THAT'S THE KIND OF GUY I AM

      One time, I met a fellow with the irritating habit of telling me what kind of guy he was.  He would say something such as, “I don’t like people who tell lies,” then add, “That’s the kind of guy I am.”  Or, he would say, “I believe in always paying my bills---that’s the kind of guy I am.”  I wondered at the time why this habit irritated me so much, and why it got on my nerves so very quickly.  Sometime later, I realized it bothered me because I grew up on the High Plains.

      The panhandle of Texas is wide open country.  The air is clean, the skies are clear and, as a friend says, “You can see farther out here than you can point.”  I never understood what he meant by that, but I like the way it sounds, and it makes me think.  With this high, clean air and flat, open land comes friendly, honest, open-faced people.  They don’t know how to lie and most are simply the “what you see is what you get” type.

      Because of this background, I like to decide for myself “what kind of guy” I’m dealing with.  I like to spend some time with people and see how they act and react to things and let them get acquainted with me and see how I react to things.  I like to see what makes them laugh and what makes them cry.  I don’t need someone telling me how they are because they may not tell the truth.  I’ll discover what I need to know about people without any help.  They can figure out me the same way.  I’m not going to tell them a whole lot, but if they are around very much, I’m not all that hard to understand.

     I mistrust folks who try to tell me what to think about anything, especially about themselves.  There is a sort of wide-eyed Gee Whiz attitude that comes built-in with people from the High Plains and some people have been known to take advantage of that.  After this happens a few times, the Plainsman becomes suspicious, perhaps even a bit cynical.  When some stranger says, “I always pay my bills, that’s the kind of guy I am,” you can bet I’m not going to loan him any money.

Sunset in West Texas by Dr. Jerry McLaughlin

     I started this web log to get some of my thoughts out there and to let people know about my part of Texas.  To do that , pictures would be nice.  Because I’m not that good with a camera, let me tell you about someone who is:  Google “Wyman Meinzer—West Texas” and see my part of Texas.  Wyman obviously loves that part of the world as much as I do and he can take pictures. 

     I think I’ve been a good ambassador for West Texas, because several dozen people have sent me a link to this video with the comment, “When I saw this I thought of you.”  I am honored.  That’s the kind of guy I am.

                                                   Jim McLaughlin

    

Incident at Seminole Canyon

     In the late eighties or early nineties, Hugh Ruggles and I decided to have a father/son deer hunt.   My son Paul was fourteen and had never been deer hunting.  Hugh’s son Mac was eleven and had only been once or twice.  We decided the trip would be a good time to do some father-son bonding, so we set it up.

     Understand that I am not a hunter—I didn’t get that gene.  I do enjoy getting out in the woods, close to nature with the boys, but I don’t care anything about shooting creatures.  When I go on a trip like this, I keep the coffee pot on the fire, make chili or stew and generally try to make myself useful.  My son Paul, however, thoroughly enjoys all aspects of hunting and I wanted him to have the opportunity.

   Hugh is an avid outdoorsman---hunting, fishing, you name it, and he loves it.  He has all the gear for any kind of trip, in any kind of weather.  He had a trailer built to carry all his gear with a platform on top to carry a four wheeler.  He has a big generator to make electricity and about a hundred yards of heavy extension cord.  That way, he can put the generator way out in the woods so the noise doesn’t disturb us.



Paleface Paul and Candy Mac



     John Cupit, the third father in the group, enjoys hunting, but would rather sit around the camp and drink beer.  He is also a great camp cook.  His stepson, Scott, was eighteen at the time and an experienced hunter.  Scott also packed and drove the van with Hugh’s excess gear in it.  It was amazing how much that boy could get in a van.  The whole crew was easy to get along with and fun to be around.  We all enjoyed the trip.

     Hugh had a 4000 acre deer lease in Val Verde County.  The southern boundary was Highway 90 and the western boundary was the Pecos River.  Some of you will know that the high bridge over the Pecos is there, at the southwest corner of Hugh’s lease.  It is magnificent country---different than Lubbock but still Texas---at its remote and rugged best.

    During the hunt, Hugh got two deer and Mac got one.  Paul didn’t get a shot at a deer, but did shoot a Javalina that charged him out of the brush.  I was proud of Paul.  He stood his ground, aimed carefully and coolly shot the hog in the head.  Many kids his age might have panicked and been hurt.

     I wrote the following poem to commemorate our trip.  I had forgotten about it until recently, when Mac Ruggles, (Candy Mac in the poem), sent it to me.  It is not classic poetry but more like “Lubbock Boy” poetry.  It tells a story and every other line more or less rhymes.  I don’t know anything about cadence or iambic pentameter or any of that stuff.  If I did, I probably wouldn’t try to write poetry.  Too many rules take the fun out of anything. 

Enjoy---

                                                            INCIDENT AT SEMINOLE CANYON

They came from all 'round Texas
To meet on that barren ridge.
Next to the Peco River
A  mile north of the high bridge.

Pancake John and his boy Scottie
Packed in from old San Antone.

The Cabello Kid and Candy Mac
 Rode down from their Kerrville home.

