“Nope. Just driven by. I know several windmills are outside. But not 150. How’d he get so many of them in that small building? And what’s so fascinating about windmill history?” He looked skeptical.
“That’s what Windy said. It’s not too deep, so they didn’t have to go down very far for good water. The wind alone brought up enough to keep stock tanks filled for livestock, and when electricity made power pumps available, enough water was brought up to irrigate crops. The climate was good for cotton. Now, though, civilization takes even more water than crops. Currently, Lubbock gets most of its water from manmade lakes, such as Lake Merideth north of Amarillo, and soon from Lake Alan Henry, south of Post. Anyway, the area was settled as farmland and Tech was born. In fact, without the windmill, we might all be at the University of Texas or A&M.”
“Heaven forbid,” Doug said in mock disgust. “I like the wide-open spaces out here on the Llano Estacado.”
“Did you find out about that lone wind turbine out at the museum?” Sharon asked as she loaded the last dish in the dishwasher, added detergent, and turned it on. We moved to the den. “Do they actually pull energy from it?”
“They do. It generates enough to run the whole museum. Windy’s got another one coming — or at least the turbine part — in pieces. He plans to put it inside the museum so children can get an up-close idea of the actual size of the propellors. You were right about the size. He says the blades can be anywhere from sixty-five to one-hundred-twenty feet long.”
“Says he is. He has exciting plans for the place, incorporating windmills and wind turbines to show the history of it all. Even planning on finding an old Dutch windmill. Not all the ones out here pulled up water ... some were used like the Dutch ones, to grind wheat or corn. Windy hopes to have the first phase done right after Christmas and will host a gala to open the new exhibits.”
“Yes, he’s expanding what he has and rearranging it all. Although right now it’s pretty spectacular. Just over 100 windmills are inside, row after row of wooden ones, metal ones, from about four feet high to more than fifty feet tall. Restored blades and tails and towers and motors of every shape and size ... just everywhere. And they’re painted in mostly red and white, with an occasional blue or green here and there—the wheels, that is, not the towers. He’s collected from all across the country.
Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! and through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.