Then Came Bronson.....

     Back in 1969, there was a television series about a lonesome vagabond who rode a motorcycle around the country and fought the establishment.  It was called “Then came Bronson…”  I don’t remember much about the series, but I do remember that everyone who knew Bronson Evans felt the stories were about him.  Even the name was right.

     Bronson Evans lived the kind of life that every man is capable of living, but few actually achieve.  Only very rare people have the courage to make the hard choices and live with the results as Bronson did.  He looked at every problem from the standpoint of “What is right?”  He followed with, “How do we get there from here?”  He did this in every aspect of life---business, home, family and social.

     Bronson lost a hard-fought battle with Cancer earlier this year.  Even in the depths of despair and pain, he retained his sense of humor.  He and his life-long friend, Hugh Ruggles, flew to a clinic in Germany in a last ditch effort to fight the disease.  On the plane home, Bronson was drugged and listless, hunkered down in his seat, only partially conscious most of the time.  As the plane started its final approach, the flight attendant passed from seat to seat, thanking her customers for flying the friendly skies.

    The attendant addressed Hugh, assuming Bronson was asleep.  “We want to thank you and your father so much for flying Delta and hope you will make your next trip with us.” She said.

    As she moved on down the aisle, Bronson, apparently not asleep, quietly murmured, “If you ever tell a soul about this, Hugh, I’ll break your damn legs!”

     I’ll remember Bronson—I’ll remember the Barbeque Cook offs, the motorcycle trips, the Fish Fries, the Saturday morning breakfasts at Hill Country Café.   I’ll remember the quiet intelligence and the quirky sense of humor.  And I’ll think of that lonesome motorcycle rider, crossing the graceful Bixby Creek Bridge on the Pacific Coast Highway, all by himself…..

                                                                       Bronson Evans

      Melvin Bronson Evans passed away on January 30, 2012 at his home on the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas, with his wife and children at his bedside.  He was sixty eight years old.

     Bronson was born on January 7, 1944, the only child of the late Melvin and Catherine Evans.    He grew up with an innate sense of honesty and a built-in dislike for authority.  Because of this, his young life was a constant adventure and he “pushed the envelope” in everything he did.  These traits only intensified as he matured.

     After graduation from Midwestern State University, he accepted a position with Campbell’s Soup Company.  Even though he was an incredibly hard worker, he was psychologically unable to play “corporate games.”  He realized, early on, that he would always have to be self-employed.  Bronson opened a series of bars and restaurants in Wichita Falls and then Houston, eventually culminating in the Abby Inn Restaurant and Bar, an establishment still remembered by many who lived in Houston during the seventies.

     Bronson met, courted, and married a beautiful and free-spirited young lady, Karen Laws, during this period.  The marriage surprised many of his friends, but it endured and resulted in two children, the loves of their lives, Phillip Bronson Evans and Catherine Elizabeth (Libby) Evans.  These children added a whole new dimension to Bronson’s life and brought undreamed-of happiness.  He worked at being a dad with the same focus and intensity he demonstrated in everything else he pursued.  He was a fantastic father and was absolutely devoted to his family.  He showered them with unconditional love.

     Before the children, Bronson and Karen dabbled in various bar and restaurant businesses in Houston and Austin, including the Texas Opry House in Austin.  Finally, they decided the restaurant/bar business was too unstable and returned to Houston to open the first six locations of Sound Warehouse.

     Inevitably, Bronson chose to leave the corporate environment and go into something he could control, without outside interference or meddling.  Working from a small, rented house in the Spring Branch area of Houston, he established what would become the very successful American Student Travel Company.  When the company was purchased by a competitor, the Evans’ retired and moved to Hunt, Texas, where they designed and built a home at the confluence of the North and South Guadalupe Rivers.

