A Lubbock Boy's View of Tom T. Hall and his Music

I love music.  Be it Classical, Jazz, Blues or Pop, I like it.  I discovered much of my favorite music long after I left Lubbock, but my music foundation was laid there, on the High Plains.  Buddy Holly grew up across town and when I left, he and Elvis and Fats and Jerry Lee were starting to challenge Frank Sinatra, Pat Boone, Doris Day and Diana Shore for the hearts (and ears) of our generation.  How could they possibly fail?  In addition to this, country music was always there.  It was the music of the Plains and could not be ignored.  This is my take on one "country" artist.  Maybe soon, I'll write about another favorite---Dakota Staton.  For now, bear with me and enjoy this, regardless of your music preferences.

I was driving though San Saba the other day, and they have this old, cornpone disc jockey, talking about the weather and playing country music on the local radio. He sounded a lot like I probably would on the radio, and that fact alone will keep me from entertaining any notions of a broadcast career. Not withstanding all that, the man played great music. I heard Lefty Frizzel, Hank (Williams, Snow, Thompson, Locklin, and Junior), Johnny Cash, Tom T. Hall, Charlie Walker, Merle Haggard, George Jones, and a bunch that I remember well but can’t readily identify. (Is that happening to anyone else?) He played “Please Don’t Play A-11..” I think Johnny Paycheck did it and it’s the best song he ever did.  Beats “Take This Job and Shove It”, all over the place. “A-11” is a high class, number one beer drinking tear jerker. Not many of those left.

The man also played “The Little Lady Preacher,” a half-forgotten tune by Tom T. Hall, who has been one of my favorites for years, but was never really that commercial. He has written hits for everyone else, songs like “Harper Valley PTA," but his own recordings have always been sort of half song, half poem narratives that strike me deep in the soul. Unfortunately, they seem to leave the record buyers a bit cool. He writes his songs from the perspective of a poor farm boy, void of sophistication, looking out at a complicated world full of people “who know a lot more than I do.” That perspective may say a lot more about me than I’d want you to know.

A Word of Explanation

     I am learning more and more about this electric machine and how to blog on it.  Yesterday, I discovered that I can add photographs to my stories.  Today, maybe I'll figure out how to put captions on the photos, then tomorrow perhaps I can discover how to place them appropriately within the written material.  I am sure that the learning curve on this is like everything else---by the time I figure it out, I'll be finished.
     My plan, for now, is to continue to serialize the Road Trip, doing two episodes per week, probably one on Saturday and one on Wednesday.  Then, in between those stories, I plan to stick something fluffy such as the "Old People" story or the piece about my dad.
     Thanks to my friend Hugh Ruggles, I have about ten thousand words on Barbeque that I wrote during 1996 and 1997.  I also found several other stories from the past that I might share---"Blue Tarp People" and "New York City"come to mind.  I may insert some of those between the road trip stuff.  I will try to shorten the posts so that it doesn't take so long to read them, but I can't promise anything---it seems to take me a lot of words to say anything.  Having said all that, understand that I will do my best not to bore you.
     I will try to add a picture which I call "Springtime in Lubbock" to this post.  I will put a caption on it if I can.   You will see if I suceeded when you read this post.
     As you all can see, I am floundering around here.  Any suggestions you may have will be appreciated.
                                                                                                                              Thanks for your support-----
                                                                                                                                                                      Jim

Springtime in Lubbock, well that didn't work too well.                                                                                                                                                                    

Paul R. McLaughlin

I wrote this a few years ago, not long after we moved to the Hill Country.  It was an introduction to one of my "Newsletters", a form of communication I used before this electric machine entered my life.  Now, I can just write something and send it out to everyone I know and include everyone else in the world, also.   Some of you may have seen this, but, at your age, you might not remember.  I wrote this in the spring of 1996, but it remains true, even the part about the weather.

