58th Reunion--Another Take--Tell it to the Marines

  

Dr. Davis Ford, moving quickly past the front porch of his Swankyenda at Lonesome.

 

   I should have known something was amiss when I tried to check into the Lubbock Holiday Inn at 1:30 PM on Friday, the opening day of our fifty-eighth High School Reunion.  I had been up to Davis Ford’s place, “Lonesome” in the far reaches of the panhandle, west of Hereford.  The setting there is magnificent—miles to the nearest town and four miles from New Mexico—but it is, as advertised, lonesome.  It is thirty-eight miles from the nearest restroom, and at least two miles farther from the nearest shower.  I stood there at the reception counter, tired, dirty, hungry, and smelling like an ancient goat.

     “You need to come back at four.  We are not allowing any check-ins until four.  Sorry about that.”  The smug, twenty-something, preppy desk clerk turned to attend to more pressing matters.

     “Now, you wait just a minute, young man! I need a room—surely there are some clean ones.  You don’t know who you’re dealing with here.  Peck around on that electric machine and find me a room.  I need a bath.”

     “You certainly do, that is not in question.  Our policies do not allow for early check-in.  The proper time is 4:00PM.”

     “I’d like to see your supervisor, right now.”

     “So would I, but she left with a wallpaper salesman last Tuesday and no one’s seen her since.  By the way, it is so much fun dealing with all you old people.  I love the way you sputter and stomp around and turn red about something you can’t do anything about.  It just makes my day.”

     I can do something about it.  I can karate chop the little snip in the Adam’s apple, and he won’t be able to talk for a week.  That’s what I’ll do.  I prepare to strike the devastating blow, and  realize I have not used that maneuver since 1958, in Marine Corps boot camp.  And there is that other thing—last week, I strained myself putting up the dishes; I can’t lift my arm above my shoulder.

     “You be sure and come back after four now, you hear.  I just love dealing with you older fellows.  You’re so funny.  This morning an old fart tried to karate chop me in the throat—his name was Merriman—said he’d been in the Marine Corps.  Musta been World War One.   It was hilarious.”

A Drill Instructor, calmly discussing the recruit's lineage.

     In spite of that cocky jerk, we had a great reunion.  As I looked over the crowd, I remembered when we were young, we foolishly wanted everything to be stylish.  We wanted the most desirable automobile, the best looking girl, the latest designer clothing, Italian shoes, British leather, the works.  Now, as we age, comfort has become more important.  The most popular footwear at our reunion, by far, was Nike running shoes.  I know all those people didn’t just get in from the track.  They wore the most comfortable shoes they own.

     Most of the ladies opted to wear something loose.  Some of the girls were slim, but even so, form-fitting clothing went out of style for them about thirty years ago.  Jogging suits were popular.  Of course, the men wore form-fitting clothing—they had no choice.  Wal-Mart shirts only come in triple-extra-large and those are pretty tight on some of us.  They stretch open to expose little swatches of pallid skin between the over-stressed buttons.  My shirt would not stay tucked in—I let it hang out. 

     As the meeting broke up and we started to drift away, Wayne Ratisseau came up to me.  “You hear about ole Frank Williamson.  Eileen took him to the emergency room—he threw his back out.  Tried to karate chop that smart-alec desk clerk.   Was Frank in the Marine Corps?” 

     As a baseball coach told me, long ago, “As long as you’re swinging, you’re dangerous.”  We’re still swinging—see you at the Sixtieth.  

Sunrise at Lonesone. I still get a thrill when I see the country out there.  It is plainly beautiful.

                                       

An Open Letter to my Classmates from Lubbock High School, Class of 1955

Lubbock High School after 19th street was widened.  Somebody watered the trees.  Five hundred twenty-six of us graduated from high school in this lovely building and went out to face the world in the spring of 1955.

      I wanted to write something meaningful and appropriate about our recent 58^th High School Reunion.  What is appropriate when so many are gone and so many others are ill and infirm?  What is meaningful, when close friends are hospitalized, clinging to life?  I think it’s appropriate to look for the positives in our situation.  I think it is meaningful to remember all the good things the members of this class accomplished.  I think it is time to look forward, feel good, laugh, talk, and visit with old friends.  I think we need to remember good things.

      While looking through some old papers last week, I discovered a small, thick envelope addressed to my parents.  Inside was another envelope, and inside that, a greeting card-sized leather-bound booklet.  Across the lower front, the words “Lubbock High” were embossed into the black leather and outlined in gold leaf.  An etching of the magnificent building we attended, and took for granted, filled the bulk of the space on the front of the announcement.