     Bronson had fun throughout his life and loved his family, his friends, and fly fishing, in that order. He lived in Wichita Falls, Dallas, Austin, and Houston before moving to the Hill Country.  He joked that he “had all the friends he wanted”, but he made new friends wherever he went.  It was his nature, just like the unbelievable energy and innate honesty.  His range of friends included Hippies in Austin and Republicans in Hunt.  He valued those friends equally and was loyal to them to a fault.  Even the Republicans.

     Even though Bronson was an only child, in addition to his immediate family, he leaves behind five “brothers” who will cherish his memory: Bobby Schaaf, Johnny Stafford, Terry Worrell, Tommy Johnson, and Hugh Ruggles.

     I wrote this obit for Bronson, and will forever be grateful to his family for allowing me to do it.  It was not easy to do anything for Bronson---he did things for others, but felt uneasy if others did anything for him.  He was special, but people passed him on the streets and never knew.  Those of us who did know will always remember.

    

Too Much Time Staring at the the Comanche Moon




"It is just a good thing that pesky redskin didn't have four arrows"

   

     To keep my home from fading into the patchwork of mundane homes along the streets here in Kerrville, I recruited the help of my friend, R. G. Box, the artistic Village Blacksmith of Lubbock County.  R.G. suggested I put  some Big Horseshoes in the front yard---he's long on  Big Horseshoes right now.  I told him I wanted something less elaborate and more appropiate.  Like arrows.   I wanted great big arrows like Indians shoot.

     We discussed the problem and settled on three each, thirty foot arrows, buried in the ground at a sixty degree angle.  They needed to look like they were shot by a great big Indian from over by the water tanks across the valley.  I insist it was a Comanche.  No sense getting shot at by some Mama’s Boy Indian, like an Alabama-Coushatta or something.

     Mr. Box made my arrows right there in Lubbock---he is a superb artist with black iron and I brought them home in a trailer attached to my pickup truck and planted them in concrete in my front yard.  Box made a sign for me.  It says, “Look Out For Great Big Indians.”  I bolted it on the stone wall next to the driveway.  Now, if you drive down the street in Kerrville and see a mundane house, you’ll know I don’t live there.

My Lawyer insisted on this and R. G. Box threw it in for nothing

      Every year about this time, I get all involved in Springtime.  Doing all the chores to make a presentable yard is time consuming.  The hummingbird feeder has to be taken from storage and cleaned and refilled and hung in its usual position; the hedges have to be trimmed and weeded; the flower beds have to be dug, turned, and mulched; the lawn has to be mowed, trimmed, and fertilized.  The big arrows need weed-eated around.  The shade trees need to be rested under and iced tea must be consumed.

      All this is demanding labor and I arrange my schedule to allow a big chunk of time to accomplish these necessary tasks.  I hate to do things piecemeal.  I want to get at the job and stick with it and get it over with.  I usually pick a Thursday afternoon in April to get it all done.

      I had the foresight, a few years ago, to devise a master plan for my yard.  I decided to do it in what they call zero-scape.  You probably think I meant say xeriscape.  No, I said what I meant.  Zero Scape.  Let Mother Nature do the work.  I will drink the iced tea and rest in the shade.  I chose this route because of the time constraints I have suffered since retirement.

     To start with, I must go to the gym and work out early each day to stay healthy enough to do yard work.  Then I have to read the paper and check on the Letters to the Editor and see which old person is upset about what.  Then, some days, I have coffee with Tom and Pat at Starbucks or over at the Coach’s Family Bakery.   We need to analyze the idiotic actions of our children and trade recipes for chicken pot pie.  In the afternoons, I have to go to the HEB and walk up and down the aisles trying to remember why I went there.  By the time I get home, I’m just too exhausted to work in the yard.

