Sunday, July 29, 2012

Guacamole, Plain and Simple


This looks about right--maybe needs one more serrano.
     Perhaps I skipped over the guacamole too quickly in the Enchilada article.  The method I outlined, just avocado, salt and pepper, was called “Butter of the Poor” in my favorite Mexican cookbook—one called, “The El Paso Chile Company’s Texas Border Cookbook,” by W. Park Kerr and his mom, Norma.  A friend, Carlos Vacquero, gave it to me many years ago and I have used it almost religiously since.  I do not, however, prefer their guacamole recipe, which contains, yuck, Miracle Whip.  I evolved my own recipe, using theirs as a base.  I do it this way:
    Peel and seed three or four ripe avocados and cube them into ½” cubes, and put them in the bottom of a mixing/serving bowl.  Peel three cloves of garlic and squeeze them into the bowl with a garlic press.  Throw in a third of a cup of finely chopped onion, 2 tablespoons chopped cilantro, and salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.  Stem, seed, and finely chop two Serrano peppers and throw them in.  Squeeze in the juice of one lime and mix everything with a fork until it is uniform.  Mash some of the avocado with the fork as you stir.  If you like tomato in your guacamole, and most people do, peel, seed and finely chop a small ripe tomato and add it last, so it doesn’t break up too much with the mixing process.  Taste and adjust seasonings—you might want to add a third Serrano chile, perhaps some lime zest, or more salt.  Check the texture also.  Some people like to mash the guacamole into a smooth paste.  I like mine chunky.
      Take a generous piece of Saran wrap and push and smooth it down on top of the Guacamole and up the sides of the bowl, carefully sealing the dip from any chance of exposure to air.  Throw the pit away, or put toothpicks in it, suspend it in a glass of water, and grow an avocado tree.  Do not plop it down in the middle of the guacamole, because it will not keep the mixture from turning brown, no matter what your mother said.  Chill the dip for no more that a few hours, stir to freshen and serve with drinks and tortilla chips, or as a side salad with enchiladas.
     I know old habits are hard to break, so put a pit in the middle of some left-over guacamole and put it into the fridge overnight.  By morning, the only green part left will be under the seed, where the air didn’t get to it.  As my friend,  Ken Black says, “Stick with me, kid.  I’ll put you under the Big Top.”
Lubbock classmates from Class Of 1955 at Buddy Holly Show last summer.  From left, back row:  Paul Sikes, Jim McLaughlin, Tom Stoner (American School of Mexico City, sometime early in this century).  Seated, from left: Bev Sikes,(Odessa High school, class of '87) Ann Humphries Ratisseau, Pat Stanley Stoner, Wayne Ratisseau.  Note: We all have on a pair of Buddy Holly glasses, the style he copied from me during our junior year.  This picture has nothing to do with the story, except to show that we have a lot of fun--at our age, we better.  In the background, from the far left, I see Tommy Davis, Frank Williamson, Chuck Key, and Roy Turner.  There are two lovely unidentified ladies there also, but they appear much too young to be in our class.