Paleface Paul and Camo Jim came
Over from their place in West U.

A tougher bunch of  cowhands

Never rode for any crew

Cabello built their tent for comfort

Just like a high rise condo
With bedrooms, a fireplace and den,

The finest digs west of Hondo.

Pancake John did all the cooking
Camo Jim gathered the wood.

The other four came to hunt---

They all did the best they could.

The Kid was first out in the morning

As the sun came thru the skylight.
He mounted his trusty four wheeler
Left the carport and drove out of sight.

Candy Mac was chewing on mints

Paul was looking quite pale.
Camo and Scottie were telling lies,
And Pancake was sipping an ale.

Cabello was back in a minute
A buck strapped across his new rig.

Pancake hung it in the cooler
The rest of the gang danced a jig.

The boys were all excited,
They struck out right after brunch
To harvest the king of the whitetails,
And be back in time for lunch.

The Cabello Kid was first to return

With another buck on his cart
He was grinning from ear to ear

He'd shot that buck thru the heart.

Candy Mac showed up a while later
Stuffing butterscotch between his teeth.
He was draging a little four-pointer

And breathing a sigh of relief.

Then the cowboys all heard it---

A sound so harsh to the ear
It froze their brains in mortal pain
And filled their souls with fear.

The sound moved thru the compound
Past the hot tub and across the fountain.
It shattered the peace of the morning.
And echoed back from the mountain.

There was no doubt about the sound

Even Paleface knew that noise.

The dreaded Razoobuc was afoot,

And coming to deal with the boys.

The Razoobuc is mean as an in-law,
And fast as a flood in a ditch.
With horns, claws, and tusks like sabers

An all around bad son-a-bitch.

The boys were not sitting idle

As they braced for the attack.
Scottie was honing his knives;

And Camo was hiding out back.

Cabello and Paleface loaded the rifles
Pancake opened a fresh can of brew.
Candy Mac finished off a fruitcake,
And wondered what else he should do.

The stampede came over the ridge
A-snorting, with blood in their eyes.
They barrelled headlong thru the cactus

O’er the plains and up the last rise.

The cowboy’s fire was deadly

The Razoobucs plunged on ahead.

The herd parted at the last instant

Split by the bodies of the dead.

Candy Mac shot down a dozen,

The Cabello Kid got eleven or so

Paleface picked off nine mean ones,

And Scottie got ten on the go.

As the stampede went into the canyon

And out of sight toward the rear,

Camo Jim came from under the bed,

And Pancake John opened a beer.

The camp was saved from a wipeout

By quick wits and deadly aim.

The cowboys will go on living

But none will ever be the same.

The Razoobucs were too stringy to eat

Their hide much too tough to cut.

The smell would make a strong man puke

If ever he cut open their gut.

The boys just left them 'a laying

And piled their gear on the sand.

Then watched in total amazement

As Scottie put it all in the van.

They rented a room in Del Rio

Not as nice as the camp, but tough luck.

It was better than out on the prairie

At the mercy of the cruel Razoobuc.

They each took an oath of silence

Before they headed back to their homes.

The events of this disasterous trip

Will be buried with their bones.

Now, out in Valverde County

Peace reigns o're the rugged plains.

Except sometimes, when the moon is full

Mournful sounds can't be explained. 

                                                                    Jim McLaughlin

                                                           

Serious Barbeque Number Two

If you take a one and one half inch thick rib eye steak, rub it with garlic, salt, and pepper and pop it on a hot grill over a “one-Mississippi” charcoal fire for about six minutes, then turn it over and let it stay four and a half or five minutes more, you’ll have a great steak. But it won’t be barbeque. The Little League hamburgers or Fourth of July hot dogs are not barbeque, either. They are all “grilled meats”.

From my point of view, and for my purposes in this epistle, barbeque is defined as any meat cooked over low heat provided by a wood fire. Charcoal is a wood product, and will qualify under the definition above, but good barbeque should have the flavor of the wood cooked in and charcoal doesn’t have a consistent taste. I like to think that barbequing was invented to take the less desirable cuts of meat and make them more palatable. That may or may not be true, but, as it’s worked out, most commercial barbeque is done with the cheaper cuts of meat.

They tell me that the word “barbeque” (barbecue is more popular spelling) is from the French. Seems the French fur trappers would split a large animal from “whiskers to tail” place it on a spit, and cook it over a slow fire. Whisker is “barbe” in French, and tail is “queue”, so “barbe” to “queue” became barbequeue. Maybe. The French have been known to take credit, whether or not it is due. Being from Texas, I’d hate to give credit for the invention of barbeque to anyone from outside the state. I'd really like to get the credit up around Lubbock, but Texans were barbequing long before the Comanches let us have the panhandle.  I know the French are good cooks, but I just don’t think they invented barbeque. Maybe they just named it.

The more likely story, in my mind, has to do with a rancher named Benito Quintilla, who, right after the Civil War, established a ranch down in the “brush and pear” country south of San Antonio. Ben was an outgoing and friendly fellow who loved people, and loved to party. Several times a year, he would invite the neighbors over to his place for a three or four day affair, singing, dancing, laughing, eating, and drinking. Depending upon the occasion, Ben would cook chickens, turkeys, goats, pigs, steers, or all the above. He constructed a rock-lined fire pit with an ingenious rack system for this purpose. The meat was suspended over mesquite coals until it was tender and juicy, with the unmistakable flavor of the wood cooked through and through.