     This year, Springtime is tomorrow.  I’ll start with the hummingbird feeder because that’ll take the most time.  Next year, I think I’ll clean the sugar syrup out of there when I take it down and maybe it won’t get all gummy and stuck together like it does when left in the garage all winter.  I think I’ll put off all that other stuff.  The arrows don’t really need trimmed around.  Indians didn’t pick manicured spots to shoot at.  Mowing and trimming and digging and mulching and weed-eating and all that can wait a while. I didn’t do it at all last year and my yard looks just fine.





Road Trip #12 Going Rouge on the River

State of the Art white-water rafts at Grant's Pass

  

     I have been so carried away with Texas History, Barbeque and Family members that I have neglected any of you who are vaguely interested in the road trip.  Sorry about that.  I'll try to keep the updates a bit closer together in the future.  If you remember, Wayne, Ron and I returned from Crater Lake by way of a fish hatchery.  The story continues the next morning.    

     On Sunday morning, we had our usual breakfast at Ron’s house, hot coffee, canned peaches and cottage cheese---good “stick to your ribs” food.  Today, we will ride the Rogue River rapids, along the same route taken by John Wayne and Katherine Hepburn in the movie, “Rooster Cogburn,” which supposedly took place in Oklahoma.  I think Marilyn Monroe and Robert Mitchum rode a raft down this same stream in 1956 in “The River of No Return,” but I could be confused.  With Marilyn in a tight, wet, blouse, I didn’t see much of the background.

     There is a good reason movie producers like to film along this river.  It doesn’t look like Oklahoma. The scenery is spectacular.  The river cascades through rapids in narrow canyons and broadens into a peaceful stream in the wider gorges.  There are magnificent trees and mountains on either side, but no high lines, fences, electric wires or other signs of civilization to spoil the view. Some few vacation homes dot the surrounding hills, but the area is too remote for much development and must look very like it did one hundred years ago.

     When we first spoke of “riding the rapids,” I had visions of four or five of us, with a guide, paddling for dear life in a small canoe or rubber raft through impossibly swift, narrow stretches of rock-strewn white-water.  As with many things now days, that image was off-target.

     At the headquarters in Grant’s Pass, we signed all sorts of hold-harmless legal documents and picked up the reservations Ron had made for our trip. The office was combined with a gift shop containing every imaginable type of tourist paraphernalia, from sweat shirts and gimmie caps to highball glasses.  All were marked with the “Hell Gate” logo and apparently made in that pueblo outside Beijing.  After a shopping spree (tee shirts for the grandkids), we walked about a hundred yards to join dozens of tourists in line at the loading platform.  Several custom made boats idled in the river at the dock.

     The boats were aluminum, maybe nine feet wide and forty feet long, each made especially for touring people through the rapids on the Rogue River.  There was a short bow section, with a low, but wide, windshield to protect the entire width of the boat from overspray.  Behind this windshield, bench seats filled the open hull all the way back to the captain’s bridge, which was on a small platform at the stern with its own windshield and all the controls for three Chrysler Marine engines.  The engines were mounted side by side beneath the platform, each churning out three hundred fifty horsepower, a total of over a thousand horsepower per boat to simply haul tourists up and down the river.

     These boats were shallow draft affairs, with nine bench seats designed to accommodate six adults each, for a total of fifty-four passengers.   A captain and two crew members operated each craft, which was secured to a floating dock.  We walked to the boats on these docks and stepped down into the space between the seats.  Passengers filled each boat in an orderly fashion as directed by the Captain over a self-contained public address system.  When all fifty-four of us were seated, the Captain recited a memorized speech interspersed with stale jokes, pulled out into the broad river and turned upstream.

     The trip was fantastic!  We rode the river comfortably through the verdant forest, surrounded by sheer rock walls and majestic mountains.  The water was sky blue, clean, cold and swift.  When the stream widened, the current slowed but remained fast enough to splash cold water over the windshield, refreshing the passengers and reminding us that we were outside in one of the most beautiful places on earth.  The Captain pointed out a bald eagle in the top of a very tall tree and otherwise entertained us with a running commentary over the speaker system.

