Sherman, Texas

 

For the fourth night in a row, and my first night in Texas, I camped behind an abandoned building, the latest a forlorn mobile home halfway between Gainesville and Sherman, my first two Carnegie stops in Texas.

My last night in Oklahoma was spent behind a closed down small factory on the outskirts of Healdton.  It was the first time in these travels that I staked out my rain fly, rather than letting it hug the tent proper to retain what heat I managed to generate, as rain was predicted to hit at one a.m.  

The rain arrived a little late not coming until three when the wind switched from the south to a northerly, plunging the temperatures once again, though not quite cold enough for snow.  It came down hard initially giving me concern that it could pool into the tent. The ground I camped on was soft enough, I hoped, for the rain would soak in, which it managed to do, though I was prepared to evacuate into the factory if need be. Fortunately the rain didn’t last long and I could continue my streak in the morning of not having had to bike in the rain on this trip.

By morning the temperature had fallen to right around freezing and stayed there all day long, despite heading south into Texas, quite an affront after afternoon temperatures of seventy the previous two days allowing me to trade my long pants for shorts.  It was cold enough that I could see my breath on occasion.  I had to wear my heavy gloves all day, making plucking nuts and such out of my handlebar bag as I pedaled along an impossibility, forcing me to stop to eat a little more frequently. Nor was I able to spread peanut butter, rather cutting thin slices to lay on the bread.  It was a rare day when the sun never appeared, denying my solar light any direct light for charging.  Luckily it had retained enough of a charge that I didn’t need to resort to my headlamp that evening.

My final Carnegie in Oklahoma came after twenty-five miles in Ardmore.  It was a humble little gem sitting in a park in a residential neighborhood.  It was highlighted by a pair of globular lights on the walkway to its entrance. There was plenty of space for expansion, but the community opted to build a new library.  The local garden club now uses it as its base.  

Texas was thirty miles south across the Red River.  The only bridge for a forty mile stretch was on Interstate 35. It wasn’t clear if bicycles were allowed, but I took the risk of heading that way.  An entrance a mile before the river didn’t have a sign prohibiting bicycles, so there was no need to break the law.  A cluster of four cannabis dispensaries were at that first exit for Texans coming to Oklahoma, indicating I won’t be seeing any more of them while I’m in Texas.  

Nor billboards related to the business, as there have been a few.  By far the most common billboard simply read  “Available,” an indication that the economy isn’t so good in these parts, though I hardly needed that enforcement, as boarded up businesses were an all too common site in small towns.

Just over the river into Texas the only business at the frontage road exit was an adult video store.  

It was ten miles to Gainesville and the first Carnegie on my rounds in Texas.   It was at the corner of Denton and Main Street and had been turned into the Butterfield Stage  for plays and other performances.  It acknowledged its significance with an official Texas Historical Commission plaque along the sidewalk.  It too featured globular lights at its entrance, but not as ornate as those in Ardmore.

I lost the tailwind I’d had from Ardmore as I turned east to head to Sherman.  The hilly terrain continued otherwise I might have had my first century of these travels, having to settle for eight-four miles for the day, better than the sixty-six of the day before when it had been a day of headwinds and also a rare day without a library.  

I had hopes that the town of Comanche would have a library when I passed its large high school and football stadium, home of the Indians, on the outskirts of the town, but the town was without.  I had to resort to the WiFi of a small cafe for my lone Internet time for the day.  I ordered a hot dog.  A couple minutes later the cook came to my table and asked, “Would you like a hamburger on the house?  It’s quite good.”  It certainly was, not a mere patty, but a thick, juicy hunk of beef, and it was accompanied with a pile the tatter-tots, a feast of calories.  The cafe had a drive-up window as well by the entrance.  The strip of pavement by the entrance was littered with pennies.  It had become the local wishing well of patrons expressing good will for this delightful cafe.   

Sherman’s Carnegie was now a museum.  It too had an plaque out front detailing the town’s library history, which began on a subscription basis out of the city hall.  A local architect, John Tulloch,  designed it in a “simplified beaux arts style.” Embedded in its side like a corner stone was the Carlyle quote I had earlier seen on the Lawton Carnegie with the addition of the words “of these days.” 

This was the version of Lawton’s, compliments of the Masons.