Friday, July 27, 2012

The Whole Enchilada


These enchiladas are rolled, not stacked.  Do NOT nibble that little red chile.
       My friend, Norman Hanks, and I spent months pounding the pavement in Houston in search of the perfect Chile Relleno.  We established criteria for judgment, chose a frame of reference, grid coordinated the city, and set out to find the perfect Chile Relleno.   It took eight months for us to reach a split decision.  We still sample rellenos at various places, twenty years later.  The journey turned out to be the destination.
      Regardless of what other opinion you may hold, Norm and I are smart.  We picked Chile Rellenos.  We knew better than go stomping around looking for the perfect enchilada.   Enchiladas are Mexican Soul Food, and as such are as varied and unusual as the terrain of Mexico and the several lands she has subdued by occupation, such as Texas, New Mexico, and Ohio.  Every enchilada is different and all of them are good.  Some are infinitely complex and others are disarmingly simple.  I never met an enchilada I didn’t like.
      My “Macco-Encho-Lados” are not the perfect enchilada.  They are good enchiladas and deserve respect for that, but the very best enchilada is ever-changing.  The most nearly perfect enchilada on a Thursday night may be chicken with tomatillo sauce and queso fresco, served with martinis at Harry’s Bar in San Miguel de Allente; on Friday night, Enchiladas del Norte with margaritas at Forti’s in El Paso; Saturday night, Lone Star beer and a Tex-Mex Special with picadillo, fried eggs and cheddar cheese at the Last Concert in Houston; then Sunday morning, the breakfast enchilada with poached eggs, chipotle hollandaise, lacey tortilla crepes and Champagne at the Pink Adobe in Santa Fe.
     The Nite Owl Café in Lubbock buried spicy hamburger meat and melted cheddar cheese enchiladas under a layer of steaming Wolf Brand Chili, covered the whole thing with cold, crisp tossed green salad and two little round sweet Italian peppers.  Years later I discovered they were casabel chiles.  In the fifties, at three am, those were the best enchiladas in the world.
      Enough—here’s what you need:
                                    Macco-Encho-Lados
One icy cold margarita on the rocks as you cook—recipe below.
6 fresh corn tortillas                 2 cups of cubed skinless, boneless chicken breasts
¼ cup raisins                             1 cup chopped sweet onions
¼ cup pecan pieces                  1 can mild, green enchilada sauce
1 cup shredded Monterrey Jack Cheese---or more
    This recipe will make a generous serving for two, but it will easily feed three, or even four with side dishes.
         Preheat oven to 350.
Method:
1.      Put about ½ inch of cooking oil in an 8 or10 inch black iron skillet over medium high heat. Drop in a tortilla, allow it to fry for about 15 seconds, and, using tongs, turn it over for about 15 more seconds, remove it before it becomes crisp and place it on a paper towel.  Cover it with a second paper towel.  Repeat the process with all the tortillas.  Properly done, this makes the tortillas soft and pliable.  Leave them stacked on a plate sandwiched between paper towels and set aside.  Keep warm. (Do not be tempted to use flour tortillas.)
2.      The chicken breasts should be cooked and diced into ½ inch cubes, or shredded.   It makes no difference how you cook them.  Sometimes, I boil them with onions, celery, carrots, garlic, a bay leaf, oregano, salt and pepper, then strain and freeze the broth for future use. You may fry the breasts with Cajun seasonings, use left-over rotisserie chicken, or grille it on the barbeque pit.  Each of these methods makes a subtle difference in the final product, but all are good.  Choose your favorite.  There is no necessity that it be all white meat, only that it be fresh, cooked, and diced or shredded.  I usually do these enchiladas when I discover left-over chicken in the fridge and wonder what to do with it.
3.      Empty the oil from of the iron skillet, wipe it out with a paper towel, and pour in the can of enchilada sauce.  I use HEB mild green canned enchilada sauce.  Old El Paso makes a good one also.  A red sauce works very well with these enchiladas, if you prefer.  Keep in mind that much flavor is lost with canned sauces. No store-bought sauce is as good as a homemade enchilada sauce, but the canned ones are undeniably convenient.  We are not trying to be Diana Kennedy here, we're just fixing supper.   Heat the sauce to boiling, and reduce to a low simmer.
4.      Arrange the ingredients in separate bowls on a work space adjacent to the cooktop.
5.      For stacked enchiladas:  Place a 13” x 9” Pyrex cooking dish adjacent to the heated sauce.  Put  1/4 cup of sauce in the bottom of the dish and spread it around to make a spot for the first two tortillas.  Using tongs, dip a tortilla into the sauce, flip it to cover both sides and put it into the Pyrex dish.  Do this quickly, lest the tortillas become too soft and tear.  Do the same with the next tortilla. (If you’d rather, simply place the tortilla in the dish and spread a large spoonful of sauce over it.)  Stop here and look, so we know we are on the same page.  There should be a 13” x 9”  Pyrex dish on the counter with two tortillas smothered in sauce equally spaced on the bottom.  The oven is preheated and other ingredients are waiting nearby.
6.      Cover each tortilla with a few onions, some chicken, a few raisins, some of the pecans, and top with a generous amount of shredded cheese.  Vary the amounts of each ingredient according to your taste.  Dip two more tortillas in sauce, place them on top of the original two and repeat the process.  Add the third tortilla, dipped in sauce, to the top of each stack, and pour the remaining sauce over all. Scatter the remaining chicken, onions, raisins, etc., over the top.  Finish with , again, a generous amount of cheese.
7.      Place the Pyrex dish in the oven and cook for twenty minutes or so, until everything is heated through and bubbling,  and the cheese is melted and starting to brown.
8.      While the enchiladas cook, peel and seed two ripe Hass Avocados and put them in a bowl.  Add a bit of garlic salt and pepper and mash them with a potato masher.  Place a mound of shredded iceberg lettuce on a plate, leaving room for a stack of enchiladas, and top with ½ of the avocado mixture.  Repeat with a second plate.
9.      Remove the enchiladas from the oven when they’re ready and use a spatula to put them on the prepared plate, next to the avocado/lettuce.  Add a dollop of sour cream and sprinkle some chopped cilantro over, if you like. Serve immediately with iced tea, margaritas, cold beer, red or white wine, or even a cold glass of milk.
     If you prefer rolled enchiladas, use a smaller Pyrex dish.  Put a sauced tortilla in the dish, add the fillings, and roll the first enchilada.  Push it, seam side down, to one end of the dish.  Repeat the process with the others, fitting them tightly into the dish.  Scatter the remaining ingredients on top and bake as above.  This recipe will easily make eight rolled enchiladas.  Simply prepare a few extra tortillas.
     Refried beans, Spanish rice, or other sides work well with these enchiladas, but we usually eat them as I described, sometimes with a fresh jalapeno and/or sliced onion on the side.  The guacamole is an art form of its own.  Use the basic recipe, or add chopped onions, lemon or lime juice or zest, Serrano or jalapeño peppers, chopped tomatoes, Tabasco sauce, or anything else you like.  Do not be afraid to experiment.
     I also make these with a red chile sauce.  You can buy it in a can, as with the green sauce, but I much prefer my own which is complicated, but absolutely worth it.  Basically, I buy assorted dried chiles, seed them, reconstitute them, pulverize them, and simmer with spices over a low heat.  The resulting sauce is wonderfully complex and makes great Enchiladas del Norte, a simple and delicious dish with three ingredients---tortillas, sauce, and queso fresco.  
     I picked Monterrey Jack cheese for this dish, but any cheese you like may be substituted.  All of them are good.   If you want, add corn or other veggies to the filling.  Chopped hard-boiled eggs add a nice twist.  Kick up the heat by adding chopped jalapenas, either fresh or pickled.  Imagination is very helpful when making enchiladas.
     Oops!  Almost forgot the Margarita recipe:  In a cocktail shaker, shake 3 oz. Patron Silver Tequila, 2 oz. Cointreau, the juice of one lime and the juice of one lemon with ice.  Split between two ice-filled, salt-rimmed Margarita glasses and enjoy.  I find that 4 oz. of tequila seems to be required for the second batch.  Strange….
A proper Margarita on the rocks, this one made with gold tequila  instead of the silver, which I prefer.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Boy, Is My Face Red