     After about eighteen miles, our boat passed a makeshift landing dock and came to the Hell Gate, a narrow passage with some of the most violent rapids on the river.  We inspected the gorge, which was impassable for our craft, then turned back and moved downstream to the landing dock we had passed.  We disembarked there and walked up the hill to a massive, comfortable-looking lodge where we were scheduled for a champagne brunch.  Wayne and I couldn’t wait---Ron’s canned peaches and cottage cheese were delicious, but after the morning’s trip, we needed something a bit more substantial.



Just a little old country place for breakfast with Ashli



     Brunch was served outdoors on a gigantic, heavy-beamed covered deck that overlooked the river.  Our server was a beautiful young lady named Ashli---about twenty, with sparkling teeth, bright eyes, and athletic shape---fresh and bubbly, a real cutie.  She brought us our choice of champagne, orange, apple, or cranberry juice, milk and coffee, or all the above.  The drinks were followed by toast, biscuits, pancakes and eggs any style, cream gravy, French toast and three kinds of potatoes.   Bacon, ham, sausage---link or patty---or corned beef hash was available. We had our choice of a tray of fresh-baked pastries, lovely fruit, whipped cream, jams and jellies---you name it and Ashli would find it.

     I, of course, was fascinated by Ashli.  She had grown up in Spokane, but her Washington accent was not as pronounced as I would have expected.  She was going to college in Eugene, on an athletic scholarship.  She played softball, and evidently played very well.  She had played at Centenary, in Shreveport last year, but chose to move closer to home this year.  I’m sure that time in Louisiana added the soft, musical quality to her speech patterns.   Every northern girl should be required to spend one year in Louisiana before she is turned loose on the male population.

     After a very satisfying brunch, we boarded the boats for the trip back to Grant’s Pass.  To keep the trip interesting, since we were, of necessity, returning along the same route, the Captain would rev up the engines and spin the wheel, seemingly almost capsizing the boat.  The resulting 360 degree turn thrilled everyone and scattered several gallons of icy water over the occupants.  Our fearless leader repeated this maneuver several times, usually without warning, to the delight of most of the passengers, especially the children.  I wondered if I really should have had that last biscuit and sausage with cream gravy.

      We were back at Ron’s house in Medford by three pm and decided it was a great time for a nap.  We had dinner plans for that evening and Wayne and I would both renew old friendships.

Hell's Gate!  Really, how many tickets do you think they would sell if they just called it the entrance to the rapids?

    

Texas History #4 Peace in the Valley after the Battle




The Battle of San Jacinto   by Henry Arthur McArdle

 

     After the battle, squads were sent out to gather any Mexican survivors.  Santa Anna was picked up by a patrol about noon the next day, April 22, 1836.  He was hiding in the brush, dressed in linen pants and a blue jacket, much as a common soldier.  He did, however, have on red wool slippers and a silk shirt.  When questioned on the way back to headquarters, he claimed to be a cavalry man.  As they rode into Houston’s camp, the Mexican officers all stood and the troops called out, “El Presidente.”  Houston had captured the Napoleon of the West.  They met under a large oak tree where the wounded Houston was resting.

     There are conflicting stories as to why Santa Anna was spared by Sam Houston.  The rebel army was determined to do away with him, for simple revenge, if nothing else.  It was rumored that Santa Anna flashed a Masonic distress signal to Houston and it was recognized and honored.  Others believe that opium was the reason.  Houston was in severe pain with his shattered ankle and his doctor administered opium for relief.  Santa Anna, scared and very nervous, asked for and received some opium from the doctor.

     Houston, in a drugged state of mellow forgiveness, wanted freedom for Texas.  His prisoner, becoming more mellow by the moment, wanted to continue living.  They continued negotiations for several days, under the oak tree and under the influence.  Houston was necessarily very careful.