              I suppose it’s time to do this. I saw a few meager Bluebonnets yesterday, along the median strip of Interstate Ten. Not many, and not very big, but Bluebonnets, just the same.  We’ve had little rain this year.  Last year it rained all winter in the Hill Country, and we were treated to explosions of color in every direction. Not only Bluebonnets, but Mexican Hat, Indian Blankets, Buttercups, Indian Paintbrush and assorted Daisies sprang up in every pasture, along every roadside, in every valley. The traffic on Willow City Loop was bumper to bumper, and the merchants in Fredericksburg were busy as a set of jumper cables at a McLaughlin Family Reunion. Even the Prickly Pears bloomed, and they were beautiful. Last year, the little humming birds had so many flowers, they didn’t need my sugar-water feeder. This year, they’ll need the feeder, and I'll get to enjoy watching them.  Everything has a way of leveling out.  Took me a long time to understand that.

One of the reasons I enjoy writing these things is because I really enjoy the English language. I know that will come as a shock to many of you, and a natural response could be “How would you possibly know anything about the English language?” All right, make it the English language as it is applied in the state of mind known as Texas. Especially as it was practiced by my dad, Paul R., and a few others of his generation.

Paul R. never heard of a figure of speech, but he used them all the time. His conversation was enriched with metaphors, similes, and alliterations to the point that just visiting with him about the weather was a fascinating experience. When he described a situation, you were there, and you were involved. I don’t think it was possible for him to bore anyone, at least not anyone with any sense.  Dad did not say, “That lady is wearing a nice perfume.” He said, “That ole gal smells like the top dresser drawer.” For my father, it didn’t come a hard rain. It came a “frog-strangler,” or it "rained like a cow peeing on a flat rock." Clyde Barrow didn’t “pull a gun” to rob the bank, he "reached down in his britches pocket and pulled out a thirty-some-odd.” For dad, eggs didn’t cost fifty cents a dozen. They cost “four bits”.

               Paul R. had a quick, but gentle, wit. He poked fun in good humor and laughed heartily, but would never have purposely hurt anyone’s feelings. I started thinking about him when I wrote the line above about “jumper cables at the reunion.” I believe I just made that up, but it may have been there in the top dresser drawer of my mind, tucked away years ago by my dad. That would be just like him. One day I want to write about Paul R., and another time I want to write about our language. I’m just not ready yet.

Road Trip Two---Santa Monica and Santa Barbara

     We did not slow down as we snaked thru Phoenix on I-10.  We crossed into California at Blyth just before ten thirty in the morning and lined up at a border station.

     “They checking for illegals?”  Wayne asked. 

     “No.  It says Department of Agriculture—they don’t want us smuggling in any fruit flies or nematodes, I’d imagine.”   I answered. 

     We waited our turn and were soon greeted by a Hispanic young man in an official uniform—a bit tight around the middle, but with a new shiny badge and all.  He eyed the cab of the truck suspiciously, and said, in a clipped and professional voice, “Are you people carrying any produce?”

     “Well, we’ve got a couple of bananas back there, I know.  Do we have any of those oranges left, Mac?”  Wayne said.

     “Naw, we ate the oranges just outside Lordsburg.  We still have two apples, though.”  I said.

     “Apples?  Where did you get the apples?” asked the guard.  He was closing in and I was starting to feel like a deer in the headlights.

     “We bought them at the HEB in Kerrville, Texas.  I paid $1.29 a pound for them—they’re Pink Lady Apples—real good eating,” I answered, worried, but trying to be helpful.

     His chest swelled up and, with visible relish, he said, “I’ll need you to hand over those Texas apples.  I’m going to have to confiscate them—you cannot bring tainted fruit into the state of California!”

     “Those are good apples, not tainted—we were going to eat them at noon—won’t that be alright?” I asked, with a bit of desperation in my voice.

     “You can keep the bananas, but I will take the apples—we cannot allow diseased fruit into the state of California.”  He said with official finality.  We gave up the apples.

