Texas Independence Day March 2, 1836

     I wrote this a couple of days ago, hoping to get it ready to publish on the 2^nd, but I let it slide because I've discovered the joy of ignoring deadlines.  March 2, by the way, is not the day Houston beat Santa Anna at San Jacinto.  It is not the day the Alamo fell.  It is not the day the drunks at Gonzales fired the cannon shot through the pecan trees over the Guadalupe River.  It is none of those things.

     On this day in 1836, 179 years ago, fifty-nine elected representatives and an appointed secretary all signed the Texas Declaration of Independence.  The day was not unlike today, with the wind blowing cold and damp through the unchinked walls of a half-finished, wood-frame capitol building at Washington-on-the-Brazos, the newest designated capital city of Texas.   The delegates covered the window openings with sheets and huddled around a wood stove, attempting to keep warm as they made plans for the colony.

     Colonial conventions had been held in San Felipe in 1832 and 1833, and a “Consultation” took place there in 1835.  The chief purpose of these meetings had been to ask Mexico to honor a pledge to return to the liberal policies of the Constitution of 1824, which Santa Anna agreed to do, but then characteristically reneged on his promise.   A secondary purpose of the conventions was to convince Mexico to allow Texas affairs to be dealt with in Texas, and not govern the colony from far-off Saltillo. 
     The Texians discovered that a “hat in the hands” approach to the Mexican bureaucrats did not work.  Stephen Austin, who, hat in hand, delivered these requests, was promptly imprisoned for over two years.  The colonists decided to mail a letter next time.
      New delegates, mostly a rowdy bunch of lawyers and real estate promoters known as “War Dogs,” were elected for the convention of 1836. Many were new to Texas, trying to get in on the land grab.  Only ten members of the group had been in Texas for more than six years, and fifteen had been here less than one year.   The “War Dogs” were openly opposed to rule by Mexico and loud in their criticisms.  The stately Lorenzo De Zavala and the learned Jose Navarro represented the Tejano population, along with Francisco Ruis (spelled elsewhere as Ruiz).  All other delegates were white European males, including Thomas J. Rusk and Sam Houston.  William B. Travis did not attend the convention because of pressing business at the Alamo.
      The Convention of 1836 convened on March 1, and the president, Richard Ellis, from the Red River delegation, wasted no time.  He did away with all pretense and immediately appointed a five man committee to write a declaration of independence.  The committee was chaired by George Childress, and included Edward Conrad, James Gaines, Bailey Hardeman, and Collin McKinney.  Indications are that Childress did most of the work on the document, and probably came to the convention with a draft already prepared.  He was obviously primed for the task—the committee presented a complete draft of the declaration first thing the next morning and it was passed by a unanimous vote on the first reading, without discussion. 
       Stated in language borrowed freely from Thomas Jefferson’s American Declaration of Independence,  the Texas declaration contained a long list of real and imagined grievances.  Among examples of dire suppressions named in the Texas document are, “….our interests have been continually depressed…., carried on at a far distant seat of government, by a hostile majority, in an unknown tongue…” and, “It denies us the right of worshipping the Almighty according to the dictates of our own conscience, by the support of a national religion, calculated to promote the temporal interest of its human functionaries, rather than the glory of the true and living God.” 

     The document includes several examples of unwelcome intervention by the Catholic Church, corruption within the Mexican Government, and, as if the Indians needed encouragement, it accuses the Mexicans of inciting the Comanche to rape, scalp, and pillage the settlers. 

      The Mexican Government did not lie or trick these people into colonization.   Every man in the room had come to Texas knowing that it was a colony of Mexico and all official business would be conducted in Spanish.  Most of the delegates were landowners.  To own land in Texas, one had to swear allegiance to Mexico,  join the Catholic Church, and accept Spanish as the national language.