     Sam Houston knew that General Filosola and 2500 Mexican soldiers were only a couple of days march away.  He also knew that the very competent General Urrea was near, with more troops.  Either force could wipe out Houston and his ragged little army.  Sam was under no illusions.  He had won the battle at San Jacinto by pure old-fashioned luck.  One more battle, any battle, and the Republic of Texas was doomed.

     Houston realized that it was very important to keep Santa Anna alive.  If Sam allowed him to be killed, the Mexican army would make short work of the revolution and the dream would be over.  Houston, in a stroke of genius, or perhaps again just pure luck, asked the Mexican Dictator to order Filasola to withdraw all Mexican forces from Texas.  Sam Houston knew General Filasola would not surrender his army, but thought he might obey an order to withdraw.  Santa Anna, anxious to please, sent the order. 

      Filasola, unimaginative and rigorously military, did as he was ordered.  He also ordered Urrea and the others to withdraw and, after a lot of grousing and second guessing, they complied.  General Urrea had no great love for Santa Anna and wanted to simply attack the Texians and finish the revolution.  General Filasola eventually prevailed, but he and Urrea remained bitter enemies for years afterward.  The Mexican armies started withdrawing, marching toward Matamoros.

     The Mexican Government quoted International Law, and immediately disclaimed any agreement signed by Santa Anna while in captivity or under duress.  The Mexican Caudillo and Sam Houston blithely ignored this and drafted, then signed, the Treaties of Velasco.  Texas claimed these treaties to be lawful and valid, while Mexico considered them worthless scraps of paper.  Claims and counter claims which grew out of these documents, along with the annexation of Texas by the United States, eventually resulted in the U.S./Mexican War of 1846-1848.

     If Santa Anna had simply stayed in Mexico City, and sent Filasola, or better yet, General Urrea to Texas to put down the rebellion, Texas would have never gained its independence.  Santa Anna’s ego robbed Mexico of Texas.  During subsequent tenures as president of Mexico, Santa Anna would preside over the loss of California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, etc.   All in all, he cost Mexico two thirds of its original territory.  Of course, he did have some help.  There are still valid questions as to whether Mexico is capable of self-government.

     Even though Mexico did not recognize Texas Independence, political unrest in Mexico City kept the Mexicans from launching a counter-attack against the Republic of Texas.   If the United States annexed Texas, Mexico warned, war would result.  Meanwhile, Mexico ignored the bankrupt little Texas republic as it dealt with its internal problems.

     Emily D. West, as she was known in Connecticut, stayed at Morgan’s point long enough to fulfill her contract, then, in 1837, filed for a passport to return to New York City. She stated on the forms that she had lost her “free papers” during the battle of San Jacinto, and had been at the battle until the Texians won and released her.  These facts were attested to by Major Isaac Moreland of Galveston, who fought under Houston at San Jacinto. 

     The Mexican officer who kidnapped Emily on April 16^th, before the battle, may have assumed her name was Emily Morgan, or she may have used that name while in Morgan’s Point.  The whole Emily West/Morgan story was unknown before 1956.  That year the journal of William Bollaert, an Englishman, was published and discovered by historians.  He was told the story of Emily Morgan in 1842, just six years after the battle, by a fellow passenger while on a steamship cruise.  The passenger said he heard the story directly from Sam Houston.

     With this revelation, historians scoured the records and found two references to Emily.  One was the one-year indentured servant contract between she and James Morgan and the other was her application for passport mentioned above.  There may be journal entries by some of the participants that mention her, but I am not aware of that.  So far as I know, the journal of William Bollaert, the indentured service contract and the passport application are the only evidence for the whole Emily Morgan story.

     Emily West/Morgan went back to New York City in 1837 and disappeared for over a hundred years.  When she was re-discovered in 1956, amateur historians quickly took up the search and made her an integral part of Texas history.  The fact that she was of the light color known back then as High-Yellow lent credence to the story that she was the original Yellow Rose of Texas.  And, truthfully, who knows.  The song was first sung during that time frame and could have easily been a celebration of her great beauty.  Oh, one thing--about the intriguing little mole on Emily’s stomach, just to the left of her navel.  I made that up.