     There are plenty of apples in California.  We will have no problem replacing them and I don’t mind an agriculture border guard doing his job.  We were paying $3.95 for a gallon of gas, so the two bucks for apples wasn’t a major thing.  What got me was the obvious pleasure the little Hitler-acting Pinko-Commie got out of taking our apples.  He probably fed them to his kids that night, while he told them about his satisfying and rewarding day at work.

     We continued west until I-10 hit the ocean, which turns out to be the Santa Monica Pier.  Wayne and I saw the sights there, had great seafood at a little place on the beach in Malibu, and drove up the coast to Santa Barbara, where we spent our second night on the road.

     Next morning, we were lined up with about forty other folks to ride the bus up the hill and tour Hearst Castle.  If you know my friend Wayne, you know that a captive audience is a treasure for him, and he had one in that waiting room.  Soon, I heard him say, very loudly, to a complete stranger with extraordinary boobs, “We’re on a sort of bucket-list Road Trip here---I’ve known that old man over there for sixty years and we decided to strike out and see some sights and a little bit of this great country.”

     The lady said something like, “How nice.”  That was plenty of encouragement for Wayne.  The waiting room grew quiet as the rest of the crowd listened.

     He said, “Yeah, for sixty years that old guy has embarrassed me.  We stopped for gas yesterday, and before I could stop him, he asked the attendant, ‘How far is it to San Josie?’ 

    The attendant said, ‘Oh, you’re not from around here, are you, sir?  Out here, we pronounce the “J” sound as “H”, so you want to know how far it is to San Ho-Say, not San Josie.  How long are you going to be here?’”

     “Then, again before I could stop him, Mac said, ‘Oh, I don’t know---until   Hune or Huly!’” 

     The whole waiting room exploded with laughter, and the lady with the store-bought equipment started hanging around us, much to her companion’s chagrin.   I just barely held my own with Ratisseau, and we entertained the whole tour---the tour guide was a Texas Tech Ex and seemed to love the breath of West Texas  we brought to the event.  Of course, we laid it on a little heavy and spread the drawl a bit thicker than normal.  Anyone can be from those little states---it takes someone really special to be from Texas.

                                                          

Pecan Pie Recipe

      I have known Jim Goode since he started Goode Company Barbeque in an old Hickory Hut location on Kirby Drive in Houston.  He was a burned-out commercial artist who liked to cook and decided to start a restaurant.  The large, ornate sign in front of the delapidated shack he bought demonstrated his artistic skill. I used to kid him that he had the biggest, fanciest sign on the smallest barbeque joint in the world.

     His sucess has been spectacular and one of the reasons for it is his signature dessert, Brazos Bottom Pecan Pie.  It is arguably the best Pecan Pie in the world.  He sells thousands each year and ships them all over the world.  I asked for his recipe once and he told me it was on the back of a Karo Syrup bottle.  I have tried for years to duplicate that pie and the recipe below represents the current evolution of my efforts.

     This is not the final, end all Pecan pie recipe, but more like where I’ve come to at this point in my quest for the best pecan pie available without having to order one from Goode Company in Houston.  Understand that this is my recipe, not Jim Goode's.  His is on the back of a syrup jar.  He won't even tell me where he buys his pecans.

Ingredients:

3 eggs

1/2 cup dark brown sugar plus 1/4 cup white sugar

1 cup dark corn syrup (Karo) plus ¼ cup blackstrap molasses (or use Steens Syrup)

3Tbls. Melted butter

1 ½ Tsp. Vanilla extract

3Tbls. Kentucky Bourbon  (I use Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey) (optional)

1Tbls. all purpose flour

2 cups pecan halves

     Method: 

     Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Prepare pie crust for a single crust pie in a 10 inch glass pie pan—set aside--do not bake.  (Use a store-bought pie crust or make your own.  I hesitate to get into a discussion of pie crust recipes.  That is an art form all its own.)  A nine inch deep dish pan will work also, but you might have to adjust the heat or time to make sure the pie gets done in the center.