     On the first page, held in place by an embossed western saddle, an engraved card said simply, “Jimmy McLaughlin,” the young man I once was.  The overleaf displayed a brown-ink sketch of a cowboy, resting on a mesa, with his horse grazing nearby.    Beyond, gigantic thunderheads framed the overpowering West Texas sky.

     The next page revealed one single sentence, engraved in Olde English Script.  It read, “The Senior Class of Lubbock Senior High School announces its Commencement Exercises Friday, May the twenty-seventh Nineteen hundred fifty-five at eight o’clock in the Fair Park Coliseum”

     I was overwhelmed by the quality of the whole thing.  Unlike similar items today, no imitation leather, no production compromises, no skimpy shortcuts were taken.  I realized that is as it should be.  I remember the quality of the education we received in that memorable building.  I remember the teachers, the coaches, the administrators.  It is only fitting that all that quality should be reflected in our graduation announcement.

     Now, all these years later, we can look back on the lessons we learned, the attitudes we developed, the alliances we made.  We can be proud of our accomplishments and thankful for the influence this school had on our lives.  We can be grateful—for the High Plains, for Lubbock High School, and for each other.

     I know this is meaningful.  I hope it is appropriate. I enjoyed every visit, every story, every chuckle, and every guffaw over the entire weekend.  My only regret is that I didn’t get to visit with everyone.  I love you all.

                                                                                          Jim McLaughlin

The Lubbock High School Building as we knew it, during the early days of aerial photography.

More on Marfa and Donald Judd

The restored court house in downtown Marfa.

     The prime mover behind the Dia Foundation is Philippa de Menil, the daughter of Dominique de Menil and the granddaughter of Conrad Schlumberger, a French inventor.  We’ll touch on Philippa now, and get to know Dominique much better in a later article I plan, which will continue my celebration of Texas Women.

     Anyone who ever worked in the oil fields knows that “Schlumberger” is pronounced “Slumber-Jay,” and thousands of big blue trucks carry the name to every nook and cranny of the world.  These blue trucks come back loaded with money from the nooks and crannies and send it to Houston, where a whole building full of CPAs decides what to do with it, to keep from paying those nasty old taxes.

     Philippa de Menil married an art dealer named Heiner Friedrich, and, with art historian Helen Winkler, the three of them set up The Lone Star Foundation, which evolved into the Dia Art Foundation.  Philippa sat on the board, but her main job was providing Schlumberger money. The word “Dia” comes from the Greek word meaning “through” and was chosen to indicate the truckloads of money that left Schlumberger, passed “through” the Dia Foundation into the hands of unrecognized, but possibly deserving, artists.   The foundation provided funding for artistic projects that might otherwise never see the light of day.   Some critics suggest that would not have been a bad thing. 

     Donald Judd considered himself unrecognized and deserving and immediately became associated with Dia.  They provided him with stipends, studios, archivists and “walking around” money.  Lining up at the trough with Judd were Joseph Beuys, Dan Flavin, Agnes Martin, John Chamberlain, Andy Warhol, and dozens of others.  Judd presented the “Art for the Masses” idea, and the Dia Foundation eagerly stepped forward to fund the exercise.

Prada, an art installation in the desert near Valentine, about thirty-seven miles northwest of Marfa.  Micheal Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset, two German artists, did the installation with Prada's blessing.

     Judd put Dia’s money to good use.  The Chinati Foundation provided internships for deserving artists, funded an annual “October Art Weekend” in Marfa, and imported art dealers and celebrities from all around the country for immersion into the West Texas art scene.  Judd bought and coordinated renovation of several buildings, invited artist friends to show their work in Marfa, and learned to weld while he worked on some rusty Cor-Ten steel sculptures—the only art he actually built in Marfa.

     In the nineteen-eighties, I read about an incident involving Judd that took place near Marfa.  I have looked for mention of it, but cannot find anything about it on this electric machine. I will recite the story from memory, and if it turns out to be untrue, don’t tell anyone.   It is far too good a story to ignore.

      A student of Judd’s did a sculpture to represent the Virgin Mary, or the Virgin of Guadalupe, or the Angel of Goliad.  I’m not sure which, but one of the Mexican Virgins that are so deified because they are so scarce.  The sculpture was done with “found pieces,” bits of rag and tin and sticks, and perhaps a stone or two.  It was very much to Judd’s liking, meeting his criteria that art stand unequivocally on its own, not represent anything, and occupy real space, not illusionary space.