      After the list of grievances, the document continued, “We are, therefore, forced to the melancholy conclusion, that the Mexican people have acquiesced in the destruction of their liberty, and the substitution therfor of a military government; that they are unfit to be free and incapable of self-government.”

     Having introduced the idea that the Mexican people were incapable of governing themselves, and therefore unfit to be free, the Texians announced that they were not hampered by such limitations, and would no longer submit to Mexico’s laws, “unknown tongue,” or “national religion.”   Texas was declared a free and independent nation, open to the judgment and dealings of an “impartial” world.

     Logical questions arise from many quarters.  Was this simply a land grab by a bunch of shady real estate agents?  Did these promoters really have any patriotic intentions or were they just power and profit driven scum who stole Texas from Mexico?  Is this just another example of white European males taking advantage of poor, unsophisticated, simple people?  Are we not morally obligated to give this territory back?
 
      The Mexicans are a fun-loving, happy race.  They work incredibly hard and take good care of their families.  Most attend church and, as much as is possible, help the poor.  They are honest, warm-hearted, good-natured and resourceful.  The peons laugh, drink cervesa, gamble, and fiddle around with their neighbors' wives.  On the other hand, they don’t vote.  They don’t educate themselves. They don’t pay debts. They don’t own property.  They don‘t deserve Texas.    

     Back in 1836, many of the delegates wanted to adjourn and hurry to San Antonio to help Travis and his boys at the Alamo, but Sam Houston convinced them it was more important to stay and establish a government for the new republic.  Their efforts to relieve the Alamo would have been in vain—it fell within four days.  It is doubtful they could have made the journey in time to get slaughtered by the Mexican troops under Santa Anna, so, instead of a futile attempt to save the Alamo, the delegates, quietly encouraged and nudged forward by Sam Houston, settled for a futile attempt to write a constitution.

     Some of these delegates, including Thomas Rusk and Lorenzo De Zavala, were pure and noble in their intentions.  They wanted to establish a fair and democratic nation for the betterment of all the people.  On the other hand,  delegates such as Robert Potter were simply rotten to the core, and wanted nothing more than to line their own pockets.  Most of them were between the two poles.  Politicians are no different today.   They are motivated by self-interest, and every single one of them can find moral justification for taking someone else’s property. 
        I have reached my own melancholy conclusion and wish to answer from a purely intellectual standpoint.  Screw the fun loving Mexicans.  They could not govern themselves in 1836 and they cannot do it now. Look at the condition of their country. One dictator after another moves in and seduces the populace with promises of power to the people.  He says let us share the wealth, and offer equal reward for equal effort, and so on, and so on.  Immediately upon gaining office, he executes all known or suspected enemies, raids the treasury, confiscates private property, encourages and accepts bribes, and grinds the common people under his heel.

     Give Texas back?  Pay reparations?  Feel remorse?  I take a white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant view of the situation.  Ain't  gonna happen.

The Rabbit Hunt



If you
If you're gonna hunt Jack Rabbits, this is a good place to do it.  Did you know Mark Twain called them Jackass Rabbits, because of their big ears.  That was shortened to Jack Rabbits and came into general use.

     If you are a regular reader of mine, you know about Buck Campbell and Charlie Flowers.  They farmed in Muleshoe, and have been friends of mine for over sixty years.   Their sons, Scott Campbell and Eddie Flowers, grew up together.

     One night, during their senior year, Scott and Eddie decided to go rabbit hunting.  If you were a high school boy and lived in Muleshoe, that was a popular pastime, made more so because it provided an opportunity to drink beer with friends in the middle of the night.  The equipment needed was minimal—a pickup truck, a spotlight, a cooler chest, and a 22 rifle.  Some cheaters used shotguns, but right-thinking sportsmen considered shotguns unfair to the rabbits.