Typical Doctor's Car
    
     If you look closely at my face, you might notice it is red.  Not a little embarrassed pink, as if I had broken wind in church, but an angry, splotchy scarlet, as if I had a facial with sulfuric acid.   I bragged about what little time I’ve spent with doctors during my lifetime.  Now that I’m old, they are getting even.
     I had a little spot on my cheek, a sort of mole.  It was benign, just a small brown spot that I lived with all my life.  One day, I cut it while shaving and it refused to heal.  I decided perhaps I should “get it looked at.”
     “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” the doctor said.
     “No sir, I have never spent a lot of time in a doctor’s office.   If I’m going to buy a Mercedes, I want to drive it myself.”  “No, Sir” would have been just fine, Jim.  Why keep talking? You’re gonna tick him off.
     “Take off your shirt and let me have a good look.  That thing on your cheek is a Squamous Cell Carcinoma.  I’m going to have to dig it out with a scalpel.  Let me see what else is going on with you.”  He inspected me front and back and told me to lie down on his exam table.  “I counted twenty-eight actinic keratoses lesions on the left side of your forehead.  No sense counting any more.  No sense trying to freeze them off, either.  We’ll treat you with 5% Fluorouracil.”
     I was astounded.  I came in here with a little spot on my face and now I have a Squamous, several lesions, and a whole bunch of little keratoses.   The actinic kind.  I’m sure that’s the worst kind.
     “Level with me, Doc.  How long do you think I have?”  I knew enough about medicine to know what carcinoma meant.
     “Well, I’ll get that Squamous Cell Carcinoma out of there today and the other treatments will take a month, maybe two.  You will not be a pretty sight during treatment.”
     “Hell, I’ve never made my living being pretty.  Heh, heh…   Why should I worry about it now?”   Jim, Jim, Jim.  Just shut up.
     The Fluorouracil 5% Topical Cream treatment consists of applying a face cream twice each day.   First I thoroughly wash with facial soap and blot dry, then wait ten minutes.  The instructions insist that rubber gloves be worn for protection and the hands thoroughly washed after handling the cream.  That should have been my first clue---they’re worried about casual contact with my hands and I’m smearing that stuff on my face.
     I read the directions several times.  “When Fluorouracil 5% Topical Cream is applied to a lesion, a response occurs with the following sequence:  erythema usually followed by vesiculation, desquamation, erosion, and reepithelialization.”  That’s good to know.
     I am in my ninth day of treatment now and you can see how well it is working.  I expect you will read about me in the paper.  They’ll say, “When the medical examiner looked at the body, he said, ‘It is a mystery.  He didn’t leave a note, but it’s the worst case of dermacide I ever saw.’ ”
Typical Patient's Car--unretouched photo
Small Disclaimer:  I do not have a grudge against doctors.  Far from it.  Some of my best friends are doctors, and one is a favorite nephew. I admire them.  Most spent years in school, mortagaged their future to the hilt, and postponed their lives until they completed the necessary education.  Now the government is changing the rules faster that the medical industry can react.  To have any future at all, a young doctor has to take aim at a moving target and hope for the best.  I hope they all get big Mercedes' to drive on their day off.  If they ever get a day off.    JPMC
                                                                                    
    

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Road Trip #20--Continuing adventures at the Ant Hill