      Judd explained to the young artist that sculpture was not designed to be a lasting thing, at least not this particular sculpture, because it was not a concrete box or an aluminum cube.  The highest and best use of the virgin sculpture should be “Performance Art,” or a “Happening.”  In either case the piece would be destroyed in a blaze of glory, purified by cleansing flames.  Judd, as always, was very convincing and soon the artist trainee was ready to put a match to his work.  Judd’s genius for grasping an opportunity served him well.

If you are unsophisticated, you might not recognize this as art.  These cars were selected and placed by an artist, and probably paid for by Schlumberger money.  The train comes by every two hours or so and the whole scene becomes "Performance Art."

      Art dealers, movie stars, writers, critics, and movers and shakers from coast to coast were invited to Marfa for “A Happening Performance of Art.”  All arrived at the Midland/Odessa Airport and were met by Judd, in an air-conditioned Greyhound bus outfitted with a full bar, a bartender, and classy cocktail waitresses.  After several happy hours on the bus, the dignitaries were put up for the night in and around Marfa.  The next morning, at a civil hour, breakfast tacos were served at the Chinati Foundation and everyone was loaded back on the bus—the bar was open—and transported to the north bank of the Rio Grande, where a scaffold-like stadium had been erected.

     The sculpture of the unrecognizable virgin had been installed on a flat raft and was tethered to the bank, upstream from the stadium.  The plan: Set the raft adrift and afire simultaneously.  As the flames consumed the virgin and the raft drifted along the international boundary, the highest level of performance art would be achieved when the whole installation sank gently beneath the waves, sizzling and smoking as it dropped out of sight directly in front of the tipsy celebrities assembled on the makeshift grandstand.

     The cocktail cuties freshened everyone’s drink and Judd signaled for the “Happening” to happen.  The raft started to burn and drift, but after the initial flare up, the fabric and wood parts of the hapless virgin quit burning and began to smolder.  The crew had not used enough diesel fuel.  Some plastic melted and smoked and stunk to high heaven and the metal parts warped. The raft began to burn vigorously, but soon the diesel fuel dissipated and the wet wood smoldered like the remnants of the solitary virgin.  The whole smoking, smoldering mess hung up on a sandbar and stuck there, fifteen feet off shore, listing and sputtering, stuck in the mud at a distressing angle.  Judd hurriedly loaded the bus and sent the celebrities back to Midland.

      Most of the working press who witnessed the “Happening” didn’t remember much about it.  Free booze does that to reporters. Those who did remember chose to be kind and wrote about the big sky, the breakfast tacos, even the Midland/Odessa Airport.  No one really panned the incident, partly because of embarrassment and partly because of ignorance.  The writers feared everyone else understood “Happening Performance Art,” and they didn’t.

     In the early eighties, oil prices went south and took Schlumberger stock along.  The nervous CPAs in that building off the Gulf Freeway in Houston pulled in their horns to weather the financial storm.  Among the horns they pulled in were Philippa’s.  This forced the Dia Foundation to rethink its priorities and to reorganize, asking Philippa’s mother, Dominique de Menil, to join the board.  It was decided to cease funding art in the desert wilderness, for at least a year or two.  Dia reneged on a promised $2.3 million grant to Donald Judd and the Chinati Foundation.

     Donald Judd did not take this lying down.  After all, that money was meant for art and it was his responsibility to protect it.  He threatened a lawsuit, and the Dia Foundation, in shambles financially because of over-spending and decreased funding, hurriedly settled.  The Chinati Foundation came out of the negotiations owning all the Marfa art and real estate and was provided with $800,000.00 to finish works in progress.

     At the time, Judd stated, “You could call it a divorce settlement, although I’m not entirely satisfied.  It’s not close to what they originally intended to do.  But it’s great that we’re free.”

     In Marfa, Texas, a million dollars will buy a whole lot of anything you might want.  The Dia Foundation poured more than four million dollars into Marfa in the years from 1980 to 1986, then, when threatened with a lawsuit, signed over everything they owned out there to Chinati and Donald Judd.

     I have not a lot of respect for Donald Judd as an artist or as a man.  Perhaps I’m too naive to understand his art, and I certainly cannot speak to his motives, but I have no admiration for his methods.  He approached the Dia Foundation with hat in hand and enjoyed their charity when he was broke and times were good for them.   He repaid their kindness by taking advantage at a time when they were defenseless and vulnerable.

