Author Name: VERONICA LAWSON
I was a young girl, when my family moved to west Texas after a two-year stint in South America. The Texas plains were a drastic change from the lush, tropical forests of Venezuela. The Gulf Oil Company (later bought out by Warren Petroleum) built a gas refinery, three miles outside of a tiny German town by the name of Winters. The community was ill equipped to harbor newly arrived oil field workers with decent housing.
With much trepidation, we rented a small wood-framed house about two blocks from an old cemetery. For reasons unknown, the local citizenry had ceased to bury their dead there, but it was an active place, where strange looking little kids used coffins for sand boxes. Somehow disturbed by an underground force, the rotten wood crates protruded in helter-skelter fashion, at the southwest corner of the cemetery. The children would stop and stare at me on my way to and from school. As I quick-stepped past them and their unorthodox playpens, I held my books close to my chest and held my head down to avoid their hollow eyes. My mother insisted they were harmless. I knew they were dead, and was not afraid of them, but playing in a casket was not my idea of fun.