On April 14, 2011, the infamous Wildcat wildfire roared into Coke County, Texas from the north and northwest and then into Tom Green County threatening the City of San Angelo. Then, the next day, winds shifted and blew the fire back from the south. Winds gusted 30-40 mph.

The Butterfield Canyon Ranch, belonging to my family, was in the middle of it all.

Here are some scenes I caught on video.

And many thanks to the Texas Forest Service firefighters and all other volunteer firefighters who fought this devastating wildfire.

The Wildcat wildfire burned for weeks and destroyed an estimated 159,000+ acres.

(Music by Rob Costlow)

Anyone inside know my name

I've been around for a half of a hundred days.

Never saw a door shut so tight

Turn around, don't look down

There's a man behind you with a gun

Like any wandering child in the wilderness,

Wild and uncaged are your ways

I think I heard

Someone stirred

I think I heard

Someone stirred"

<comment from Poet Gordon Lightfoot, from long ago>

TTT

Thursday night, April 14, strong northwest winds whipped the wildfire and, given the extreme drought conditions the state has endured for many, many months, it bolted southeastward toward us and our neighbors.

This is butte and mesa territory which makes fighting a wildfire like this one near impossible and very dangerous.

Firefighters from as far as California showed up to to help local firefighters fight the burgeoning blaze through Thursday night and Friday morning when the wind suddenly dropped to a lazy breeze.

However, the wildfire overtook the family property and the properties of surrounding neighbors burning everything in its path and spreading to tens of thousands of acres.

Firefighters barely had time to catch their breath when winds shifted to the south and southwest turning the wildfire (now dubbed The Wildcat Fire by the Texas Forest Service) back on itself.  Winds gusted to 40 miles-per-hour and The Wildcat Fire came back to burn all that that it hadn’t burned before.

The family property got it twice, as did our neighbors.

Last report was that The Wildcat Fire was moving northeasterly and had consumed upwards of 130,000 acres.

Here are a couple of links to some amateur photos and video of The Wildcat Fire damage to my family property.

Photos –> HERE

Short video –> HERE

White’s detailed line drawings recall classic comic book style and capture the dramatic tension of the battle, while Kearby’s narration is enticing, full of intriguing historical detail. The comic pages are supplemented with traditional text, including excerpts of historical documents and visual materials such as maps and battlefield schematics.

Students at three North Texas middle schools found the graphic format “easy to read,” the illustrations “exciting” and well executed. Many responded that they would check out the book from their school libraries—even if the text were not required reading.

MIKE KEARBY, a retired high school reading and English teacher, is the author of seven novels. The Road to a Hanging, Ride the Desperate Trail, and Ambush at Mustang Canyon completed his Young Adult trilogy published by Dorchester Publishing (NY). Ambush at Mustang Canyon was honored as a Spur Award Finalist from the Western Writers of America. Dorchester Publishing will publish The Taken in November 2010, and Dead Man’s Saddle in 2011.

More on Mike Kearby HERE

Native Texan MACK WHITE is an illustrator and comics creator who has been publishing professionally for twenty years. His artwork and stories have appeared in numerous publications throughout the world, including Heavy Metal, Details, Old West Journal, Zero Zero, Hotwire, Top Shelf, El Vibora, and Strapazin. In 2004, he co-edited the political comics anthology. Most recently, his work was featured in the Yale Anthology of Graphic Fiction, Cartoons, and True Stories. He currently resides in Austin, Texas.

More on Mack White HERE

TCU Press titles are available at your local bookstore or by calling 800.826.8911

or at Amazon.com

HERE

He starts by describing the Spanish explorers and other settlers from the Americas who encountered the Devils River, then known as Rio San Pedro (Saint Peter’s River), and their difficulties in traversing the region. He relates a multitude of different hardships, ranging from Indian attacks, impassable fords, unpredictable weather, and long routes with little water. The advancement of the railroad into Devils River territory brought its own share of troubles—train robberies became more common, and outlaws often passed through the area on their way to Mexico. Military outposts were built and abandoned at various points along the river, and companies of Texas Rangers patrolled the area in an attempt to keep the peace. Yet despite all their effort, the Devils River and the surrounding regions were a law unto themselves, and it would take hundreds of years and much bloodshed to civilize the area.

Devils River is at heart a scholarly work, but it is also much more. Dearen takes the time to engage readers in the events by introducing the characters involved and showing not only their actions but their words and thoughts as well. His retellings of each occurrence make readers feel as if they are actually present at that exact moment in history. It is a fascinating read, for scholars and non-historians alike.

