His family called him Bud, but he gave J. Orland Hasty to the city directory man. The oldest boy and second child of ten, Orland was born in 1886 in Kemper County, Mississippi. By 1900 his parents, James Scott Hasty and Mattie Ann Watkins, had moved their eight children across the county line to Daleville, Lauderdale, Mississippi. Orland was still in school at age 14, although his 16 year old sister Onie was working in a general store. Two years later the family moved to Meridian and got a house on Poplar Springs Drive, and the father went to work for the A. Gressett Music House. Orland gained two more sisters in 1903 and 1908, but he lost his baby brother Telius Algier to measles in 1904.
In 1907 Orland married Janie Clark, and in 1908 he appeared in the Meridian city directory as a harness maker for the Threefoot Brothers & Co. During that time a photographer named Hardt took this photo.
man near window
man sharpening a tool
man working on straps
J Orland Hasty, harness maker
Orland in the 1908 Meridian city directory
Orland and Janie had no children. In December 1910 he died of tuberculosis at age 24.
Arco Idaho’s claim to fame is being the first town lit entirely by nuclear power. You might think it ran on a nuclear plant for decades, but no. It was about an hour in 1955. Today the town is losing population and looks especially tired after the summer season ends. Still, its WPA-built basalt buildings are impressive, the high school graduating class numbers on the hill will soon wrap 100 years, and the burgers and shakes at Pickle’s Place are delish.
Glenwood Springs, Colorado offers a main drag for trinket shopping, a few quirky shops, and adorable houses. Hubby and I happened upon a little
Glenwood Springs, CO
farmer’s market in a tiny city park where we bought hand made soap. The warm day made us seek air conditioning, so we browsed places selling artful dust catchers. Life in an RV removes the temptation of buying most objets d’art. Where do we put it? How fast will it jump off the wall and break? What’s it weigh? Oh never mind.
Hoping for a bright spot in the afternoon, I looked for a local weaving or yarn shop. If it went well, I’d spend a few happy minutes with my tribe. The Google has a way of suggesting crazy or at least off-the-mark stuff, so when “weaving” turned up Art on 8th, I thought, “Great. It’s an art gallery that has one funky wall hanging made of cat hair and tin foil.” Still, I can’t leave some stones unturned.
Art on 8th’s downstairs has pretties – jewelry, trinkets, artsy creations – and fabulous woven towels and garments. As a weaver, although a new one, I recognize quality in consistent work and the beauty in functional twill towels. It turned out there was a weaving studio upstairs, the shop lady said, where I could observe the process. Squee! Must see the looms and talk to weaving kinfolk!
There were three looms on the stair landing, one being used by a silent, studious-looking man. Shh, mustn’t disturb him. At the top of the stairs, left, right, and around the corner were looms, looms, looms! At least five people were weaving their hearts out, and a couple more hovered and assisted. I didn’t get full details, but evidently there is a local effort that gives folks with disabilities the opportunity to learn to weave and to earn money from their work.Assistants handle dressing the looms, but the clients choose colors and weave yards and yards of gorgeous fabric. One gentleman weaving fluffy rugs proudly told me he had been doing it for 20 years. A woman weaving luscious yellows and golds worked so fast and beat so hard that it made me a teensy bit jealous. (I love to beat the hell out of weft shots and often have to hold back. Not her!) These people may have disabilities in some arenas, but where weaving is concerned, they’ve got skills.
I only wished for a guest loom where I could sit, weave, and enjoy their company. To the assistant who answered my questions and said she only dresses the looms but has yet to weave – oh honey! You gotta do it!
Hubby and I have been to Hot Springs before and enjoyed it, so as a stop on our gradual journey home, it made for an easy choice. It’s hard to break myself from calling Plano “home” even though we’re trying to think of the RV as home. It’s a switch, going from home as a spot on a map to home being this vehicle that you wander around the country in. Plano, with its population of soccer moms carrying their broods around in Porsche Cayennes and Mercedes SUVs, never felt like a place I identified with, but I do miss the house. I even miss pulling weeds, but only in a voluntary way when the weather is nice and the ground lets me have the roots due to a recent rain. Only a bit sheepishly, I pulled a few at our last campground, to Michael’s teasing.
But back to Hot Springs. Yes, they have the historic bathhouse row, and it almost felt like an obligation to go and get a spa treatment, until we did. I insisted on leaving our phones in the locker so when we had the bath it was just bubbles and hot water and cutesy LED lights in the water and calm. Calm. We rejoined the world briefly, pressing lightly-scented, cool cloths to our faces and drinking cucumber-infused spring water, before diving back into mental quiet on the massage table. Maybe I should adopt this routine as a religious observance. I don’t participate in organized religion, but if part of the point of that exercise is meditation and a positive reset for mind and soul, I think I could do worse than a soak and massage.
Something about a road trip on a hot day turns a DQ sign into a hypnotizing tractor beam. I’m a kid again, on endless summer car trips to Grandma’s house in Mississippi. The only entertainment is dot-to-dot, word search, and keeping my eyeballs peeled for Dairy Queen or Stucky’s. Chocolate milkshakes from Stuckey’s were the most amazing things to be savored and made to last as loooooong as possible. It was like being let out of a dark prison cell for one glorious hour in the sunny exercise yard, after which there was only darkness again.Now that I’m a grown-up, going where I want and stopping as many G…D… times as I want to, yeah, I still can’t resist the siren call of D.Q. Ahh.
Staying in this small Lake Dallas park has felt like having a lake house without the worry over flooding. There’s plenty of space between sites, especially being half empty, and we have lake views from every window. The blue herons and snowy egrets stand sentry in the water, while mallards paddle along in groups. A nearby birdhouse hosts actual bluebirds! I still get a thrill seeing those guys and wonder where they’ve been all my life. A newly-built trail around part of the lake made for a couple of interesting exercise walks.
As a special treat, Michael built a fire tonight, and the temps cooled off enough that we could sit outside around 9pm without broiling ourselves.
We moved camp to a spot on Lake Dallas (Lewisville), and I decided to indulge in a little weaving time. Even though we’re not fully unpacked, and I still have half a gazillion boxes of slides to go through, I deserve a little creative time.
Right? Right. Besides, Herr POTUS who must not be named is liable to start WWIII tonight in Singapore, so drink up, me hearties, and do whatever ye like!