     The best time to hunt rabbits is between 1:00 and 3:00 AM, while they’re out feeding.  A foursome of teenage boys pile into a pickup truck and drive across the prairie, scanning the area with a high-powered, Q-Beam spotlight until a rabbit is spotted.  Each boy plays a specific role, one driving, one spotlighting, and two standing in the pickup bed, holding onto the headache rack and shooting over the cab.  Every so often, they rotate, so everyone gets to shoot.

     Muleshoe rabbits do not deliver Easter eggs.  They are not cute little Cottontails.  Muleshoe rabbits are long-legged, big-boned jack rabbits that are incredibly fast and very tasty.  They can be chicken-fried or cooked into a wonderful stew.  Sydna Flowers made a legendary rabbit pot pie.

     A rabbit hunt is pure excitement.  When the rabbit is spotted, all hell breaks loose.  The bright light temporarily blinds and confuses the rabbit, but it recovers and takes off like wild fire.  The shooters fire away with semi-automatic 22 long rifles.  It sounds like a Mexican revolution.   The rabbit pops up and down at top speed across the prairie, while the driver keeps his foot in it and the truck bounces over the pasture.  The spotlighter focuses the light on the critter as best he can. Panic-stricken rabbits do not run like other creatures.  They take long, erratic hops high into the air, incredibly quick and mostly in a zig-zag line.   The best hunters time their shots to catch their quarry in mid-hop, when it can’t change direction and seems to float above the landscape.

     The boys were not allowed to hunt rabbits on school nights, but one of their friends had scored a case of Coors, and all high school kids know that stuff will spoil if it ages too much.  Charles Flowers came in from the cattle auction after eleven that evening.  At 12:30, the boys pushed his pickup out of the driveway and down the street, so Sydna Flowers would not hear it start.  No danger of Charles hearing anything after the cattle auction.

I tried my best to get a picture of a Jack Rabbit in here, but it would not work, so I just put her in.  Ain't she cool?

 

     By 2:30, the boys had a half-dozen rabbits skinned and field dressed on ice in the cooler.  Eddie was driving and all four boys were in the front seat, drinking the last of the beer and singing “There were Ninety-Nine Beer Bottles, a hanging on the Wall.”

     The bar ditch came up suddenly and Eddie tried to turn left and miss it.  Too late.  The pickup slammed into the ditch.   The front passenger side tire smashed into the far wall and the wheel bent under the axle at a weird angle.  The boys managed to push the truck out and get it on solid ground.   It listed a bit toward the right front, but, after they changed the flat tire on the crooked wheel, the vehicle was drivable.  Only problem, it took two guys to hold the steering wheel and keep the truck going straight down the road.

    “My dad’s gonna kill me!"  Eddie groused.  "He’ll be mad as hell when he sees that wheel.  I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” 

     “Don’t panic, Eddie."  Scott had an analytical mind.  Let’s think about this for a minute.   Your dad went to the cattle auction tonight.  You know what he generally does at the cattle auction.  He sips Black Jack with my dad and Charlie Tom Isaacs, and they all get plastered.  Isn’t that right?”  

     “Yeah, but that won’t help.  He’ll have a headache and just get madder.  You know how he gets if someone messes with his truck.”

     “Well, we just might get lucky.  If we can get the truck back in the driveway without waking anybody up, he might come out in the morning and think he bent that wheel himself."  Scott said logically.  "It’s worth a try.  Beats hell out of waking everyone up and telling a made-up story.   We don’t dare resort to the truth, and they ain’t no lie we can tell that they’ll believe.”

     They killed the motor three houses down and the boys managed to push the pickup into the driveway without waking anyone.   All four walked home—it was not far.  After all, this was Muleshoe, not some big town like Lubbock or Odessa.

     Every Friday morning at 5:45, the twelve members of the Muleshoe Politically Correct Conservative Action Committee meet for breakfast at the Dinner Bell Café on Highway 84, just across the road from Leal’s Mexican Food.  They talk about manly things—politics, religion, crops, weather, government subsidies, and big-titted women.  They wonder if it will ever rain again.