Patrick Dearen is the author of nine nonfiction books and nine novels and is a recognized authority on the lower Pecos River country. He grew up in Sterling City, Texas, and earned a bachelor of journalism from the University of Texas at Austin. His nonfiction works include Castle Gap and the Pecos Frontier, Portraits of the Pecos Frontier, Crossing Rio Pecos, A Cowboy of the Pecos, and Halff of Texas. Through his books The Last of the Old-Time Cowboys and Saddling Up Anyway, Dearen has also preserved the stories of the last generation of cowhands who plied their trade before mechanization. His novels include Perseverance, set along the rails in Depression-era Texas.

More on Patrick Dearen HERE.

TCU Press titles are available at your local bookstore or by calling 800.826.8911

or

at Amazon.com

HERE

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in Texas, there was a young Indian girl who had no name.

The tribe knew her as “She-Who-Has-No-Name ” …and while not necessarily shy, she seldom joined in normal activities around their village.

She could be found typically standing just outside the circle of various groups of her tribe, whether they be children or adults … watching …holding her beloved doll.

About that time, there came a drought that struck the land and its native people with such a devastating blow that even the medicine men worried for the future.

Season after season came and went with no clouds …no rain …no early-morning fog …no snow.

The Fall had no color since the trees had no leaves.

And the winters that followed were bitter and cold …with howling winds strong enough to suck the breath out of anything that lived.

Countless Spring times had come and gone when the promise of fruitfulness and abundance was answered with nothing but stinging dust to swirl across the land as winds pushed it this way and that …no grass blades, bushes or trees to shield the soil.

Summers, too, bent such a powerful, parching heat upon the country that the animals - Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Buffalo, Mr. Deer, Mr. Raccoon and the others left the countryside to find sustenance and reprieve elsewhere, leaving the bleached bones of their less-lucky brethren behind.

Even Mr. Rattlesnake sought different places.

There were no streams, no lakes, no ponds …no water. No grass, no flowers, no berries, no fruit.

Only Mr. Coyote stayed, although he frequently wondered to himself about his decision to do so. He knew his ribs showed clearly beneath his, now shaggy, coat of fur. But he stayed, because the People stayed.

Just the land …and the endlessly, cloudless sky.

Large cracks shattered the thirsty soil and each day, they widened and lengthened into dark, black chasms that seemed to drop into an endless blackness below. Mothers were careful not to let their babies get close …for fear that there might be demons below who would snatch them from the crevice edge.

The People suffered, and many died.

It became clear to them that the Great Spirit was unhappy.

So… the medicine men danced to the drums in supplication …and the People danced with them, sending their cries in unison heavenward to the Great Spirit, begging for respite … pleading for rain …begging for mercy.

Courageous warriors, overwrought with their condition and that of their tribe, cut themselves with their razor-sharp flint knives so that their own blood flowed onto …and into the earth …hoping the Great Spirit would notice their plight.

Watching all this silently from the shadows of her tepee, She-Who-Has-No-Name clutched her beloved doll that had been fashioned from bleached buckskin.

Even though she felt the stab of hunger in her belly, there was something that made her love this doll as much as she loved her own family.

It was finely decorated with eyes, nose, mouth and ears painted with bright red berry juice. It had leggings beaded with polished bone and seeds.

From a braided buffalo-hair belt hung the teeth of a bobcat. And upon its head was a war-bonnet made from the bright blue feathers of the bird that cried “Jay! Jay! Jay!”

It had been a special gift from her grandfather … who had died in the early days of the drought.

Suddenly, the medicine man fell to the earth, in a cloud of dust …exhausted.

The drums ceased. The people froze in amazement.

What sweat remained in his body glistened on his skin in the flickering of the fires.

Looking up at the others beneath a star-speckled sky he announced that he had a message from the Great Spirit.

The message was that the tribe must make a sacrifice. They must make a sacrifice of their most prized possession. It must be a burnt offering, said the medicine man. And once made, the ashes must be scattered to the four points of the compass … north …east … south …and west. Only then would the Great Spirit’s annoyance with his people be put to rest.

The medicine man looked at his chief … then at his people.

Long, silent moments passed, and a low murmur arose amongst the People.

Quietly, they questioned one another …what was their most prized possession?

After years of drought and hardship …they hardly had anything at all.

It was late and all decided to take the question to sleep with them …and find an answer in the morning.