This is Morher Nature's World.  She just loans it to us.  To fish in.
     This was my second trip to the Ant Hill.  Two years ago, James and Neil invited my grandsons, Ben and Ian, and me up for a fly fishing clinic.  We camped out up here and each boy had his own expert guide to show him how and why to do things with a fly rod.  The boys caught enough trout to feed us and their eyes still get big when they talk about the trip.  They will never forget the experience---it has colored their view of life and given them a glimpse of a world they might never have known otherwise.  I will always be grateful to James and Neil.
     Since I was an “old hand” at the Ant Hill, I took it upon myself to show Ratisseau around, while James and Neil unloaded the Land Cruisers.  Our campsite was in a clearing on a level bluff, about fifty feet above the meandering stream that dominated the valley.  There was a crude fire pit, nothing more than a small depression surrounded by sizeable rocks, with some leftover firewood stacked nearby.  I recognized some of the firewood.  It had been dragged up by my grandsons, two years ago.  This place, as beautiful as it is, does not suffer from a lot of traffic.
     I took Wayne down the hill to the “facilities.”  Thirty yards away from the camp, back in the woods, was the most welcome sight of the morning.  Ingeniously mounted across two fallen logs was an open and inviting commode lid.  No toilet, just the seat and lid.  Our hosts had the foresight to attach the white contraption there, with the lid permanently raised and rested against a healthy pine tree.   All refuse fell safely below, between the logs which supported the seat and into a sloped little depression.  The shape and slope of the depression allowed for flushing to be done by Mother Nature, during the frequent spring showers.  With her infinite wisdom, she also provided a convenient broken limb at just the right place to hold a roll of toilet paper.
     Mother Nature was upset about something.  The wind was getting stronger.  The three fishermen were anxious to get into their gear and decrease the trout population.  Since I didn’t get the fishing gene, I busied myself setting up camp, making a small fire for coffee, and arranging and staking down the lawn chairs.  I anchored the work table and set up the pantry as I watched my companions practice a time-honored ritual.  Dressing for battle.

A master, outfitted for the battle, at work.  The other masters were downstream.
     Fly fishermen have very specific duties to go through before they ever wet a hook, or, I guess, in this case, flip a fly.  First, they must get dressed.  Blue jeans and tee shirts won’t cut it.  All three of the fishermen stripped down to their long johns and stepped into khaki-colored waders, a sort of waterproof overall with built-in boots hanging from long suspenders.  I watched as each of my friends very carefully and seriously adjusted the length of the suspenders and tested the feel of the boots.
     A specially constructed shirt followed the waders.  It was also khaki-colored, with long sleeves and assorted pockets of many shapes and sizes.  The pockets were scattered around and fitted into various unlikely places, such as on the inside part of the sleeve or outside the shoulder.  Fabric overlays concealed mesh inserts, probably for ventilation.  A long pocket covered the entire lower back of the shirt, with openings on either side.  I could readily see that you wouldn’t be able to pick up one of these shirts off the shelf at the local Dollar Store.
     The boys then layered on a light-weight, sleeveless vest with a dizzying array of additional pockets and compartments; some fabric, some mesh. Secured mostly by Velcro strips, with some old fashioned snaps or buttons, these pockets contained all sorts of necessities for the serious trout fisherman.  Cushioned fabric areas on each vest allowed an assortment of hand-tied flies to be attached so that they could be inventoried and placed into service with a minimum of effort.
     The final accessory, the crowning achievement, was, of course, the hat.  Each hat was unique, individual and fitted to the size and shape of the owner’s head and personality. In the wind today, all would need to be tied in place.  The hats provided additional storage for more inventory of feathered flies, each held in place with its tiny hook.  The number and variety of hand-made flies seemed to be a point of pride for each fisherman, and they were treated with the reverence and respect that a decorated soldier places in his combat ribbons.
     A nine foot, custom-built fly rod, fitted with a state of the art reel, completed each outfit.  The rods, as well as many of the flies, were all carefully hand made by our companion, Neil McMullen.  The rods bore his signature.
     Mother Nature apparently had a serious case of PMS.  The wind only increased as the day wore on.  We heard that this same wind was feeding wildfires on the Arizona/New Mexico border, not far south.   It hampered our cookout at the Hallmarks, and was showing no sign of abatement.  Fly fishing is difficult on a still day.  I could see no hope with the wind as it was, but the boys were not the least bit dismayed.  They couldn’t wait to get into that creek.
     The water was deep and rushing almost violently down stream, fed by a late and unusually heavy snowmelt.  Beavers had complicated matters by constructing two dams which widened the creek and made wading more difficult.  Even so, James caught three brown trout and Neil caught two.  As hard as he tried, Wayne didn’t land any, but all were excited when they came back to camp to wait out the wind.
     I did some exploring while they were fishing.  Down near the “facilities,” I discovered some gouges, actually claw marks, on a tree, about eight feet up.  A bear had evidently discovered the “signs’ left in the latrine and decided to mark his territory.  He was more than welcome to it. I would not contest him for his space---he could have the whole thing, commode lid and all.
     The wind got worse as the day wore on.  The fishermen went back later in the day, but it was impossible.  We retired to camp and cooked a campfire dinner.   Neil cooked fried potatoes with onions and James pan-fried the trout.   It was wonderful---I had forgotten how good campfire food is, especially when McMullen and Collins cook it.


Dutch oven cherry cobbler by the apprentice boy.

