In 2005 our grandson, Matt, was heavy into football. He’d hear the horns and bells that fans brought to the college games. Being a resourceful person, he rushed out and bought PVC and an armload of automatic transmission fluid funnels. Heat from the kitchen range made it possible to bend the pipe in the desired shape. The funnels served as bells. The length and diameter of the components amplified the sound. During the finals the Allen Eagles traveled five hours to Huntsville for one of the final games. It was broadcast over the Allen TV station ans his mother heard the blast of one of Matt’s horns during the broadcast of the game.
His enterprise was so successful he sold every horn he could make before the season finished. You can see Sarah, the sales person moving in from behind.
Excitement ran high that year
Equal credit is Sarah, Matt’s Sister. She sold nearly all the horns. You can see she has a firm grip on that horn while her customer digs deep for the cash. The two of them make a great team.
This is the crew that converged on Huntsville that game night. Matt is number 80.
Horns in use
The creation of a horn
The year was 2002 and we were riding from Mexico to Eugene, Oregon on a Honda Thumper. McBark, our faithful companion was along with us. We’d stayed the night in the national forest south of Williams, Arizona and McBarb was anxious to get back on the road.
Many folks think of choices when the hear the word crossroads – a fork in the road, choosing a road less traveled, a new job, getting married, enlisting in the military. I always think of a particular location, a settlement by that name that is now gone, melted into the earth.
For several years running Barb and I celebrated the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays with our Texas son-in-law’s siblings. In order to reach their home we traveled west on US 380 for a dozen or so miles and then turned south onto a no-center-line road marked only by a sign reading Crossroads, Texas.
No one seems to know a great deal about Crossroads history other than the settlement, when it came to be, only that it was wiped out by a record-breaking flood that occurred during the early years of the Twentieth Century.
A bit of research brought me to the unsupported conclusion that Crossroads was the physical location where the Charles Goodnight Cattle Trail crossed over the track followed by John Butterfield Stagecoach Mail Road crossing east and west across Texas.
This shrub took root in the crack in the concrete. Realizing life is fragile, the person who cares for the streets and sidewalks of the McKinney, Texas Square has spared the life of this hearty plant.
North Texas is noted for having a firm grip on it’s seasons. This past week one might have assumed that winter was only a memory.
Winter was evidently lazing around the Red River this past week when it heard that warmer air was on it way from the Gulf of Mexico. And it had much to say. Darkness had not settled over Texas, so Ol’ Man Winter brought a darkness of his own – wind, hail the size of baseballs, rain falling in torrents. As if that were not enough he sent a tornado or two zigzagging their way on a northeasterly path … in the dark. To the best of my knowledge no one was injured or killed. I suppose the old man felt pretty smug, sending us dashing to our closets for jackets.
Today he is sending chilled winds our way, but he knows his efforts are futile. He knows that WE know he’s saving his strength for the trip back to the North Pole.