Big Foot Wallace, a bit long of tooth by then, King Fisher, resplendent in his Bengal Tiger vest and chaps, and Austin High Sheriff Ben Thompson were always there.  Several other notables of the day were also regulars at Benito’s place.  The whole country heard about the parties, the food, the music, and the dancing. Everyone was anxious to go out to Ben Quintilla’s ranch, which soon became known simply by its brand, the Bar-B-Q.

Out in Hawaii, and all over the Pacific Rim for that matter, the natives have a quaint custom. When they hear that visitors with lots of money are about to show up on a steamship, everybody takes off work and gets ready. They build a fire on the beach and put lava rocks in it and get them red hot. Then they dig a big hole, put the rocks in, cover them with sand and banana leaves, put in a pig (split from barbe to queue), add fruits and veggies, cover the whole thing with banana leaves, and put sand back on top. Next day, when their ship comes in, so to speak, the natives take off most of their clothes, dig up the pig and serve it with rum drinks. They play electric guitars, light torches, and dance the hula until way late at night. The tourist's drink Samoan Fog Cutters, eat the succulent pork, eye the hula dancers, and say, “Boy, Mildred, they sure ain’t got nothing like this back in Little Rock.” They call that a Luau.

On the East Coast, around Chesapeake Bay and on up to Cape Cod, they do essentially the same thing. Here, they let a fire burn down in a pit, then line it with seaweed, add clams, mussels, a lobster or two, corn, onions, and potatoes. They cover it all with seaweed, then dirt, and leave it alone until the next evening. Then the boys and girls show up with blankets, dig up the food, eat and play music. They drink, sing songs, and snuggle up in the blankets until way late at night. They call that a Clam Bake.

At the X.I.T. Cowboy Reunion, up in Dalhart, there are some folks that spend all year gathering chunks of wood, and piling it up on a vacant lot. They get whatever they can find, an old barn door, a mesquite bush stump, some old fence posts, that kind of thing. If you’ve ever been to Dalhart, you know why it takes all year to gather enough wood. Finally, a guy shows up with a backhoe and digs a long trench, like he’s going to lay a water line or something. The ditch is five or six feet deep, maybe two feet wide, and great long-maybe a hundred yards or so. They throw all that wood in the ditch, and set it on fire. Others sack up big chucks of beef in wet burlap bags (we used to call them tow sacks) and when the fire burns down, they throw the meat in, on top of the coals. The ditch is covered with corrugated metal, and that’s covered with dirt. Then everybody goes somewhere and cleans up and leaves the meat to cook for about twenty-four hours. They all get dressed up in tight blue jeans and boots, serve the beef with all the trimmings, play Bob Wills music, drink, eat, and dance until way late at night. They call that a Barbeque.

      I am going to stop now, and save the rest for future episodes. I had thought I could write a bit about the history of barbeque, a few notes about backyard smoking, and finish with a quick tour of the famous, and not so famous, barbeque joints in Texas. There is no way I can do that in one letter. I’ll have to do at least two, but more likely three. I will say something about the rituals and showmanship involved in barbeque cook offs, a bit about backyard barbequing, and a tour of barbeque joints in Texas. I will explore the “pit”. How did it come to be called a pit? Did it get its name from the aforementioned pits in the letter. Does it matter? I will probably tell you about the best barbeque cook I ever met. He cooked a chicken so well that it won best brisket at a world class barbeque cook-off.

     One more thing. Upon reflection, maybe I misjudged the Frenchmen. The three affairs I mentioned in this conversation all had several things in common. One, they slow cooked some type of meat in a pit. Two, a bunch of attractive, healthy young people got together and ate, danced, and snuggled until “way late at night”. Maybe all this has less to do with “barbe”, and more to do with “queue”.  Y'all stay tuned.

Road Trip Number Five---Monterey and Marina

     Back to running the blacktop--there was a mudslide blocking Highway One north of San Simeon, so after we finished the tour at Hearst Castle, we had to backtrack to Cambria, billed as a “Quiet Little Drinking Town with a Tourist Problem”.  We ate wonderful fish tacos at Moonstone Bay, bought tee shirts for the grandchildren and moved over to Highway 101 to avoid the mudslide.  We stayed that night at a non-descript motel in a non-descript town, Salinas.   Early the next morning we left to get back to Highway One and continue our trip.



The bridge at Bixby Creek



    We detoured past Monterey and Carmel and moved south on Highway One over the graceful bridge at Bixby’s Creek on our way to Big Sur.  Wayne and I had breakfast in the redwood trees at a sort of mountain resort Bistro and re-crossed the lovely bridge on the way back to Monterey.  We had to do it that way to see Big Sur and the bridge because of the mudslide down south.  The drive was breathtakingly beautiful and I did not mind retracing our steps.  I have an emotional attachment to that bridge—someone I once cared for deeply had her ashes scattered there.