     Beat eggs for a minute or so in a mixing bowl—do it by hand or use a mixer. Add sugars and syrups, mixing well with each addition.  Add melted butter, vanilla, whiskey (if using) and flour, mixing well until everything is incorporated.  Stir in pecans and pour into the prepared crust, put in oven and bake for about 10 minutes, then cover loosely with foil to keep crust from over-browning.  Bake an additional thirty minutes, then remove foil to allow crust to brown for last twenty minutes or until center is set.  Watch the pie closely and adjust this procedure to fit all the variables involved—oven temperature variations, thickness of pie pan, light or dark glass or metal pan, etc.  With a little care and practice, the pie will be done throughout and the crust will be nicely browned, but not burned.

     Use the best pecans you can find—obviously, the better the pecans, the better the pie.  I have spent a lot of time arranging the pecans perfectly in the bottom of the pie crust, and then carefully pouring the syrup mixture over all.  During baking, the pecans floated to the surface and everything was perfect and orderly and the pecans were lined up in concentric circles, but it didn’t taste a bit better and really didn’t look much better and it was a whole lot of trouble.  I sometimes place a bit of pie crust in the center of the pie for decoration—make an initial or a pecan or some type of medallion or something.  I did one this year with a pie-crust bow, centered, and gave the pie as a Christmas gift.

     For a more conventional and (in my mind) bland pie, use all white sugar and all corn syrup and leave out the molasses and whiskey.  A different texture is achieved when you use chopped pecans, or mix chopped pecans with pecan halves.  If you want to get one just like my Aunt Ola’s, just use all white sugar and light corn syrup and chopped pecans.  Aunt Ola grew up in Georgia and called it Pee-Can Pie.  That’s how much she knew.  (Daddy said he told Uncle Stoney not to marry her.)  Add more bourbon if you feel the pie needs it.  Use more or less sugar, depending upon your taste.  The same with the molasses.  As in most everything else, you are limited only by your imagination.   Enjoy!!                                                                       

                                                                                                                                               

Road Trip--First Episode--Tucson

     A few months ago, I got a call from Wayne Ratisseau.  We’ve known each other over sixty years, from our sophomore year in high school, thru Texas Tech and on up to the present.  There have been times when our lives have taken separate paths---Wayne farmed in Brownfield and I built a construction company in Houston---but, even with the separation, we have always remained friends.  We were young, optimistic, fun-loving guys---now we’re old, optimistic, fun-loving guys.

     Wayne called about his younger brother, Ron, who lives in Medford, Oregon.   Ron had a run of disappointing circumstances exacerbated by his wife’s losing battle with Alzheimer’s.   She has just been placed in a full time care facility and Ron needed cheering up.  Wayne wondered if I would go with him to help.

     I thought about my obligations here in town.  I worried about the cost involved.  I wondered how long such a trip would take.  I fretted about all the details to be re-arranged; prescriptions, exercise class, doctor’s appointments, etc.   Any one of the items mentioned would give me ample reason to decline the invitation.  I wondered why any seventy-five year old man would just jump in a pickup truck and go to Oregon with an old friend.   Finally, I thought about the fact that I may never get another chance to do something like this.  All that thinking took about four seconds.

     “When do we leave?”  I answered.

     We pulled out onto I-10 at 7:01 AM on Sunday morning, May 22^nd, leaving Kerrville, headed west.  At about nine that morning, somewhere near Sonora, my cell phone rang.  It was my friend R.G. Box, a blacksmith, calling from Lubbock to confirm that we would have coffee with him on our way back in two weeks.  I say Box is a blacksmith, and he is—he was born about a hundred years too late and is regressing---but that’s another story.

     Coffee is a big thing with R.G.  He said, “Janie and I are on our way to Bacon’s to have coffee.” 

     I asked, “Why are you going to Pecos for Coffee?”