     In the realm of art, I admire one thing he did.  He had a talent for renovation of older buildings.  He converted wool warehouses, motor pool sheds, and unused hangers into museums for the display of art, and he did fantastic work.  He sandblasted masonry walls, polished concrete floors, added windows and state-of-art lighting and made drab old buildings sparkle with new life.  He probably did nothing more than any competent fourth-year architecture student might have done, but he did the work and deserves the credit.

     He also put Marfa on the map.  His work and Dia’s money provided jobs for natives of the area and added zip to the otherwise stagnant economy.  Empty buildings that once lined the main streets are filled with art galleries, gift shops, and restaurants.  Older hotels--the Piasano and the Thunderbird--have been renovated.  A new motel, the El Cosmico, with vintage Airstream Trailers and Native American Teepees as guest cottages, beckons to the artistic traveler. 

     New, creative people have discovered and embraced the high desert climate and environment.  In this age of computers, artists and writers who can live wherever they please are moving into the area and putting down roots.    None of this would have happened without Donald Judd.  His motivations may have been purely selfish, but a lot of deserving people in a hot, dry, vacant, dusty corner of Texas benefitted from his vision.  I can’t fault him for that.

I believe this must be art, too.  No self-respecting sheep herder would build such a shoddy cabin.  How much do you suppose this thing cost Schlumberger?

How come Marfa, Texas Is All of a Sudden a Mecca for Art People and Such?

 

"Art should stand unequivocally on its own and simply exist."  Donald Judd

     Unless you are involved in the world of art, you probably never heard of Donald Judd.  Judd claimed to be an artist, and he may have been.   As every successful artist must be, he was a salesman.  He could sell just about anything to just about anybody, and to get the most money for the least effort, he learned to concentrate on selling ideas to rich people.  Ideas don’t cost anything, so he didn’t have to tie up a bunch of money in inventory. 

      For obvious reasons, poor people are not good sales targets, and rich people, especially those with second or third generation wealth, go around feeling guilty about being rich.  The second generation is uncomfortable with wealth and desperately wants to believe that they are smarter than poor people and deserve to be rich, so they are apt to buy ideas, especially ideas they don’t understand.  The third generation is comfortable being wealthy but feels obligated to make the world a better place by sharing. Judd discovered early on that the more difficult an idea is to comprehend, the more money it is worth.  He understood that a complicated idea couched in impossibly obtuse language and properly presented was priceless.

     Donald Judd was born in Missouri, went into the army, and moved to New York City when his enlistment was up.  He got a degree in philosophy from Columbia University, and worked toward a master’s degree in art history.  From the late forties through the mid-fifties, Judd concentrated on painting, but he wasn’t very good and didn’t sell much. 

      He supported himself by writing art criticism for major magazines and discovered a talent for writing long, complicated, absolutely meaningless sentences.  For instance, he “found a starting point for a new territory for American art, and a simultaneous rejection of residual inherited European artistic values, these values being illusion and represented space, as opposed to real space.”  One of his basic premises stated, “art should not represent anything, … it should unequivocally stand on its own and simply exist.”

     The classic European idea of  ”representational sculpture” takes the position that a sculpture should represent something—a horse, a man, or a naked woman—and be recognizable.  Judd decided sculpting something recognizable was way too hard, so he went about selling the idea that representational sculpture was “old hat” and to be contemporary, sculpture must be unrecognizable.  Rich people jumped on that idea like a hen on a June bug. 

      Donald Judd continued to work with sculptures that occupied real space, stood unequivocally on their own, and simply existed.   He discovered that kind of art was almost as hard to do as art that actually looked like something, so he had craftsmen do the work while he thought up the ideas.  Because his work occupied space but didn’t look like anything, he named most of his works “Untitled” and dated them.  Examples are the stunning “Untitled 1976,” or the inspirational “Untitled 1982.”  Rich people lined up to dump money in his lap, hoping to get a chance to bid on something untitled.

     In 1971, Donald Judd needed to get away from it all.  The tension of making art to fill up space—not representational space, but real space—thinking up ideas to pedal to rich people, and doing it all surrounded by New York City, was wearing him to a frazzle.  He rented a house in Marfa, Texas, and moved out there for a vacation and a change of pace.

     As with most people who have never been exposed to limitless space, clean air, clear crisp mornings, and sunshine so bright it hurts your eyes, Judd was astonished.  Never, in his experience, had he been able to see farther than he could point.  Mountains hovered off in the distance and details were plain forty miles away.