     We spent the day inspecting the Pebble Beach golf course and clubhouse, carefully traversing the seventeen mile loop, inspecting the Monterey Bay Aquarium and checking out Cannery Row.  Late in the afternoon, we walked out onto fisherman’s wharf and watched as the commercial fishing boats came in from the bay.  We were curious, because you never see anything like that in Lubbock.

A days work in the purse net

     The first boat we watched came in with only one person aboard.  He expertly eased the boat up to the dock and a worker lowered a purse net into his boat.  The captain loaded five fish—King Salmon, we were told—into the net and the worker hoisted them up to the dock.  The fish were dropped into a plastic bin and rolled into the building to be weighed and credited to the captain’s account.  The skipper took a receipt and eased away from the dock—his pay for the one hundred and twenty some-odd pounds of salmon was seven dollars a pound—tough job, fishing.  Of course, he was through for the day.

      As we watched, another boat came in to repeat the process, this one slightly larger and sporting a two man crew—one to do the work and, evidently, one to yell and cuss.  The loud one was the captain and the deck hand turned out to be his teenage son.  The deck hand unloaded seven big Salmon and came ashore to get the receipt.  The captain fumed, chewed the remnants of a cigar, sat on his big butt and cussed his son.   One of these days, he’ll wonder why that boy turned out the way he did.

     After our peek into the world of commercial fishing, we walked the half-mile pier back to the truck and made our way to Marina, a little town up the coast.  There was a decent looking motel on the main drag and it was past Miller time, so we pulled in.  A foreign-looking lady appeared behind the desk if you rang the bell long enough.  She was nice, but I had trouble understanding her.  I wondered about her nationality, and Wayne said, “I guess you didn’t notice that red dot on her forehead?”  I must have overlooked it.

     The lady was reserved and very businesslike until I mentioned the plants outside the office.  Then she came alive and started talking animatedly about all the plants around the grounds.  She took me outside and pointed out her favorites.  I could not understand everything she said, but her passion was obvious.  I had taken the trouble to find something we had in common—a love of plants—and was rewarded for it by gaining a new friend.  She asked where we lived and what kind of plants grew in Texas.  She had never seen a juniper bush.  I assured her that it was nothing special.

     There were interesting looking succulents—cactus-like plants with no thorns—in the beds outside the motel office.  When I commented on them, my new friend with the dot told me to take cuttings if I wanted.  At least, that’s what I think she said.  In the morning, we happened to have an empty half gallon plastic whiskey bottle, so I took some dirt from one of the beds and potted two cuttings from those plants in the cut-down bottle.  We nursed them all the way back to Texas and one of them is growing on my front porch now.  I tend it carefully and it reminds me that even people with strange customs have things in common---and a red dot does not necessarily signify a character flaw.

                                                        

              

                                                                      

Road Trip #4 San Luis Obispo

     I skipped over our visit to San Luis Obispo earlier in the trip.  As a matter of good housekeeping, I need to go back there and fill in the blanks and confess to a quirk in my personality.

     San Luis Obispo is a beautiful place.  The city started a unique practice back in the sixties to encourage more neighborliness among the residents.  They closed a few downtown streets to automobile traffic.  They planted trees, added benches and walkways, and encouraged the residents to  take advantage of the perfect weather and get outside to meet each other.  As the project gained momentum, they closed even more streets and opened more area to pedestrian only traffic, jogging, bicycle trails, and sidewalk businesses. 

     Now, the city pulsates with foot traffic.  Everywhere there are runners, neighbors greeting each other or meeting for dinner at one of the indoor/outdoor restaurants, children playing in little pocket parks as their parents sip wine and watch from nearby benches.  The streets are bathed in dappled sunshine, filtered thru the ever-present Madrone trees.   The only thing more impressive than the quality of life in that little paradise is the price of real estate.

     They say confession is good for the soul, and maybe it is.  I suppose we are all born with personality quirks and, since they are natural, we should not be reticent to discuss these little flaws.  I’m sure, according to Oprah, that if we get it out in the open and talk about it incessantly, it will be all better.  I am not, however, sure that I want my affliction cured.

     I like girls—there, I got it said-- it’s out in the open.  I have, since my teens, been fascinated by all things female.   J. P. Richardson could have been speaking for me when he wrote“…. a pony tail a hanging down!  A wiggle in the walk, a giggle in the talk, Lord it makes the world go round---”.   I love girls, especially pretty, young girls—I cannot resist making them laugh just to hear the music it creates.  I love to watch them wiggle and hear them giggle.  Wayne suffers from the same affliction, but I think I have a more serious case.  Mine has not shown any sign of going away with age—if anything, it is getting worse.

     Given this predisposition for attractive young ladies, which we both share, some of our experiences will make more sense as this narrative continues. 



Nicole



     Back in San Luis Obispo, as we walked along one of the attractive foot paths, a side door opened and a twenty-something vision appeared.  She seemed to be opening the store and gathering supplies and she almost bumped into us as she swung open the door.  I was taken aback, but recovered enough to ask if I could take her picture.  She beamed!

