disregarding weather conditions unsuitable for flight, the helicopter crew navigated with almost zero visibility through the blizzard and gusting winds to the crash site.  They lowered the helicopter close enough to pluck the first person from the tail section of the wreck and delivered him to the awaiting medical/rescue squads on the Virginia shore.  But the wind and flurries deemed it way too dangerous to repeat this procedure.
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So instead, for the next five trips back to the tail section they lowered a lifeline and vest.  The freezing water and injuries sustained in the crash made it tremendously impossible for the survivors to grab the vest.  Only one person on the tail section, obviously healthier than the others, repeatedly took the life vest and unselfishly placed it around the others.
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I watched this tragic event and valiant rescue efforts live on television.   When the young stewardess slipped from the life ring and fell mercilessly back into and onto the icy river, my heart thumped in my throat.  How I wished I could have had an OOB (out of body) experience, and magically fly over and pull that poor frozen woman out of that bone chilling water.
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(Side note:  Lenny Skutnick, a dim-witted government file clerk standing on shore had the same thought I did.  He jumped into the river intending to swim out and rescue the lady.  He just didn't think before he jumped just how cold the water really was.  He didn't come near to rescuing the stewardess.  Luckily a fireman risked his life to save Skutnick.)
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Meanwhile, five of the six people made it out of the river.  When Eagle One went back to pick up the sixth, the healthy Good Samaritan, he was nowhere to be found.  He slipped below the icy water.
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Okay, here's the ghostly part.  The people who got a good look at the Good Samaritan (the other five survivors, the Eagle One crewmen, and enhanced television and photograph pictures) emphatically identified him from pictures of those other passengers on the plane.  The problem: the person they positively identified, when all the bodies were recovered, died instantly on impact.  Authorities know this because his body was still strapped in a seat.  Plus, the Good Samaritan had to have died by drowning.  The identified man had no water in his lungs.
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That sure was a strange day in Washington, DC.  The Air Florida crash happened at 4 o'clock and at 4:30 the Metro (subway) experienced its' first fatal accident when three people were killed.  Neither accident related to the other.  However, the whole city was at a standstill.  The streets were blocked with snow and abandoned cars.  The main bridge from the District into Virginia blocked.  All air traffic now became diverted to Dulles or Baltimore/Washington Airports.  And, the main (busiest) subway line shut down.
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BTW, the center span of the 14th Street Bridge was renamed the "Arland D. Williams, Jr. Memorial Bridge".  This is the person "officially" accredited to be the Good Samaritan.  Although he did not look like the sixth person on the tail section wreckage, his body contained water in his lungs.
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Respectfully,

Gordon Lee
Great Fritain Royal Memorabilia & Ice Cubes Emporium
Nothing in life prepares you for your first raw oyster.

10:21 AM - 108 Comments - 85 Kudos - Add Comment

ARIZONA WIND CHIMES, or 1,177 Dead Men on a Dead Man's Ship
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Notice, before I start this blog entry, the story is told in the first person.  Also notice that I, Gordon Lee, AM NOT the 'first person' in this true story.  The original accounting of this story can be found in "Decent into Darkness, A Navy Diver's Memoir," by Edward C. Raymer.   Metalsmith First Class Edward C. Raymer was the first diver to enter the USS Arizona after the fateful Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.  This is his story.  Yes, I plagiarized the tarnation out of Mr. Raymer's book, but I also toned down the technical jargon and slightly shifted a few details around to make it just a tad more interesting.  So, adjust your sea legs, place yourself back to January 1942, and remember Pearl Harbor.
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ARIZONA WIND CHIMES
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On January 12, 1942, the once great battleship was boarded again, this time by me, a navy salvage diver.
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In solemn stillness, the USS Arizona lay at peace.  Jarred by massive explosions and gutted by fire, the battleship slipped beneath the waves of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.  Only the mast and part of her superstructure remained visible.  But she was not abandoned, for she served as an underwater tomb for more than one thousand American sailors and Marines.
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Our diving barge tied up to the starboard side of the