     I cooked a cherry cobbler in the Dutch oven.  James brought two cans of cherry pie filling and turned them over to me as we prepared supper.  He remembered a similar cobbler I made two years ago.   I made pie dough with flour and Crisco, mixed some cinnamon into the pie filling, and layered the ingredients in the Dutch oven.  I nestled the oven into the edge of the fire, and put hot, glowing coals on top.  In about thirty minutes, Neil suggested I check the cobbler.  Any longer and I would have burned it, but it was excellent, even if I do say so.
     As we sat around the fire after dinner, I couldn’t help but think about our surroundings and reflect on my lifetime.  The little fire cast a shimmering light into the faces of four old friends, telling stories and remembering a total of three hundred years of life experience.  There were bears in the surrounding woods and beavers had built two dams in the nearby creek.  We were isolated, far from civilization, in a place that has changed little in the last thousand years.
     I feel privileged.  A fifties comedian, Brother Dave Gardner, said, “Everything you ever did in your whole life has brought you to this place at this moment.”  He called that “Hard Sayings,” but I don’t think it’s hard at all.  I grew up in Lubbock, with friends like these.  When I reflect on that, I realize I am the luckiest of men.
The acknowledged masters, Collins, left, and McMullen working on scrambled eggs and bacon.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Face on the Barroom Floor




     

By this time each day, several bushels of culture have settled down on the High Plains.  Photo courtesy of Rick Palmer, Amarillo, Texas
      Many of you are unaware that Lubbock is the center of a vast area of culture.  Artists and writers, musicians and poets pass over Lubbock with regularity, going from New York to Los Angeles, or Miami to San Francisco, and back.  With all this culture floating around and permeating the air in Lubbock, I was exposed to worldly literature and classic poetry at an early age.
     In 1959, Tex Ritter recorded an album titled “Blood on the Saddle”.  One of the tunes on the album was “The Face on the Barroom Floor.”   Tex recorded the ballad in poetry form, using his unique and magnificent voice.   The only accompaniment was a rinkey-tink player piano in the background.  The finished piece is poignant and dramatic, truly a work of art.  My heart had just been broken by the love of my life---I forget her name---and the sadness of the work resonated with my mood at the time.  I quickly committed the poem to memory and still recite it occasionally, usually after a few sips of good whisky and a lot of prompting.
     I will include the poem here, in essay form, with apologies for any little deviations from the original. I’ll italicize the poem and leave my comments in regular font, so you won’t get confused about who’s talking.  If you want to skip my editorial comments, you can get a better feel for the poem if you read it through, without breaking it up.

T’was a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there, which well-nigh filled Joe’s Barroom, on the corner of the square.  And as songs and witty stories drifted through the open door a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.  “Where did it come from?” Someone said.  “The wind has blown it in.”  “What does it want?” Another cried, “Some whiskey, rum or gin?  Here, Toby, seek him if your stomach’s equal to the work.  I wouldn’t touch him with a fork.  He’s filthy as a Turk.”  This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace.  In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place.  “Come boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd.   To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.”

“Give me a drink, that’s what I want.  I’m out of funds, you know.  When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.  What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.”

     John Henry Titus probably wrote the poem.  He published a version of it in the Ashtabula, Ohio, “Sentinel” in 1872.   It is said that Titus wrote over 1800 poems, but this one is the only one to become famous.   It was claimed in 1887 by Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, an actor, who published a version in the New York “Dispatch.”  Some say the setting was the “Corner Bar” on Union Square in New York City, but D’Arcy claimed it was Joe Smith’s Bar at the corner of 14th Street and 4th Avenue in New York.  Some of you who live in New York could let me know if Union Square is located at 14th and 4th, which would help clear up the location.  Now, the vagabond has finished his drink:

There, thankee; that braced me nicely.  God bless you one and all; Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call.  Give you a song?  No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out, and my lungs are going fast.  Say!  Give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do---I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.  That ever I was a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back.  Give me another drink.
“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame---Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame; Five fingers there, that’s the scheme, and cork and whiskey too.  Well, here’s luck boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

      Old Tex does a masterful job, setting up the story and allowing the drunk to take over the saloon.  He came in begging for a drink, now he’s demanding a full glass.  He has decided there is more whiskey here for the taking, so he starts to confide in the group, certainly not overlooking the landlord.

“You’ve treated me pretty kindly, and I’d like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.  As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, and, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.  I was a painter---oh, not one that daubs on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas and was bidden fair to rise, and gradually, I saw the star of fame before my eyes.  I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, “tis called the ‘Chase of Fame.’  It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name.

      Those of you who know me will remember that I was a painter that “daubed on bricks and wood,” back then.  That may well be one reason the story had such appeal for me.  Tex has his audience hanging on every word.  And now, the plot thickens:

“And then, I met a woman---now comes the funny part---With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.  Why don’t you laugh?  “Tis funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me.  But “twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.  Boys, did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you’d give, with a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?  If so, ‘twas she, for there never was another half so fair.
The face of Edna Juanita Davis on the floor at the Teller House in Central City, Colorado.


      In the Teller House, in Central City, Colorado, there is a painting of a beautiful woman on the barroom floor.  It was painted by an artist named Herndon Davis in 1936.  He had been hired by a group to paint scenes of early Central City at the opera house and had been fired for “artistic” disagreements.  Mr. Davis decided to leave something for the committee to “remember him by.”  After the bar closed at midnight, a bellhop named Jimmy Libby held a candle and Davis did an oil painting of his wife, Nita, in the center of the hotel barroom floor.  Herndon Davis finished the portrait at 3:00 am, but did not sign it.  His wife, Edna Juanita Davis was at home in Denver, 1323 Kalamath Street, at the time.  Back to Tex’s story:

I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, of a fair haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.   Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise, said she would like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.  Well, it didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown my friend had stole my darlin’ and I was left alone; and ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.
That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile, I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while.  Why, what’s the matter friend?  There’s a teardrop in your eye.  Come, laugh like me; ‘tis only babes and women that should cry.