     “No, no, Mac!  We’re going to John Bacon’s house for coffee.”  I finally understood. 

     Moments after I hung up, Wayne leaned over and asked, “Why are they going to Vegas for coffee?”  That pretty well set the tone for the trip.  Two old coots like us understand that it is not always necessary, or even desirable, to hear and understand everything that is said.

     We made Tucson that day, 819 miles from K’Town, and checked into a Red Roof Inn in the late afternoon, their time.  We had “heavy hors d’oeuvres” for dinner—bologna, rat cheese and Sun Chips—and a light drink of good whiskey.  We were both sound asleep by nine.

      It was daylight in Tucson by 5:00AM and the air was surprisingly crisp and cool.   Wayne and I were all packed and ready to go before six.  Denny’s, next door to our motel, was open so we went inside for breakfast.  I usually avoid cookie-cutter restaurants and Denny’s is one of the most cookie-cutter there is, but the food is good and sometimes so is the service.  This time, the waitress, Bobbi, was bright, cheerful and attentive.  She livened up the place, even though it looked exactly like the one in Kerrville.

     “Oh, my gracious, I just love your shirt!” she said to Wayne. “I have two iguanas at home and I just love them—they’re just tooo cute!”

     “You have pet iguanas?” Wayne asked.  He was wearing a shirt he picked up in Cancun, sporting a small iguana on the front and a giant one on the back. “I didn’t know you could civilize an iguana.”

     “Oh, sure!  They are a lot cleaner than cats or dogs.  I just love mine!”  She answered.  “Where you fellas going?”

     “We’re on sort of a bucket list road trip.  We’re gonna follow I-10 to the ocean and turn right and go up to Oregon on the Pacific Coast Highway.  We figured we ought to do this before we get any older.”  Wayne answered.

     “What a great idea!” Inserted Suzanne, another waitress who had stopped to see what all the chatter was about.  “How long are you going to take?  Where did you start?”

     “We left Kerrville, Texas, yesterday, and plan to be gone a couple of weeks, more or less.  Depends on what pops up along the road. ” I answered.  “Let me ask you something, Bobbi—What does your husband think of those iguanas?”

     “Oh, I don’t have a husband—I ran him off years ago.”    Apparently she answered that question often and was not unhappy with her lot in life.

     “Well, let me ask you something else.  You don’t do anything, you know, a little weird or perverted or something with those lizards, do you?” 

     Both girls looked a bit puzzled, then screamed with laughter and we got the best service in the house for the rest of our visit. 

     After we finished breakfast, I went back to the room to be sure we hadn’t left anything—cell phone charger, glasses, etc.  When I got out to the truck, Wayne was changing his tee shirt.  It was not a pretty sight.  We stopped in front of Denny’s as we left and Wayne gave the iguana shirt to Bobbi—she was delighted. 

     We got back on I-10 and Wayne said, “If you can make someone that happy with something as cheap as a tee shirt, you oughtta always do it.”  That is really not a bad philosophy.  Wayne is a lot deeper than you might think.

                                                                     

Old People

     Many of you may have seen this---I wrote it a few weeks ago and sent it to some of the folks on my mailing list.  I wanted to do it on this blog because it is fun and there is a message of some sort in here somewhere.  I think.

     The Daily Times has been doing a series of articles about the life and times of old people, or some such.  Depending upon your definition of old people, I probably qualify as a member of that group, so I’d like to weigh in on the subject. 

     To start with, the articles are being written by very talented, but very young, reporters.  I submit that, no matter how much talent and insight a writer has, it is difficult to see things from the older person’s perspective if one is less than fifty years old.  Even at fifty, it is hard to imagine the aches and pains that an average seventy year old endures.  My hands go to sleep at bedtime with the rest of me, and then I have to flex them open and shut for a few moments every morning to wake them up and get them ready to face the day.  Otherwise, I’ll drop my glasses when I try to pick them up, or spill pills all over the bathroom or screw up some other simple task that once was automatic.   