     “Certainly,” she said, as she held the door open, took a deep breath (I love it when they do that), and flashed a thousand watt smile.  I snapped away and she winked and closed the door.  I have the picture, and look at it occasionally, admiring the perfect teeth---and the way her jeans fit.

     Around the corner from Nicole, (I didn’t get her name, but decided she was a Nicole), we ducked into a combination library, book store, art gallery, and coffee shop.  I felt I could use any culture I might pick up there and Wayne had other motives.

     “The bathroom is thru the kitchen and to the left”, a sweet young thing told Wayne, recognizing his obvious distress.   I ordered coffee and engaged the young lady in conversation.  She was appropriately named Angel and was as cute as any button I’ve ever seen.   

     The shop was lined with bookshelves and filled with deep, cushiony armchairs and sofas.  We relaxed a while, read the local newspaper, perused the books on display and idly wondered how they could afford to pay the overhead on such a place.  Then I remembered that two cups of black coffee had cost six dollars and change.  That wouldn’t have been so bad, except I gave Angel a twenty and she took a deep breath and looked up from the register with those big, dark, expressive eyes.   I told her to keep the change.  

                                                                                                                 Jim McLaughlin

   

    



Hearst Castle



Me and Ole Buddy Holly--Growing Up in Lubbock

     I’ve been hearing a lot about Buddy Holly during the last few weeks.  He finally got his star on the Hollywood “Walk of Fame” last September, on what would have been his seventy-fifth birthday.  Since most of you had no opportunity to know Buddy and I did, I’ll tell you about him.  Charles Hardin Holley was born on September 7, 1936, in Lubbock, Texas.  I was born the next week at the Broadview Gin, eight miles west of the little house on Sixth Street where Buddy was born.  Most of the people who graduated from high school with Buddy and me were born in and around Lubbock County and all of us absorbed that country’s values, its work ethic, its mentality and its idiosyncrasies.  One can hardly grow up out there without being molded by the High Plains—influenced by its attitudes, endowed with its creativity.  It was, so far as I’m concerned, the prefect place to grow up.

     I also think the forties and fifties were the perfect time to grow up.  World War Two ended by the time we were ten and the “Korean Conflict” stumbled to a halt before we entered high school.  There was unbounded optimism—after all, this country had built the most powerful military/industrial complex in the history of mankind in only five short years.  We had simultaneously conquered the Germans and the Japanese by simply “doing whatever it took.”  We planted “victory gardens”, did without tires, shoes, gasoline, even sugar in the name of the war effort.  The lesson was not wasted on our class—all you had to do was decide what you wanted, then “do whatever it took” to achieve any goal.  Buddy learned that—we all did.

     Life was simple in Lubbock back then.  I didn’t yet know Buddy, but I’m sure his life across town was similar to mine.  By the fourth grade, I had wheels;  a bicycle which gave me undreamed of freedom and mobility.  My friends and I would ride our bikes up real close to the DDT trucks as they sprayed for mosquitoes.  That way, the DDT fog would hide our legs while we were in clean, clear air from the waist up.  It was neat!  A  Boy Scout friend and I would ride out to Buffalo Lakes and eat a camp-out lunch and ride back—it was only twelve miles.  About the only rule we had was, “Be home by dark.”   What could happen?

     By the time we were in Junior High, we’d ride our bikes or take the bus downtown to movies on Saturday afternoon.  A movie cost five cents admission plus four cents tax—a total of nine cents.  Before or after the movie, we’d usually go to the shoe store next to S and Q clothiers and look at our feet in their X-Ray machine.  We would wiggle our toes and watch our bones move until the salesman ran us off.  Most of us worked—we delivered circulars, carried out groceries, mowed lawns, or sold Ice cream from a big insulated bag that hooked onto our bicycle. 

     High School was much the same—life was more complicated for us but not nearly the complex, dangerous thing it can be today.  Drugs meant cigarettes and alcohol—there was nothing else.  Drive-by shootings were not uncommon--someone would drive by and shoot you the finger.    Security in the classroom was in the capable hands of the teachers.  Girls dressed for school—starched blouses, straight skirts, bobby sox and penny loafers.  They were trim, fresh scrubbed and beautiful, with every hair in place.  Guys wore blue jeans and sport shirts—the football team wore white tee shirts to show off their physiques—the basket ball boys wore sport shirts—they didn’t have physiques.  Most all of us wore our hair in some sort of flat top or crew cut.

     Buddy (I knew him by then) was one of the “Hoods”.  Hoods tended to grow their hair longer, comb it into “Duck Tails”, and wear their shirts unbuttoned almost to the waist.  Buddy was skinny as a rail, but he sometimes wore tee shirts, so he could roll his Lucky Strikes up in the sleeve.  The hoods didn’t cause any trouble, they just didn’t participate much in school activities—sports, student council, Latin Club, that sort of thing.  Mostly, they marched to a different drummer—not wrong, just different.  Buddy was “picking and singing” around town by then.  He and Bobby Montgomery were playing country music at the skating rink and on "The Saturday Night Jamboree" from a hanger at the abandoned World War Two glider base north of town.  Most of us didn’t go out to those places, but we’d hear them on the radio.