     The people out there were different.  To start with, there weren’t many of them and they all dressed like Ralph Lauren.  Threadbare jeans, faded chambray work shirt, turquoise and silver belt buckle, scruffy straw hat and well worn, comfortable boots seemed to be the uniform of the day.  Everything moved in slow motion—the people talked slow, they stopped on the street to visit with each other, no one was in a hurry—for a New Yorker, this place was downright weird.

     Donald Judd got the inkling of an idea—he needed money and these poor people needed art.  He turned the idea over in his mind.  He toyed with it, nursed it, and the thought began to mature into a full-blown plan.  Donald Judd would bring art to the people, art for the masses.  What an inspiration.  Judd realized that only he could bring art to these people and, to do it, he needed to sell his idea to some billionaire’s guilty offspring.  No problem there—he had a list.

      Short-sighted individuals might think that Marfa, Texas, was a funny place to bring anything to the masses, much less art.  Perhaps Marfa wasn’t overrun with people, but it had advantages more populated areas lacked.  Marfa was available, and in the great scheme of things, with the right financial partner, it was affordable.

     The Dia Foundation provided Judd with money to buy an abandoned army base, Fort D. A. Russell, outside Marfa.  He purchased a 60,000 acre ranch, the Ayala de Chinati, and several older buildings in town.  Judd established the Chinati Foundation to oversee the operations and handle funding details, placing himself above crass financial matters. He stayed busy restoring older buildings.  Restoration can be an exacting and painstaking task, but it is not nearly so difficult if others provide the money.

     To get started on his “Art for the People” project, Donald went to the army base.  He restored two motor pool buildings and installed a hundred polished aluminum half-cubes, each six feet by six feet by three feet and precisely placed to best demonstrate the play of light and shadow as the sun moved over the structures.  Outside, in a field, Judd placed several large steel-reinforced concrete cubes.  Each was positioned with discipline to maintain a proper relationship with the others.  He fittingly named the installation “Untitled 1980-1984.”

     As storm clouds gathered on the distant horizon, Donald Judd was flying high.  Stay tuned.

John Chamberlain, one of Judd's favorite artists, did this.  It is on display at the Hirshhorn Museum in New York City.  In 1973, two three-hundred-pound pieces Chamberlain did were stored temporarily on the loading dock of a gallery warehouse in Chicago.  They were reported stolen, but it was discovered that the garbage men hauled them to the dump.

Digger Dog



Digger O'Dell in his first home



      In the little city of West University Place, surrounded by the big city of Houston, my down-the-street neighbor was a PhD who taught at Rice University.  Another PhD lived next door.  On the other side lived a lawyer who was married to a lawyer. Four other lawyers lived on my block, along with two stockbrokers and an architect.  Having grown up in Lubbock, I knew the value of diversity and learned to look beneath the surface for inner beauty in everyone. In spite of their obvious shortcomings,  I became friends with these strange people.   That made me feel really good about myself.

     Dr. Rudolph P. Nydegger, the Rice professor, allowed me to call him Rudy.  I taught him how to barbeque and play dominoes and he tried out big words on me.  I’ll never forget when he discovered “bourgeois.”  He used it in every other sentence for two weeks.

     My friend Rudy was a bit quirky.  He wanted a dog as a companion for his five-year-old daughter, Ashley, and he wanted an Irish Setter.  I suggested that Irish Setters were large dogs and needed running room and our yards were relatively small, especially the fenced back yards.  I should have known better than to try to be logical with Dr. Nydegger, because he had seen a picture of an Irish Setter in a magazine and his mind was made up.  In a week or so, he brought home a registered Irish Setter puppy to live in the back yard and play with Ashley.

     Rudy named this new dog “Digger O’Dell,” after an undertaker on an old-time radio program.  The big red dog grew quickly and immediately began to live up to its name.  Within a few months, Digger dug under the fence at will and roamed the neighborhood while Ashley was at school and her parents were working.  Digger was far too bright and quick for the West U. animal control officers, and he always came home for dinner.

      Almost a year later, as I supplemented my income by playing poker with Rudy and some of his Rice friends, Rudy said, “Jim, your dad lives on a farm.  Do you suppose he might like a dog?"

     My parents had “retired” to a 250 acre farm outside Vashti, Texas, near Bowie.  Dad had fifty head of cattle and mother tended a garden and raised chickens.  They had gone back to their roots and were very happy.  Dad was partially crippled, but he managed to get around with a cane, and could still fix anything that broke.  He had to sit in a chair to do it, but he rebuilt the transmission on his John Deere tractor.  Turns out, he had always wanted a good dog.