     The owner of the Teller House decided to preserve the portrait Davis had done, and someone associated it with the old poem, which, by then,  had three different names.  John Henry Titus apparently named his original work “The Face upon the Floor”, a name that D’Arcy adopted. Later, a music publisher called it “The Face on the Barroom Floor” to escape copyright problems and someone else called it “The Face upon the Barroom Floor,” possibly for the same reason.  There were several lawsuits over the work.  Let’s get the poor guy another drink---

Say, boys, if you give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad, and I’ll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.  Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score---You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.
Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that might well buy the soul of any man.  Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture---dead.

     Tex’s rendition of the poem is outstanding.  Hank Snow recorded it in 1968, but his version is second or third fiddle when compared to Tex.  I expect that Burl Ives could have done a decent job with it.  If you’d like to hear the poem, both Tex and Hank’s versions of the work are on this computer---just Google the title.  Hoards of tourists have seen Herndon Davis’s work on the floor of the Teller House, and many believe that the story took place there.
     Lubbock has been growing as a cultural center, thanks primarily to several good people who are giving back to the community.  I would like to cover some of that culture here later.  Oh,  one other thing---about the girl who broke my heart all those many years ago---she knows very well that I haven’t forgotten her name.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Road Trip #19 The Fabled Ant Hill



Chain Saw sculpture across from Collins' home.  Grandson, Ben, is not part of sculpture


         
     As James Collins put the finishing touches on his world-renowned barbequed ribs, Ann opened the bar for a thirsty bunch.  I say Ann opened the bar, because the kitchen island was spread with the finest of everything.  I’m talking MacAllen Single Malt Scotch and Maker’s Mark Hand Made Kentucky Bourbon.  I’ve known James a long time and I’m not saying that he wouldn’t buy expensive whisky like that—I’m just saying he wouldn’t buy it on purpose.  Trust me, Ann bought it---or his broker or someone else gave it to James.  James is not much for “frills and extras,” such as high priced coffee, much less whisky.   (Let me share another little nugget of information—Scotch whisky is spelled without the “e”.  Other whiskey always includes the “e”.  Look in your bar.)
     It was difficult not to feel very important that night.  Ann and James went all out to make everything perfect for our visit.  Neil was there---Manon, his lovely child bride, was still in Texas and would be here in a couple of weeks.  I think Neil may have come early to help James entertain us.  However they worked it out, there was little room for improvement.  Wayne and I thought seriously about staying a couple of months.
     At a few minutes before six the next morning, Wayne, James and I knocked on Neil’s front door.  The crisp mountain air carried the unmistakable aroma of sausage and biscuits.  Neil let us in and hurried back to the stove to finish his gravy.  James grabbed a loaf of light bread and led us out into Neil’s back yard.  Less than thirty feet from the kitchen door, the Gunnison River rushed by.  James threw in a couple of slices of bread and we watched trout fight over them.  These trout were over two feet long, and were treated as “house pets.”  We fed the entire loaf and watched them tussle. 
     The Collins’ live six months of the year in Fredericksburg, Texas, and the McMullens spend a like amount of time in Wichita Falls.  After the spring thaws, both couples move up to Gunnison for the summer.  It is a tough life, but someone has to do it.  James is very careful to cut his Colorado time to less than six months.  Six months and one day would qualify him for state income tax here.   James and Neil obviously did a lot better planning their lives than I did.
     Neil spread out breakfast---eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, scratch biscuits and cream gravy.  We had coffee and orange juice or milk.  As our friend, Robert Benton, was fond of saying, “The Queen of England don’t eat no better than this.”
     We convoyed out of town, with Wayne’s Ford sandwiched between the Toyota “Land Cruisers” that both Neil and James drive.  If you are thinking of a place in the mountains and need a four wheel drive vehicle to get into the back country, do yourself a favor.  Bite the bullet and buy a Land Cruiser first.  James tried several other ( less expensive) modes of transportation before he settled on the big Toyota.
     About an hour out of town, we turned off the pavement onto a long, straight, all-weather road.  It quit being straight pretty soon, but was wide and well-maintained and we could easily average about forty miles per hour.  After thirty miles, we arrived at a primitive-looking ranch headquarters.  The owner was a friendly fellow named John Judson who had been an officer on a U. S. Navy Submarine earlier in life.  When it came time to retire from the service, he took a map of the country and located the area farthest from any ocean and came up here to buy a ranch.  He stays snowed in about four months per year, but the setting is beautiful, and he says the summers are well worth it.
     We parked Wayne’s Ford at the ranch headquarters, and paired off in the Land Cruisers.  From this point on, we needed the four wheel drive vehicles.  In the next ten miles, we would zigzag back and forth over the continental divide, climb to almost 10,000 feet, and find our camp ground, next to a pristine creek at the fabled “Ant Hill”.  You’ve probably never seen four more excited old men.