"General Santa Anna!  Ah, indeed! Take a seat, General; I am glad to see you; take a seat."  Painting by William Henry Huddle

Near Final Barbeque Article-----Good Barbeque is Not Hard to Find in Texas

            There are those who will tell you that I hit Sonny Bryan’s on a bad day,  Mikeska’s too late in the day,  Rudy’s too early in the day, or Cooper’s on the wrong day. All that may be true, but to earn and keep the title of “Best Barbeque in the State of Texas and Thus the World,” according to Jim McLaughlin, there can be no “bad” days. For a barbeque place to be that good, they must be absolutely excellent on their very worst day.

            

          “They must be absolutely excellent on their very worst day”.  That’s what I said and that’s what I meant.

            The only place I know that gets close to that description is Goode Company Bar-B-Que in Houston. I have found it impossible to get a bad slice of meat at Goode Company, no matter the hour and no matter which location. The Block Men, who do the slicing, are long-time employees that have worked up thru the ranks and are artisans of their craft.  They are looked up to by their fellow employees and are responsible for serving a high quality product, keeping the line moving and the waiting time short. They don’t get excited, they take pride in their work, and they do it well.

            On a typical day, Goode Company (in every location) has a line from about eleven a.m. until about one p.m. It starts outside, snakes in past the open drink boxes full of iced-down soft drinks and a great selection of cold beer, and slides on past the Block Man. You pick up a drink and order from the Block Man: brisket, spicy pork, sausage, pork ribs, or Sweetwater duck. He’ll slice it quickly and pass it down to the next fellow, who will add your choice of sauce, potato salad, jambalaya, beans, Cole slaw, jalapeno cheese bread, plain bread, or a homemade bun. Everything is absolutely fresh and all the bread was baked that day. You can add pickles, onions, jalapenos, and maybe a slice of the world’s best pecan pie. You move past the cashier, pay up, and find a table. The whole process takes less time than getting a menu at most restaurants.

            I usually have a sliced beef sandwich on jalapeno cheese bread, with sauce on the side. On a recent visit to Houston, I went by Goode’s to check my memory. I did not believe everything could have been as good as I remembered.  Sure enough, my memory was faulty. It was better than I remembered.

I know a lot of you are going to disagree with this, and swear by your favorite places, and rant and rave and stomp and holler. Do us both a favor. Arrange to get to Houston, and go by any Goode Company location and eat whatever you want. You’ll know that I’m right, whether or not you admit it. Please don’t dare try to convince me that some other place is better if you haven’t eaten at Jim Goode’s.  After eating at Goode Company, if you truly believe you know of a place which serves better barbeque, please let me know.  I’ll try it with an open mind.  I’m nothing if not flexible.

If you look into the history of the best barbeque places in Texas (and thus the world), you will discover a lot of similarities in their background.  Many began as a meat market or grocery store and started making sausage and/or smoking barbeque to augment their income.  They opened in the late thirties or forties, when times were hard and folks scratched for every dime they could get.  Most were family affairs, held together by grit and determination.  In these ways, the history of barbeque parallels the history of Texas.  Gritty, determined people, who would rather die than quit, squeezing out a living with limited resources, and hanging on until prosperity finally came.  They all paid their dues.

Jim Goode paid his dues, perhaps in a later time frame than many others, but with no less difficulty. Times were still hard in the seventies and Texans still scratched for every dime they could get. He was a burned-out commercial artist in his thirties when he sunk everything he could beg, borrow, or steal into a closed up location of Hickory Hut.  The place was on Kirby Drive, just off the Southwest Freeway in Houston and badly in need of a coat of paint.