     Dad drove the four hundred miles to Houston one Saturday and I nervously took him to meet Digger.   As Dad and I walked down the sidewalk to the Nydegger’s house, Rudy and Digger stood on the front porch.  Dad wobbled along with his cane and Digger headed for us.  The dog ignored me, but approached Dad with his head lowered, submissive, tail wagging wildly.  Dad was past the point of squatting or hunkering down, and the big dog sensed that; he stood on his back legs so dad could pet him.  No need to be nervous, it was love at first sight for both of them.  Digger happily ran around in circles and Dad cleared his throat several times.  When I wasn’t looking, he wiped away a tear.

     The next morning, after breakfast, Dad drove his Ford pickup down the street to Rudy’s house.  He hobbled out and held the door open.  Without hesitation, Digger darted from the porch past Rudy and me, bounded into the front seat of the pickup, and sat up on the passenger side.  Dad climbed in, cranked up the truck and headed north.  He told me later that after about a hundred miles, Digger lay down with his head in Dad’s lap and took a nap.

     From that day forward, they were inseparable.  Dad drove to the pasture to feed the cattle, and Digger Dog ran alongside.  Digger flushed quail and dove and chased them as he ran through the underbrush, but was always there waiting when Dad stepped out of the truck.  As Dad finished his chores and climbed back into the pickup, Digger, hot and tired, jumped in ahead of him and pawed the air conditioner, asking for it to be put on high speed.  He stuck his head in front of the vent and let the cold air blow directly into his face.

     Digger Dog did not chase cars.  His favorite thing to chase was birds.   One day, he flushed a covey of quail from the bar ditch next to the paved road that ran alongside the farm.  A neighbor lady was driving by and Digger, chasing a bird, darted in front of her.  Dad rushed him to the vet in Bowie.

     Digger’s left front leg was mangled and the tendons controlling it were severed.  The young vet said, “This dog is going to be crippled.  We will have to put him down.  There’s no other choice.”

     “By God, I’m crippled and I ain’t gonna be put down!  You figure out a way to fix him, boy,  and I don’t mean maybe.  Don’t you let my dog die.”   Dad was as serious as a heart attack.

     The operation took over two hours.  Digger’s entire leg was removed at the shoulder joint, and the skin where it had been was patched and sewn up.  Once Dad explained the gravity of the situation, the vet did a thorough job.

      Digger Dog recovered completely and was a three-legged Irish Setter for the rest of his long and happy life.  Beautiful silky red hair covered the wound and it was invisible.  The last time I visited the farm, Digger chased birds across the pasture as Dad and I fed the cattle.  Then he jumped in the pickup between us and pawed the air conditioner with his single front leg.

     

Nothing Much Ever Happens in Muleshoe

    

My oldest two grandsons at the Mule Monument in Muleshoe.  Note the Lowake Steakhouse tee shirt on Ian.  I am doing my best to introduce the boys to the finer things in life.

     Muleshoe, Texas, is near the New Mexico border, about eighty miles northwest of Lubbock and that makes it fair game for this blog.  I have lifelong friends in that part of Texas—friends who have never, ever bored me.  That’s about all I really expect from friends—let me enjoy your company and please don’t bore me.

     In Muleshoe, most everyone is a farmer.  Those who don’t farm are involved in some business that caters to the needs of farmers.  Some of the farmers own businesses in addition to their farms.  Charles Flowers told of one guy there who owned a furniture store.  Flowers was concerned with the mark-up on furniture—farmers are always concerned with everyone else’s mark-up.  Charlie said, “The store sets there empty, with not a single customer in sight, and Ole Willie Isaac has paid for three farms with it.”

     Muleshoe farmers, as all farmers everywhere, work hard most of the time but a lull in their activity comes after the crops are harvested and before spring planting.  Annual maintenance is necessary on every farm, and this is a really good time to repair equipment, paint barns, fix windmills, and drink whiskey.

A second picture of my grandsons in Muleshoe--the grain elevator is just to the left , next to the railroad track.

     In downtown Muleshoe, the S.E.Cone Grain Elevator stores grain sorghum from the harvest.  Ralph Abernathy is the manager there and his busy time coincides with the local farmers, as does his slow time.  My friends, Buck Campbell and Charles Flowers, enjoy loitering around the elevator office during the slow spells each year.  They like this because their wives think they’re off working and they won’t have to paint the house, or plant shrubs, or whatever chore the little woman can come up with to make sure they don’t get into some kind of mischief.