     On May 27, 1955, five hundred twenty six people, including Buddy and me, graduated from Lubbock High School.  Two years later, in the spring of 1957, Buddy recorded “That’ll Be the Day”, his first big hit.  Then, before two more years passed, Buddy paid thirty-six dollars to ride an airplane in a snowstorm, and, according to the song, “the music died.”

   All the music did not die.  The other 524 graduates of LHS that night have continued to make music in every field of endeavor known to mankind.  These people are doctors, lawyers, scientists, mathematicians, architects, engineers and teachers.  They are homemakers, entrepreneurs, plumbers, artists, PHD’s, auto mechanics and stock brokers. They went out into the world and paid their dues—they raised families, paid taxes and built careers.  A listing of their accomplishments staggers the imagination and begs the question--was it the time or the place that made this magic?  Was it Lubbock or the Fifties?  Can we ever make it happen again?

     I can’t answer those questions.  I’m glad Buddy finally got his star out there in Hollywood and wish more of our class had the recognition they deserve.  One other thing; it puzzles me that after fifty odd years, I’m the only guy who graduated from Lubbock High School in the fifties who wasn’t Buddy’s very best friend.

                                                                                                             

The Library

     I wrote this last week, just musing to myself.  I did not intend to share it---it is not real funny, but it is real true.  I guess an old Lubbock boy has a right to be sad sometimes, and a need to share his feelings.  In any case, this is how I feel.  I wonder if anyone else feels this way.

     I suppose, even if you live a long and happy life, there are times when you get a little sad.  I do so occasionally.  Sometimes it happens for no apparent reason, just a foreboding of something amiss, a vague fear that some unknown catastrophe is about to affect my life.  Other times, there are good reasons for my depression.

     The cause of my current sadness is not a mystery.  I have three old friends who are now fighting the Big Casino, as cancer was called in another time.  Two of my friends have the pancreatic kind, which is vicious.  The third old friend has several unidentified tumors, attacking various parts of his body.  All three are fighting the good fight and all three are suffering.  None are complaining.  I can only hope, when the time comes, I will be as brave and as tough as they are.

     I say, “when the time comes” because it is sure to come.  Perhaps not the Big Casino, but something, and it will end my life.  I wonder how I will face the end of this mortal life.  I feel like a young soldier going into combat for the first time.  How will I act?  Will I disgrace myself?  Will I fight or will I run?   Am I a coward?  When you get seventy-five years old, thoughts like that are inescapable. At least they are for me.

     It appears to me, as we grow old, we are treated like used books in a public library.  Nursing homes and extended care facilities are our bookcases.  We are all lined up on the shelves, fitted in tightly next to each other.   Our stories are there to be read---some of the stories are happy, some are exciting, some are sad, and some are just boring.  All of us are anxiously awaiting someone, anyone, who will care enough to open our book and read our story.  I wish it didn’t have to be that way.

     Every now and then, the Librarian comes through pushing a cart and gathering books.  The Librarian randomly chooses a book and places it on the cart and moves down the aisle to the next bookcase.  Only the Librarian knows why each book is chosen and where the stories go.  We don’t.  We only know they never come back.

     As we continue to age in these tight little spaces, and more dust settles on our bindings, and more of our neighbors go with the Librarian, a strange thing happens.  We start to hope that, next time, the Librarian will choose us.

                                                                                                                                                                     Jim

                                                                                             

Serious Barbeque--Number One

"What makes you the big shot expert on barbeque, anyway?” That’s a fair question. I am not a big shot expert. The more I learn about barbeque, the more I realize how really amateur I am. The thing that gives me the right to expound my views as an expert from on high is that I have a pencil and a paper.   I will write this down and most of you will read it and assume it is true. The evening news on television works exactly the same way. 

It is one of those bright and glorious spring days that occasionally occur everywhere, but frequently occur here in K-Town on the river. I have a side of pork ribs smoking over a six-Mississippi pecan wood fire on the J. McSmoke, and am writing at my table on the deck outside, absorbing the atmosphere, and keeping one eye (the good one) on the temperature gauge.

Perhaps a word of explanation is necessary.  Six-Mississippi is a measure of the heat of a barbeque fire.  To properly measure the heat of a fire, hold your open hand, palm down, about four inches above the grill when the fire is ready to cook. Count one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, and so on.  When you involuntarily jerk the hand away, you know how hot the fire is.  A one Mississippi fire is right for a steak, two or three Mississippi works for burgers and hot dogs, and cooler temperatures, such as five or six Mississippi, are good for smoking ribs, briskets, or turkeys.  If the fire is nine or more Mississippi, start over, you have let it go out. In my later years, I have found that there is no substitute for a good heat gauge.  It is more accurate and you don’t burn all the hair off your hand.

