Cowtown Pattie's Texas Trifles: A Texas Ghost Town - Preserve Your Memories, They're All That's Left You...

Last weekend, the Kman and I took a short road trip to the area we love to prowl around near Stagg Creek and Comanche, Texas. Among the many pieces of old paper and memorabilia from his grandfather, Kman has a weathered and cracked leather coin purse with the faint imprint of "Sipe Springs State Bank" still legible on the side. Other yellowed documents dated from around the first decade of the last century list deposits into a savings account at the same bank. Small amounts, mind you. The Kman's family, as well as my own ancestors, were hard-working farmers, scraping a meager existence from cotton or peanuts.

Traveling down the two-lane highway between May and Stagg Creek, each hamlet barely more than a wide place in the road, we see the turn off to Sipe Springs. On a whim, we take the road. Kman remembered stories his grandfather would tell about driving a mule team and wagon to "town". We pass through scenic pastures, meeting no other car. Around a bend, we come into what is left of a once bustling town. Traffic is so occasional, dogs lie languidly in the middle of the main intersection, barely lifting their heads to acknowledge our arrival. Mayor Blackie and his henchman, Brownie, are not even disturbed enough to move out of the way. We slowly manuever around them. The only people we see the entire time are a young couple at a farmhouse with the hood of their car lifted; they stand motionless, staring at the engine, perhaps willing it to life. They never look in our direction. It would seem no one else lives here, although a couple of buildings indicate recent human occupancy. Parked in high weeds, a rusty old fire engine that hasn't seen action in over 80 years gives me pause at the haphazardly constructed building with a sign saying "Sipe Springs Volunteer Fire Dept". Behind the Fire Department, an old house newly painted white with a large veranda is vacant, still early in its remodeling process. Red wasps circle the upper eaves, flying in and out of a rotted place just under a shingle. Cicadas drone in the heat of the day, the only source of sound. Just at the yard's edge stands a dilapidated ancient water tank, perched precariously on a leaning timbered stand. Across the street, hidden among a grove of scrub oak trees, is a one-room log cabin. Although the structure appears quite old, the roof shows recent repairs with a fresh layering of tin. Kman and I gingerly walk around its perimeter, wondering of its age and original carpenter. We enter the opening in the front, and see the ashes of past fires in a stone fireplace. Something unusual and odd in the little house, I can't quite form the reason for my unease. The dirt floor is pockmarked with the curious little funnels of doodlebugs, lying in patient wait for an unsuspecting ant to slide down into their carefully spiraled sand traps.

Just as an afterthought, I snap a quick picture of the fireplace. It is nearly a week later before I get the photos developed ( I prefer my old Canon 35 mm to a digital, actually). Inexplicably, I never saw the image before. My brother-in-law spotted it first, and as an experiment, I have shown the photo to others purposefully with no explanation, to gauge their impression. Without exception, all see the face.