The crowd dispersed to their tepees, still murmuring to one another ...heads bowed from exhaustion or consternation.

In the shadows, outside the flickering light of the tribal fires, sat Mr. Coyote.

He watched the girl called She-Who-Has-No-Name …and saw her glance at her doll and clutch it a little more tightly to her body.

He smiled to himself, turned, and loped off to his den in the rocks about half-a-mile away.

She-Who-Has-No-Name knew. She knew what the most prized possession was. While the others talked about it, and wondered …she knew. It was in her arms. It was her doll.

She loved that doll like nothing else. While the other children giggled and laughed and played games, she tended to the warrior doll that was given her by her grandfather.

She ate with it, slept with it, and had there been water, she probably would have bathed with it.

She was the last one standing near the circle where the tribal fires were turning to embers. She looked at her doll …then at the dying fire, then suddenly turned and peered into the darkness at the very spot where Mr. Coyote had sat just moments before.

In spite of a heavy heart, She-who-had-no-name knew what she had to do.

She-Who-Has-No-Name returned to her father’s tepee and lay down on her buffalo blanket. She held her beloved doll tightly …and waited for the others fall asleep.

Night sounds were all around her. They seemed more defined than other nights.

She heard to footfall of a neighbor’s dog, there were cries of geese far overhead returning to their northern home and the hoot of a hunting horned owl.

There was the slow, rhythmic breathing of her father and mother, and brother and sister as they fell slowly into a deep but troubled sleep.

Then …in the distance, she heard the sharp bark and long, wailing howl of Mr. Coyote …as if he were making the sound, just for her.

She waited until she knew her family was truly asleep.

Quietly …furtively …with the silence of a cat, she arose. Quickly she retrieved a stick of wood still smoldering in the tepee fire, its heat still glowing on one end. Then she stepped out into the night, with the smoldering stick …and her doll.

The stars were out …sprinkled across the dark heavens …but there was no moon. And it was quiet …very quiet. Tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks.

Moving well away from the camp, but not too far, she gathered small sticks and twigs with which she made a mound and lit it with her ember from the tepee.

As the little fire grew, She-Who-Has-No-Name took her most prized possession and thrust it into the fire. By now, her tears were gone. She watched as the fire consumed her doll. She could smell the burning of the dried leather and the feathers of its headdress.

She nudged it now and then with a stick until the whole doll was burned, and then waited until nothing but ashes were left.

Then, as she had seen her father and other men do, she scooped up the ashes and cast them in four different directions …to the north …to the east …to the south …and finally, to the west … the acrid smell of the ashes filling her nose.

That done, she sat where she had stood. She was exhausted. Soon she fell asleep …but not for long.

She awakened just as the eastern sky turned ever so slightly brighter. Her hand swept against something …soft? Then she smelled something fragrant …sweet. What was this?

She couldn’t tell in the darkness, but she wasn’t afraid. But, she scampered back to her tepee and awoke her mother.

She tugged her sleepy mother by the hand to the spot where she had made her own personal sacrifice and slept amongst the ashes she had spread.

As the coming sun brightened the world around them enough to see, She-Who-Has-No-Name and her mother gazed upon a little lake surrounded by blue flowers … blue as the feathers of the raucous bird that cries “Jay! Jay! Jay!”

Both stood, hand-in-hand, amazed.

When her mother looked at her, told her of her sacrifice. Her mother told her father, who in turn told the chief and medicine men, who told the rest of the tribe.

The whole tribe came to see the little lake surrounded by thick, blue flowers. They spoke quietly to each other, some coming to She-Who-Has-No-Name to say “thank you.”

Even as they did, clouds formed in the sky and a soft, rain began to fall. The tribe, every man, woman and child stood in the rain, many with uplifted arms, as it soaked into the ground and kissed their skin.

It rained many times like that over the several seasons, and the trees and bushes grew back their leaves …grasses grew in the fields and berries on their vines …flowers added themselves to the growing carpet of bluebonnets that spread even more around the growing lake. The animals returned, including Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Buffalo, Mr. Deer and even Mr. Rattlesnake.

The tribe changed the young girl’s name from She-Who-Has-No-Name to She-Who-Dearly-Loves-Her-People and the little girl …as she grew …would sit on a hillside and watch as the bluebonnets spread further and further across the land, mixing with the red and pink of wild phloxes and the orange and rose of the Indian paintbrush.

Every now and then she would catch a glimpse of Mr. Coyote who seemed to wink at her just before disappearing into the nearby brush.