 The J.McSmoke is my barbeque pit. I have owned many barbeque pits and I could cook on any of them, but I had to replace them with regularity.  They rusted out, usually in a relatively short time, because I lived in Houston.  A pit will last indefinitely in Lubbock, but the Gulf Coast is another matter.  I decided to end all that foolishness and designed and marketed the J.McSmoke, a stainless steel, teak, corian, and brass barbeque pit.  So far as I know, it was the first pit built of stainless steel.  Nothing on it will rust.  It is a beautiful contraption and cooks superbly.  Each was signed and numbered by me as a work of art and sold as a limited edition.  Mine has stood out in the weather for twenty years and still works perfectly.  As with most of my ventures, I put it on the market just as the country slid into a deep recession.

When I say “pork ribs”, I mean baby back ribs---I prefer them to any of the many other cuts out there.  This method will work for any cut of pork ribs with only slight adjustments, but always use pecan wood if you can get it.  Mesquite is good, but the taste is a bit overpowering for the delicate flavor of baby back ribs.  Oak or hickory just doesn’t do much for pork. Pecan lends just the right subtle, smoky flavor.  I don’t want those ribs to get anything over 250°, and I don’t want them to get under 225° or so. I squeezed a little lemon juice on them to hold the spices and then rubbed them down with rib rub before I put them on the grill, way down at one end. The fire is down on the other end, as far as it can get away from the ribs, and it’s small and deprived of oxygen, so it just smolders and smokes. I won’t touch the ribs, except to smear a little molasses or honey over them about an hour before they’re done.

Sometimes I sprinkle brown sugar on them and let it melt, but today I’m using molasses. I have even used pancake syrup. The syrup or sugar forms a sweet crust which accentuates the flavor of the pork.  I don’t turn my ribs or move them. With the fire low, and at the other end, they won’t burn. I just let the smoke cook them for about three or four hours. I know they are done when the bones poke out about a half inch, and the color is a deep mahogany.  At this point, I pull them off the grill and serve them.

As an alternative, cook the ribs exactly as above, but omit the sweet syrup or honey.  Just smoke the ribs until they are done, then pull them and place them on a large piece of heavy foil. Baste them liberally with any good store-bought barbeque sauce, pour it on if need be, and wrap them completely with foil, then put the ribs back on the grill for about thirty minutes, until the sauce is bubbly, but not burned.  They are messy, but, man, they’re good!

The subject of this letter has been nibbling around the edge of my mind for a long time. Considering the intensely personal nature of this subject, I have hesitated to bring it up. There is no doubt that I will offend and possibly lose some friends by writing this. My motive is not to be offensive, but simply to explore the subject, with an eye to shedding some light into otherwise darkened corners. I will attempt to do this by explaining my feelings on the subject, but please understand I am not trying to force you to accept my views. You may agree or disagree, but let’s try to remain friends.

               If you go east of the Sabine River, after you pass through the Boudin and Crawfish country, you will occasionally find a product labeled Barbeque, but beware! I once sampled barbeque in Nashville. Only once. It appeared to be a stringy concoction of greasy pork, vinegar, and tomato juice that can be best described as “Alpo with ketchup.”  I have since learned that whole hog cooking, as practiced over there, takes talent and dedication.  Pork is the only barbeque east of the Mississippi and pulled pork is its highest art form.

            North of the Red River, they sell a passable barbeque in some places, and Kansas City is actually renowned for its smoked meats. Once, when I was there, I visited with the owner of the K.C. Masterpiece Restaurant, a fellow named Dr. Rich Davis. I had asked about a collection of barbeque sauces on display and the cashier asked if I would like to meet Dr. Davis.  I was delighted.

            Dr. Davis and his wife had taken several months off and explored barbeque places in the southeast. They travelled in a motor home from Florida to Texas. He told me how many miles they drove, how long they were gone, and how many different times they ate barbeque, but I don’t remember the numbers. I remember that it worked out to about 2.6 barbeque meals per day for about four months.

     As they went along, they collected any barbeque sauce that was available for sale at the barbeque joints. This collection of sauces is on display in the lobby of his restaurant, and brought us together. Dr. Davis and I spent a pleasant half hour, talking barbeque and drinking coffee. We agree on the basics of barbeque, and we agree on which is the best barbeque served in Texas. His sauce is too sweet for my taste, but he sells several million bottles of it per year, so I guess I shouldn’t knock it.

            I know there is barbeque west of the Rio Grande, but I don’t know anything about it. I always eat Mexican food in New Mexico or Arizona, and let’s face it – there’s no telling what you might eat in California. That whole area, and the rest of the country for that matter, is going deep into the “southwestern cuisine” trend. Everything is covered with an ancho chile sauce, or chipotle glaze, or serrano cream.

            I get a kick out of the menus. They won’t just say “stuffed pepper”, or "fried shrimp". They say, “a roasted fresh poblano chile, filled with a luscious mixture of cheese and plump Fresno raisins, dipped in a yard egg batter and then gently fried in Manteca de Puerco.  This luscious creation is floated in black bean and Angus sirloin chili, drizzled with a sauce combining anchos, chipotles, and sour cream made from the milk of Holstein heifers.” A shrimp is no longer just a shrimp. It’s now a “plump, succulent prawn from the icy Pacific waters off the southwest coast of Tierra Del Fuego”. We all know why they write these flowery descriptions in the menus. You can’t get $17.95 for a chile relleno, or $24.95 for six fried shrimp.