This ain't no step for a stepper.

     Six miles from the ranch headquarters, we hit our first snag.  The trail—it can’t be called a road now---passed thru a thick aspen grove.  The area had been plagued by high winds for several days and we were obviously the first people to pass through this spring.  There was a ten inch diameter aspen tree blocking the road.  There was no other route.  If we wanted to get to the Ant Hill, we had to remove that tree.
     While the rest of us stood around, scratching our heads and wondering what to do, we heard Collins cranking a chain saw.  He came around the big Toyota, revving the saw to a fever pitch.  In less time than it takes to tell it, Collins had cut the tree into three pieces.  We rolled the center section out of the way and left the ends where they lay.  Neil explained that the U. S. Forestry Service would have a crew up here later to clear the roadway.  We were simply here too early.  Up ahead, we could see several more aspens across the road, but they seemed smaller than this first one.
     We repeated the process seven more times in the next half mile, then, with chain saw fuel running low, we came upon what appeared to be a fir tree.  Perhaps it was some unfamiliar species of pine, but it was an evergreen and it was gigantic.  The trunk was a good twenty inches in diameter where it crossed the road. 

Getting hooked up


     James managed to nurse the saw through the big end of the tree.  We tried to roll the tree out of the way manually, but it wouldn’t budge.   Neil and Wayne made one more cut while Collins and I went back to the tail end of the Toyota and pulled out a chain and a nylon tow rope.  We hooked it up to the tree as James moved a lever on the console to put the Land Cruiser into four-wheel drive.  Then he simply backed away from the tree until the chain was taunt, and got out and checked all the connections and asked us to step back.
     We got away from the chain, knowing that it would do serious damage if it broke.  James eased backwards, and the Toyota squatted and took hold.  Limbs cracked, the chain creaked, and the tree started moving.  James pulled it free of the woods and out into the trail.  Moments later we used some aspen saplings as levers and rolled the trunk off to the side.  The trail was clear.  We stowed all the gear and continued toward the clearing ahead.  I sat there, in air conditioned comfort, listening to a fifties CD and breathing in the luxurious aroma of leather seats, while I marveled at the ingenuity of mankind.  Four seventy-five-year old men cleared a trail through the woods, removing obstacles that would have thirty-somethings turning back.  Of course, thirty-somethings are not very patient and most of them can’t afford really good Japanese equipment.


O. K., O. K.   It might have not been quite twenty inches in diameter, but it was big and heavy!

     There were a couple of more saplings across the path, but James, with an air of contempt,  simply ran over them.  It was no trouble with the vehicle in four-wheel mode.  About four miles later and we topped a rise and peered down into a lovely little valley.  A clear mountain stream meandered through the center and off to the left stood a strange looking mound, with steep sides and a little flat rock on top.  It looked exactly like a giant Ant Hill.  It was just past the ten-thirty in the morning and the wind was already brisk, but what a great place to be.
View of the trout stream from the Ant Hill Camp



    






Friday, July 13, 2012

Well, if that's not a Kroc!


A nice $12 million addition to a great little town
     Every weekday morning at six am, I go to the Kroc Center to do what I call a “workout."  The exercise room there would make an NFL team proud.  I stretch a bit, and push on some machines and pull on some others, then mount a recumbent bicycle and briskly ride six kilometers. 
     I like to ride unit number twenty-two.  It is one of four almost identical units, all lined up with flat screen televisions mounted right in front.  I bring my ear plug speakers and watch Gretchen Carlson do the news.  I figure if I must hear all the disturbing and disgusting news, I would rather hear it from a nicely matured former Miss America, wearing a very short dress.
     Last week, at my usual 6:45, I strolled over to do my six kilometers on unit number twenty-two.  There was a guy on my bike, pedaling along as if he owned it.  He draped over on all sides.  The poor seat was completely enclosed---it had disappeared.  Units twenty-one, twenty-three and twenty-four were all vacant, but this fifty-year-old fat guy was smothering my bike.  He appeared to be there for the duration.
     I reluctantly mounted unit number twenty-four, but it just wasn’t the same.  It didn’t feel right.  As I pedaled along, listening to Gretchen, her voice was drowned out by shouts from the new guy.  He had his ear plugs on and was in his own private little world, slowly pedaling and shouting at the television.  “Atta boy!  Give him hell!”  He said, as Michelle Malkin attacked the current administration.  “Good work!  Don’t let him get by with that crap!”  He let go of a handlebar and shook his fist.   I continued to pedal as Lard Butt shouted encouragement to some swimmer on the sports news, then he laughed long and loud at something only he understood. 
    