So today, as Texas emerges each year from Winter …and Spring begins to stretch into life, the bluebonnets roll out their royal carpet for all of us … and She-Who-Dearly-Loves-Her-People.

[this is a story I tell to youngsters around a campfire during the spring season]

This is TCU Press’ first venture into children’s literature, and the staff is very pleased with the results.

Every page of this fun-filled poetry book will appeal to kids and adults alike.

Birkelbach tells you not only where Smurglets come from, but, using captivating rhythms, goofy rhymes, and wonderfully made-up words, he tells readers from 5 to 50 why Ogres Hate Okra, about what happens when Blob Junior Goes to Camp, and the dire consequences of losing your Galoopa!

Illustrated by prize-winning artist Susan J. Halbower, the book will lure readers again and again to read about, and marvel at, Giggleville, Komodos, and Weldon Wing (The Armpit King!) … not to mention all the other creatures and crazy situations.

Teachers will discover this is the new book they have been searching for at story-time and for teaching about poetry. It’s playful, entertaining, easy to read, and easy to memorize. Not too hard to understand, not too grown-up, and not too many pages—it’s the perfect book to get kids to read (and make them giggle.)  

Alan Birkelbach is the 2005 Poet Laureate of Texas. He has been writing poetry since he was twelve years old. He thinks writing poetry is the most fun ever. He lives in Plano, Texas, with a big, white dog.

Susan J. Halbower is an award-winning artist who lives in Fort Worth. She designs bow-wow CARDS™ and has been drawing pictures of animals for years and years and years (which means she’s really good at it.)

TCU Press titles are available at your local bookstore or by calling 800.826.8911

Texana Review, Ed Blackburn, books, children's poetry, Alan Birkelbach, Susan Halbower

The Parrot…a story…

Music by The Four Bags used under the Creative Commons License from MusicAlley.

Click HERE to listen…(3 minutes 20 seconds)

In 1869 Quanah and Bose do their best to kill each other in a brutal fight on horseback in West Texas. But over several years, through the flash and chaos of war and killing they discover that they are friends, not enemies. They change from violent unformed youths into men of courage and decency.

The son of the ferocious warrior Nocona and the tragic captive Texan Cynthia Ann Parker, Quanah suffers the wound of being slurred and rejected by many Comanches as someone of impure blood and certain bad luck. When told he cannot marry his youthful love Weckeah, he rides off and joins another band of his people in the canyonlands and plains of the Texas Panhandle. Later, when Quanah has just emerged as a war chief in a daring rout of army cavalry, in defiance of elders and tradition he elopes with Weckeah and leads a following of the wildest Comanche bunch of all.

The enslaved son of a white physician, Bose is freed by the Civil War and rides on trail drives of longhorns into New Mexico Territory that are led by the pioneering Charles Goodnight. Bose winds up captured, utilized, and eventually valued by Quanah and his people. That period in young Bose’s life brings him into intoxicating friendship with Quanah’s other wife, To-ha-yea, a Mescalero Apache and born heart-breaker.

Comanche Sundown lays out a sprawling and plausible recast of Southwestern history that brings Pat Garrett, Billy the Kid, Bat Masterson, Colonel Ranald “Bad Hand” Mackenzie, and General William T. Sherman into one fray. In the tradition of Thomas Berger’s Little Big Man, William Styron’s The Confessions of Nat Turner, Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, and Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses, Reid’s novel offers a rich blend of historical detail, exquisite eye for the terrain and the animals, and insight into the culture, customs, poetry, and dignity of Native Americans caught up in a desperate fight to survive.

Jan Reid is a veteran writer-at-large for Texas Monthly and has contributed dozens of articles to Esquire, GQ, Slate, Men’s Journal, Garden & Gun, the New York Times Magazine, and many other leading publications. His highly praised nonfiction books include The Improbable Rise of Redneck Rock, The Bullet Meant for Me, and Rio Grande.

Reid’s first novel, Deerinwater, was published in 1985. Since then, he has devoted time between his many projects and some perilous adventures to the research and crafting of Comanche Sundown. Praised for the versatility of his writing, Reid has won honors that include a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Dobie-Paisano Fellowship, and awards by PEN and the Texas Institute of Letters.

Born in Abilene, Texas, Reid grew up in Wichita Falls and for many years has made his home in Austin with his wife, Dorothy Browne.

TCU Press books are available at your local bookseller or by calling 800.826.8911.