     The elevator office is a big open room, with a long counter across the front near the entry door, a large conference table behind the counter next to Ole Ralph’s desk, and a coffee machine with several heavy cups on a little cabinet in the corner.  Buck and Flowers grab a coffee cup and sit down at the big table.  Ole Ralph pulls out a half gallon of Black Jack from the bottom drawer of his desk and fills all three cups.  Then, they let nature take its course.

     After several cups, and the mandatory discussion of the prospects of rain, the idiot politicans in Washington, and the shape of the new gal at Tom’s Satellite Lounge in Clovis, the boys get restless.  Maybe it is time to go back over to Clovis and see if they really are that big.  If so, they need to go pick up Ole Benton.  Robert Benton, a friend from high school, farms a couple of sections west of Dimmit and is a swell fellow to get drunk with.  Ole Ralph puts a sign in the window indicating that he is at the doctor’s office in Lubbock and will be open tomorrow.  The well-used sign is almost worn out, old and dog-eared.

    After spinning by Benton’s farm and learning that he is playing golf in Dimmit, the boys head toward the golf course, Buck driving his wife’s Cadillac.

     There are reasons that you have not seen the Dimmit Country Club on the Sunday afternoon broadcasts of the PGA Tour.  To start with, it has only fourteen holes.  The developer ran out of money and never finished the course.  No one in Dimmit seems to mind and several young people from there were astonished when they went off to school and discovered eighteen holes on the Texas Tech course in Lubbock.

     Then, the topography in Dimmit leaves something to be desired when compared to other links.  The Ole Boy who built it had only a small Caterpillar, and he simply scraped up some dirt to make the greens, planted grass on them and quit.  The places where he scraped the dirt became natural sand traps, and there is absolutely no danger of any water hazard in that part of the world.  They planted fourteen trees, one for each hole, but the drought took them.  All except one.  One got cut down when it blocked a shot for Ernie Nydegger.  Ole Ernie just went to his pickup and got a chain saw and cleared a path to the green.  The rules out here are pretty liberal.

     Our boys, having the foresight to bring along the Black Jack and coffee cups, were feeling no pain.  They looked out across the course and immediately spotted Benton and another fellow, easing their golf cart up to the twelfth tee.  Buck took the direct route to the tee box, bounced across three parched fairways and a small sand trap, slid sideways on the cart path and stopped next to the little mound.  This attracted the attention of the two golfers.

     “Benton, put up that six iron and get in here.  We’re going to Clovis and run the whores.  You ain’t got a hair on your ass if you don’t come on with us.”

     Ole Benton nervously held up both arms and said, “Boys, boys.  Hold on, hold on.  Allow me to introduce our new minister.”

     Buck put the Cadillac in low gear and cut a donut in the rock-hard fairway.  As they sped away, Ole Ralph leaned out the back window and shouted, “Baldy.”

As the sun sets slowly in the west, we leave the peaceful little farm community of Muleshoe.

Sam Houston and the Battle of San Jacinto April 21, 1836

     One hundred seventy-seven years ago today, in 1836, Sam Houston slept late.  His army, such as it was, was camped in the San Jacinto woods about a mile from Santa Anna’s troops.  The Mexicans had been awake all night, shoring up their defenses, feverishly preparing for an expected dawn attack by the Texians.  Houston slept until the sun was high in the sky.  He just didn’t feel like getting up early and starting a fight in the swamp.  Whether this decision was based on military brilliance, blind luck, or a massive hangover is a matter of debate.  I suspect the latter.

     At three that afternoon, Houston’s head felt better and he led his troops across the mile of bald prairie separating the armies.  The ensuing battle lasted eighteen minutes and changed the history of the world.  For a detailed account, go to my blog post “Texas History #3, The Battle of San Jacinto,” dated March 30, 2012, and the later post “Texas History #4, Peace in the Valley,” dated April 8, 2012.

      By the way, April 21^st is San Jacinto Day, not Texas Independence Day.  Texas’ inept legislature, after wrangling for five months, declared independence from Mexico on March 2, 1836,  That is our Independence Day.  Then, four days later, the Alamo fell on March 6,  and Texans remember that day, but don’t celebrate it.  On Palm Sunday of that year, March 27^th, Santa Anna had all the prisoners at Goliad massacred, except for twenty-seven that ran away in the smoke and confusion and forty-four others that sweet little Panchita saved.  Read about her in my Blog, “Francisca Panchita Alavez” on December 14, 2012, and “The Angel of Goliad” on December 20. 2012.  Stick with me—in the words of my friend Ken Black, “I’ll put you under the Big Top.”