     Next morning, I got there early.  At 6:30, when he came in, I was innocently pedaling along on MY bike.  Lard Butt grumbled as he wiped down and mounted unit number twenty-one and began to argue with the television.  The following day, when I got there, Lard Butt was smugly loping along on my bike, waving his middle finger at someone high up in our government.  A few minutes later, he shrieked so loud that I thought Gretchen must have uncrossed her legs and flashed him.  If so, even though I've been watching for it all season, I missed it.
     I thought about the situation.  I need to get my head on straight.  I realize that this man has as much right as I do to ride number twenty-two.  From all appearances, he needs the exercise more than I do.  I’d guess him to be about fifty pounds on the wrong side of three hundred, and he doesn’t carry his weight very well.   
     Mrs. Kroc built this place so people like us, Lard Butt and me, would have a nice, well-equipped place to take care of ourselves. A place we probably couldn’t afford otherwise.  If  I must ride a specific machine, I may just have to adjust my timing.  I must be willing to share that machine.  Why should I get all bent out of shape just because another old fellow comes in and tries to improve himself?  At least, he’s not sitting home, feeling sorry.  He’s out doing something.  Even with such a long way to go, he’s working at it.   He's trying.
     Now, I just get on whatever machine is available, and to tell the truth, I can’t tell much difference.  This morning, as I dismounted after my ride, Lardy looked over and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  I guess we'll get along.  Anyway, now I'm after the rotten dude who's getting my parking place.
     Many of you may not have heard about the Kroc Center.  Ray Kroc built the McDonald’s Hamburger Empire.  After he died, his wife, Joan, needed to figure out a way to get rid of hundreds of millions of dollars before she died.  In 1998, she donated $90 million to the Salvation Army to build a community center in San Diego, California.  With the Salvation Army’s help, she wanted to create a center to minister to the needs of the community---physically, mentally, and morally.  She envisioned a place where anyone could afford to go and enrich their lives.
     Before she died in late 2003, she set aside $1.5 billion, a gift to the Salvation Army, to build community centers in cities all around the country.  The first few centers opened in 2009, and in 2010, the Kerrville center opened.  I think they spent about $12 million here, but we are a small community compared to many of the other locatioins.  They are working on a center for Norfolk, Virginia, that has a $100 million budget.  All told, there are to be twenty–seven Kroc Centers.  Most are already open, some are under construction, and a few are still being planned.
    Our center has a large gymnasium that doubles as a banquet hall.  We have three swimming pools, all outside.  The exercise room, as I mentioned,  is state of the art, with several dozen assorted exercise machines, four different types of bicycles, two long lines of treadmills, and the most elaborate weight room I’ve ever seen.  Immaculate, tiled locker rooms are provided for both major sexes.  There is a large chapel for Sunday services, a full commercial kitchen for catering, a small bistro-like health bar and sandwich shop, a boys' and girls' club, and a day care center.
     I never really cared to make a lot of money, but looking at what Mrs. Kroc has accomplished opened my eyes to something I never considered.  She demonstrated that there is a good reason to accumulate a lot of money, and she is showing how to put a fortune to good use.  She improved the lives of countless people, including two old fat men in Kerrville, Texas.
     This is the only center planned for Texas, which disappoints me.  I know she would have put one in Lubbock if she had only thought about it.

The family that plays together, stays together.  Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Kroc.
      

Monday, July 9, 2012

"There are men too gentle to live among the wolves..."

     My friend, Bill Sparks, died over the weekend.  I don’t know any details, except that he had been fighting cancer.  I think it was Pancreatic Cancer.
     I first met Bill when we started Lubbock High School in the fall of 1952, our sophomore year.  Bill and I became friends and, by the time we were seniors, we were inseparable.  We did all the things high school boys did back then---we played football, we hunted, we worked on cars, we double dated.  We talked about everything.  We shared our ambitions, our secrets, our plans, and our hopes.  We laughed long, loud, and often.
     When we graduated from LHS, Bill and I loaded his 1950 Ford  ”Business Coupe” with sleeping bags and camping paraphernalia and struck out on a great adventure to New Mexico and Colorado.   Bill went off to Texas A&M his freshman year, but returned to Texas Tech and we continued our friendship.  We roomed together for two summers as we worked in the oil fields of New Mexico.
     Bill was a big man and very serious-minded.  He had a deep, almost exaggerated sigh that he used when he was exasperated with friends or family members.  He used it a lot with his brother, Young Jim, and with me.  He was the softest-hearted person I have ever known and one of the kindest men who ever lived.  He and I drifted apart during the mid-college years.  I made some poor choices and Bill was disappointed, as any friend would have been.  We lost track of each other for a few years.
     I knew that Bill and Marilyn moved off to Tacoma, Washington, where he worked for Weyerhaeuser, I believe.  I think he set up that company’s computer systems.  Later, I heard that he was in Australia, working.  Then I heard he was retired in Southern California.
     A few years ago, Bill and Marilyn came to Fredericksburg to visit Jimmy Sparks, Bill’s younger brother.  Bill and I enthusiastically renewed our friendship.  We had a great visit, completely ignoring the fact it had been almost fifty years since we last spoke.  Bill and Marilyn moved to New Mexico, south of Santa Fe, and we saw them several times over a three year period before they moved back to California to be near their children.
     I sat alone on my front porch last night and thought about Bill.  I thought about his strength and the life he lived.  Out there in the dark, I was reminded of a poem that I read many years ago.  “There are men too gentle to live among the wolves...”  William Gilmer Sparks was like that.  He was a great friend and he will be missed.  The world is a lesser place today.