  Jim worked long hours, nursed the business, perfected his recipes, and gradually built up a following among barbeque nerds.  He told me once that many nights he slept on a table in the dining room to watch the fires and not over-cook the meat.  He also said, “Mama sometimes burned the beans.”   Jim’s son, Levi, takes care of the business now and wouldn’t think of sleeping on a table.  The business is far past that point.  But Levi will do, just as his dad, “Whatever it takes.”

I covered several thousand miles on this search, and investigated hundreds of places---big fancy ones like “The Salt Lick” near Driftwood, and little joints like “Hat Creek” in Pettus.  I sampled brisket down the street from the Rios Boot Factory in Mercedes, and at the H bar C in Brownfield. (Motto: Eat here even if it kills you-we need the money.) In addition to the places in Lockhart, I visited world famous places in Elgin, Luling, Taylor, and all the neat spots along the “Barbeque Belt” southwest of Houston. Regardless of what I may have said above, ALL THIS BARBEQUE IS GOOD AND MOST OF IT IS EXCELLENT.  When you get a chance, go eat some. It’s the Texas thing to do.

I don’t know when I’ll get back to anything else about barbeque, but one day I will finish up the Houston cook-off, and I’ll tell you about some of the other places I visited. Meanwhile, I have been ignoring Texas wines, interesting architecture, country music, and special recipes that I want to share with you. Outside barbeque, my other food passions include, but are not limited to, Mexican food, chili, hot sauce, peach cobbler, pecan and apple pie. I like all these done from scratch, but I’m not going to start writing about any of them real soon. Like barbeque sauce, beans and potato salad, they are art forms within themselves, and I may not live long enough.

Goode family early on in the Barbeque business.  Last time I saw Jim, he'd shaved.  I'd guess this to be late seventies.  Levi is the little boy in front.  He's the Head Honcho now.

 

Uncle John Burleson

      Uncle John Burleson was a farmer.  That’s all he knew and all he ever did to make a living.  I called him Uncle John because that’s what I grew up calling him.  I never got old enough to be comfortable calling him John and I don’t think I ever will. 

     Uncle John was not a big man, probably no more than five feet eight and 140 pounds.   He always dressed in blue bib overalls and a khaki shirt, buttoned all the way to the top.  The sleeves were always buttoned, too.  He wore a cheap, woven straw hat with a wide brim and a lot of built-in air holes for ventilation.  When his hat wore out, he bought a new one at Levine’s.  They didn’t cost much.  I never saw him dressed any other way.

     In the front bib pocket of his overalls, he carried a tin of Prince Albert tobacco and a package of papers, so he could roll his own cigarettes.  In his later years, after it became so much trouble to roll his own, he sometimes carried a package of Camels in there, but he never really liked the redi-rolls, as he called them.  I suspected they were too expensive for him to feel comfortable smoking.

     Uncle John loved to laugh and did it almost constantly, even when he was talking.  And when he was talking, he was cussing.  I can’t say it was cursing, because Uncle John didn’t curse---he cussed.  Cussing is just language---cursing carries negative feelings.  He cussed unconsciously, a habit evidently formed when he learned to talk.  Uncle John would talk and laugh and cuss all at the same time.  That was the only way he knew.

     He would say something like, “That silly-assed hired hand, ha-ha, got on that damned old John Deere tractor and, he-he,  backed the sum-bitch off, ho-ho, into the deep end, ha-ha, of the damned silo, hee-hee.  Wonder he didn’t, ha-ha, break his damn fool neck.”

     Uncle John was married to Aunt Zelma, one of my dad’s six older sisters.  She was a slender woman, cute and freckled.  She was short of beautiful only because of her prominent McLaughlin nose.  Their only child was Billy John, one of my ninety-three first cousins.

     Uncle John moved to Lubbock in the late thirties and found work on a farm for Dr. Sam C. Arnett.  Later, Uncle John became a tenant farmer for Dr. Arnett.  Some folks would call him a share-cropper.  His deal with Dr. Arnett included the use of a modest house on the farm, where Uncle John and Aunt Zel lived.  We visited there often and I thought Uncle John must be very wealthy to have such a nice home.