     At the time of the Battle of San Jacinto,  Mexico owned present day Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, and part of Wyoming.  Britain had its eye on California and the whole west coast.  Spain wanted to retake all of Mexico. France was open to expansion just to keep up with England.  In the United States, especially among the “slave states,” there was a growing desire to expand west to California.  “Manifest Destiny” was already on the minds of some politicians.

     Sam Houston and Santa Anna agreed to the “Treaties of Velasco,” which the Mexican government immediately denounced.  International law was on the Mexican side, for no leader was allowed to negotiate while in captivity or under duress.  This technicality did not deter the two opium smokers.  Houston and Santa Anna blissfully smoked dope and worked out a treaty which gave both men what they wanted.  Texas was ceded to the rebels under Houston and Santa Anna was not strung up from the “Which Way Oak.”

     Edward Burnet, the provisional president of Texas, actually signed the treaties with Santa Anna while Houston was recuperating from his wounds in New Orleans.  In a private treaty, Santa Anna also agreed to work for the recognition of Texas independence inside Mexico, and the establishment of the border at the Rio Grande.  Mexico was not about to agree to any of this and Santa Anna himself was not serious.  He would have signed anything to escape execution by the revengeful Texians.

     Because of turmoil inside the Mexican Government, the little Republic of Texas was allowed to survive.  Given a stable government, the Mexicans would have immediately invaded Texas and put an end to silly notions about independence.  Instead, Mexico issued an ultimatum to the United States.  They said, in diplomatic terms, “We still own Texas and do not recognize the Republic of Texas.  We will take action against these upstarts as soon as we get our stuff together.  In the meantime, if you try to annex or otherwise acquire the territory of Texas, it means war.” 

      Andrew Jackson wanted Texas, but he didn’t want war with Mexico.  The northern states didn’t want Texas, a slave state, in the union.  America kept adding new states, Mexico continued internal squabbling, and the cash-strapped Republic of Texas tended its business while nervously watching its southern border.  That border, incidentally, was difficult to watch.  It was considered to be the Nueces River by Mexico and the Rio Grande River by Texas.

     Mexico, under Santa Anna, invaded Texas a couple of times in the next few years.  The attempts were half-hearted, Santa Anna was struggling to stay in power, and the Mexican supply lines were long and easily broken.  Santa Anna’s dream of reconquering Texas was thwarted;  he was put out of office and condemned to death.  Lucky for the United States, he was exiled instead. 

     Almost ten years after San Jacinto, Texas joined the Union and war with Mexico became imminent.  Santa Anna quietly made a private deal with the United States.  He needed help to get back into Mexico and into power, and he agreed to sell Texas and other Mexican holdings to the United States at bargain prices in exchange for that help.

     After the United States declared war in May of 1846, Santa Anna wrote the president of Mexico, Valentin Gomez Farias, saying he no longer had any desire to be president and offering his services as leader of the army to fight the Americans.  The desperate (and not too bright) Farias allowed him back into the country and made him a general.

     Once back in Mexico and head of the army, Santa Anna reneged on both deals.  He took over the Mexican Government, named himself president, vowed to run the Americans out of Mexico and retake Texas.  He didn’t keep those promises, either.  General Zachary Taylor and the Texas Rangers won the war with relative ease.

      The dust settled in 1848, and the United States stretched from sea to shining sea.  The Gadsen Purchase, in 1854, straightened America’s southern border and fleshed out Arizona and New Mexico.  America had some problems with the pesky British in the Pacific Northwest, but essentially, the Mexican/American War of 1846 defined the boundaries of the continental United States.

     I need to point out the obvious, because everyone doesn’t always see the obvious.  Andrew Jackson, John Tyler, James Polk, or any other American president of the time could not have acquired all this territory without Texas.  Had Sam Houston not prevailed at San Jacinto, no one can say what the United States might look like today.  Texas provided the spark that started the war, and, as much as Zachary Taylor disliked them, the Texas Rangers were instrumental in winning it.

       Without the efforts of the great state of Texas, it is patently obvious that Disneyland today might well be in Anaheim, Mexico, and the Mormons live around Salt Lake City, Mexico.  If you see a Texan, it wouldn’t hurt a thing if you yankees were to say, “Thanks!”  In fact, that’d be real nice.  We’d all be much-abliged.