     You might say, “Dropping your glasses is no big deal”.

     Wait until you are seventy-five years old and crawling around in your underwear in the dark at six am, feeling around for a three hundred fifty dollar pair of eye glasses. No sense turning on the light, I couldn’t see them without my glasses anyway and I sure don’t want to wake up my wife.  The feeling has not yet returned to my hands, so I’m mostly scraping around with what feels like stumps, hoping I’ll discover the glasses before I break them.  

     “What are you doing over there”?  She asks.  My day goes downhill from there.

     A writer younger than fifty probably hasn’t had back surgery, or a knee replacement or his hips “nailed” as an orthopedic surgeon friend of mine terms that particular operation. These young ‘uns may not even be in trifocals yet and certainly don’t know the thrill of a colonoscopy or the simple pleasure of eating an apple with imitation teeth. 

     With all this lack of experience, how will even the most talented writer understand why it takes me so long to get through the check-out line at H-E-B.?  I’m sure you have been in line there behind me or someone like me.  The cute little girl at the register finishes ringing up the purchases and looks up expectantly.   All of a sudden, the light dawns.  “Oh! Surprise, surprise!  I have to pay for all this stuff.”

     I reach for my wallet, which I have trouble feeling with my gimpy hand, but I can’t get it out of my back pocket.  To start with, it’s a long way back there to that pocket and my arms are short and I’m just not nearly as flexible as I once was.  Then, I have on these new short pants, the very latest style, with a Velcro closure on the back pocket.  I manage to get the pocket open with one hand and get hold of my billfold, and the flap closes and the Velcro grabs tight.  The guy behind me in line clears his throat.  I try to reach around with my other hand and hold the pocket open while I extract the wallet, but it doesn’t work.  Flexibility issues.  Finally, I manage to hold the flap up with one hand and push up the wallet from the bottom of the pocket with the other, while twisting like a contortionist and grunting like a Wart Hog.  The guy behind me clears his throat again, much louder this time.  I deftly manage to get two fingers on the elusive billfold, but it hangs up on the inside of my pocket.

     “Can I help you, old man”?  The fellow behind me says, with a Yankee accent.  He doesn’t sound real sincere, so I choose to ignore him.  He decides I’m deaf.  That’s fine with me. 

     My back pocket eventually releases the wallet and I grin triumphantly at the cute and very patient little cashier, who looks all of twelve years old.  “How much was that again, sweetie”?

     She points to the electronic screen so I can read the amount— she thinks I’m deaf.  I manage to carefully count out the proper amount of bills and consider just paying a dollar over and letting her give me pocket change, but I have done that so much I already have about four dollars worth of pocket change.  I need to get rid of some of it.  It is so heavy I’m listing to starboard.  I reach down with my sleepy hand and feel around in my side pocket for change.  I can’t really feel anything, but that’s OK because the pocket is easy to reach.  I just pull out a handful of whatever is in there.

    My car keys and pocket knife and about two dollars worth of change scatter all over the floor.  I grin at the little girl and drop down on one knee to pick it up—since the back operation, I have not been able to just bend over and pick up something.  I hear the guy behind me cussing in Ohioan, and the sacker comes around to help me pick up my belongings.

     I carefully count out the thirty-eight cents I owe, and ask if it is ok to give her five nickels instead of the quarter.  She gives me a vacant look because the computer doesn’t tell her how many nickels make a quarter. I start counting out nickels, and then decide to substitute ten pennies for two of the nickels.  The guy from Ohio mumbles something and goes to another line. Gee, I wish he’d stayed.  I was going to “remember” that I wanted a cigar and send the little girl to the humidor to search for an Arturo Fuente Hemingway Classic.  She’d have to call the manager.

     You all be nice to us old people---you’ll be joining us one day.   And try to think about things from our perspective---we all foolishly think we have just as much right to stand in line at the grocery store as anyone else.

   

                                                                                    Jim McLaughlin