     When I was five or six years old, we always admired Uncle John’s cotton crop as we drove out to see him.  Driving out 19^th street, when you saw perfect, transit-straight, weed-free rows, with healthy cotton a couple of inches taller than any in the adjacent fields, you knew you were looking at Uncle John’s farm.  There was no better farmer.  We knew that and Dr. Arnett knew it.  Uncle John farmed for him until they both retired.

     I said that all Uncle John could do was farm.  That is not true.  He could play a fiddle about as well as Bob Wills.  I remember many Saturday nights when my parents gathered with Dad’s brothers and sisters at Uncle John’s to have a big hoedown.  Uncle John and a few others played and everyone danced in the big living room.   The men slipped out on the back porch and drank beer and the women got bent out of shape over it.  We children, all cousins, played in the adjacent dining room.  Mother, or one of our aunts, checked on us periodically.

     One spring, on a beautiful West Texas morning after one of those violent panhandle thunder storms, Dad and I drove out to see if Uncle John had suffered any damage.  His cotton was gone.  The hailstorm had evidently centered on Uncle John’s farm.  The damage stopped scarcely fifty yards into the neighboring fields but it took out all of Uncle John’s cotton.

     “What are you going to do, John?” Dad asked.

     “Well, heh-heh, I don’t know, Paul.  I’ll have to do something.  But look around.  Just look around.  Ain’t this the prettiest damn day you ever saw?”

     A couple of years later, Uncle John got his left hand caught in the power take-off on his tractor and lost all four fingers.  Aunt Zelma managed to get him into the car with his bloody hand wrapped in a towel.  She learned to drive a car that day, on the way to the hospital in Lubbock.  Aunt Zel was just like everyone else back then.  She did what she had to do.

     The doctors saved his thumb and split his palm into two stubs which gave him some dexterity in the use of that hand.  With a lot of practice, he learned to roll his own cigarettes.  A couple of years later, I heard he cried when he discovered he could still play the fiddle..

     When Uncle John was ready to retire, Dr. Arnett donated the farm to Lubbock Christian College, which is now called Lubbock Christian University and has almost two thousand students.  The campus is on 19^th street, just inside Loop 289, and not nearly as remote as it once was.  If I had to guess, I’d say that bronze statue of a chaparral in front of the main campus building is just about where Uncle John’s living room used to be.

     Uncle John and Aunt Zelma retired to a little house in Vashti, Texas.  They lived about a half mile from my parents, who also retired there.  When I’d visit Mom and Dad, I’d always go over to see Uncle John.  The first time I went to see him there, Uncle John said, “Come on, Jim-Boy.  Heh-heh, I want to show you something.”

     He ushered me out the back door of the dimly lit little house.  He had dug out all the grass and now the entire back yard from the house to the fence was a vegetable garden.  The rows were perfectly straight, the plants all robust and healthy, and not a weed in sight.  String beans climbed the perimeter fence.

     As we stepped out the door, Uncle John unconsciously wrapped his knarled left hand around a well-used hoe and started to cultivate around the base of his plants.   I have never seen a more beautiful garden.  We visited over an hour and all the while, Uncle John was unconsciously tending his garden with that razor-sharp hoe.  When I left, he was grinning and cussing, almost hidden between the squash and the okra.

     About a year later, I visited my parents and they told me to go over and see Uncle John.  He had cancer, was bedridden, and not expected to last much longer.  I did not go. 

      I did not want to see my Uncle John, sick and emaciated, helpless in bed.  It may be selfish, but I wanted to remember him healthy, dressed in blue bib overalls and a khaki shirt, grinning and hunting weeds in his garden.  Saying, “Damn your hide little weed, I got you now, heh-heh-heh.”