          This is the first segment of what will be a series of articles on Barbeque, with a capital "B".  I will cover the history and  preparation of this art form and tour the state of Texas, sampling the best and the worst.  I will identify my choice for the best in the state and point out some of the worst.  Mostly, I'm just going to have fun with it, and with you.

Road Trip #3--Watsonville, Half Moon Bay

                                                

     Wayne and I were getting into the swing of things—we wore tee shirts, shorts and flip flops.   The trip was fun, the girls were pretty, and the food was good.  Speaking of food, we had picked up some lunch meat, fruit, and cold drinks before we left Kerrville.  We didn’t waste any time when we decided to eat.  I simply swiveled in the seat, opened the cooler and went to work.  Sometimes, we had Mexican Food and sometimes we dined Italian. 

     For the Mexican meals, I would smear mayo on two slices of bread, plop a slice of sharp cheese on one side and two slices of jalapeno bologna on the other, and lunch was served.  For the Italian meals, I used provolone cheese and two slices of salami.  We washed it down with bottled water and followed up with a banana for dessert—that little Hitler Dude took our apples—and all the while we didn’t miss a beat “running the blacktop”.  When told of our meal plan, Wayne’s wife, Ann, predicted we would both suffer from “terminal constipation.”

     As with everything else, there is a learning curve in making these gourmet luncheons.  I used a squeeze bottle of mayo and it took a few tries to learn to dispense the proper amount.  Wayne took the first sandwich I made as he drove down I-10 in high gear.  He clamped down on it and the over-mayoed bologna slipped out onto the center of the steering wheel where all the button controls are exposed.  As he tried to drive with one hand and chase that slippery piece of bologna with the other, mayonnaise smeared all over the cruise controls, worked its way into the radio volume control and automatically activated the GPS machine.



    We were rapidly accelerating, the radio was blaring, the truck was scattering gravel from the shoulder of the road, and a smooth, sexy-voiced English lady was advising us to take the next exit.  The slippery bologna found its way to Wayne’s lap, and then slid down between his bare legs to the soft leather seat.

     Wayne pulled onto the shoulder, coasted to a stop and said, “Gee Whiz Mac, why don’t you go a little light on the mayo next time.  Gosh Darn, I wish you hadn’t done that.”  At least, that’s the gist of what he said.  I didn’t know mayonnaise was that slick.  I’m going to use it to lubricate my garage door opener.  I wonder if it must be Hellman’s, or would Kraft’s work just as well.



I could talk about all the sights we saw



     I could talk about all the sights we saw.  I could tell you of the magnificent California Coast with the deep blue Pacific breaking among the dark, craggy pieces of volcanic rock.   Every vista was more striking than the previous and the beauty of it all was unbelievable.  I could tell you about that and maybe someday I will.  For now, I want to talk about the important things we saw—the people we met and the work they did.  The world they have carved out of this fertile countryside.  The laughter we shared and the feelings we have in common—the fact that, underneath the veneer, we’re all the same.  We are moved by the same impulses.  We march to the same drummer—we laugh and cry for the same reasons—we work for the same goals.

     We stopped at a roadside market in Watsonville, a little farming community near the coast.  There was every kind of fresh fruit and vegetable, plus all sorts of canned goodies.  The bins were sagging with bounty—strawberries, dates, lettuce, bok choy, Brussels sprouts, onions of all description, several varieties of oranges, almonds, walnuts, apples—you name it--all fresh and polished and beautiful.  Everything was grown within a few miles of this market and most of it was picked just hours ago.

     On shelves above the produce, jarred and canned olives, sauces, fruits, exotic blends of spices, every foodstuff imaginable strained for our attention.  I picked a cart and started loading things to take home—garlic stuffed olives, exotic hot sauce, sleeves of Gilroy garlic, Italian sweet peppers.  

     I heard Wayne in the background—his infectious laughter, his boyish exuberance ---“Yeah, we’re on a kind of bucket list road trip!  We came to see this country before we get too old to enjoy it.  I’ve known that old man over there since high school and we’re just running the blacktop, seeing what’s over the hill!”  The shopkeeper was delighted!

     When we pushed our cart to the checkout stand, the shopkeeper rang up our purchases, then threw in a sack of navel oranges, a sack of white onions, and a sack of Brussels sprouts.  No charge—he just wished he could “run the blacktop” and see the country with an old friend.

     We had already been, earlier that morning, to Castroville, the artichoke capital of the world, and to Gilroy, the garlic capital.  We took pictures under the giant artichoke in Castroville, and the whole town of Gilroy smelled like an Italian restaurant.

     Wayne pulled over at a little Beach Park near Half Moon Bay— there are many such parks along the coast highway—and we stopped to eat lunch.  We could no longer resist the carton of strawberries we bought in Watsonville.  We sat on a bench, stared out at the ocean and ate strawberries like they were apples.  The fruit was that big and twice as sweet—we also nibbled on rat cheese and candied dates, then finished with fresh clementines—a feast, perfect with the ocean view, bright sunshine, the crisp sea breeze, and an old friend.  We were “running the blacktop” as Wayne is fond of saying, but we smelled the roses as we went along.