     “Man, I’m damn lucky to be here this morning,” Flowers said.  “I mighta had a drink or two last night, but  I don’t rightly remember.  I musta hit a curb or something on the way home.  Bent the front wheel on my pickup over sideways and I can’t hardly herd the damn thing down the road.  Sydna’s gonna be pissed, too.”

     Bobby Dale Johnson grinned.  “As far as I can tell, Sydna has good reason to be P.O.’d at you most of the time.  She got somethin’ extra to be mad about now?” 

     “Well, when I got in the truck this morning, I didn’t feel too good, but I cranked it up anyway, put it in gear and went to back out.  It didn’t want to go, so I goosed it.  The damn thing jumped clean sideways and smashed into Sydna’s car.  Tore hell out of it.  She’ll be madder’n a wet hen.  Tommy Joe, I’ll come down to your office and fill out them claim forms soon as Willie James can get me some estimates.  You reckon they’ll cancel my insurance?”

     “Damn, Flowers, if they was gonna cancel it, they’d a done it last year after you run the cattle trailer over Buck’s yard and took out that motor home.  I’ll write a letter to submit with the claim, kinda explaining things from your point of view.  It’ll be all right.”  Tommy Joe turned toward the waitress.  “Hey, Ruthie!  Is they some law against us getting any more biscuits over here?”

     Almost twenty years later, during happy hour one evening at his Dad’s home, Scott told the true story of the rabbit hunt.   Nobody enjoyed it more or laughed harder than Charlie Flowers.

      Charles Flowers died three years ago with stomach cancer.  His friends and neighbors miss him a lot.  Flowers had his flaws, as we all do, and was little-known outside the high plains.  He lived his entire life in that harsh and beautiful environment, and became a legend.  Stories about his exploits live on and grow more elaborate with each telling.  Charles taught us all how to live.

Creature of Habit

     I have become a creature of habit.  That is not something I intended to do.  In fact, I have resisted the idea for most of my life.  I want to be young, spontaneous, unpredictable, and interesting.  I want to be the dashing young man with a careless curl and devil-may-care attitude.  I did not choose to be old, spectacled, plain, or boring.  I did not plan thinning white hair and skinny white legs.  As time passed, some habits seem to have eased into my daily life without permission and altered my persona.  Perhaps there is still time to change.

     I read somewhere that habits are, at first, strings—then they become cables.  I’d guess my habits right now are somewhere between the kite string and the nylon rope stage.  I may be able to change some of them, but I really don’t have the will, or desire, to change others.  I didn’t count on that.  I expected to always resist the urge to be predictable, but I find that I actually enjoy some repetitive behavior.

     For instance, at about six-thirty each morning, I pull the tea kettle off the shelf on my stove, fill it with cold water, put it on the front, right-hand burner, and set the burner on high.  I take the French press from the dishwasher, place it in its precise position on the counter, put 4 1/3 scoops of Eight O’clock Columbian coffee beans into the grinder and count to nine while it grinds.  The coffee gets too powdery if I let it go to ten or more and is full of chunks and half-beans if I cut it off too early. I put the properly ground beans into the press and wait for the water to boil.

     The tea pot whistles when the water is ready, but I don’t hear it.  When I brought the contraption home from Der Kutchen Laden and it didn’t whistle, I was furious.  I planned to take it back and give them a piece of my mind.  Charlotte suggested I settle down.

     Turns out I have a high frequency hearing loss and do not hear that particular sound.  Same for the alarm on my Wal-Mart wrist watch.  It goes off at odd times and my grandchildren say, “Mac, your watch is beeping.  You need to turn it off.” 

     I have no idea how to turn it off.  I didn’t turn the damn thing on.  I just ignore it and go about my business as if I’m not beeping like sonar on a World War Two submarine. The kids exchange knowing looks and roll their eyes.

     When I see the steam blowing out the top of the kettle, or when Charlotte yells from the bedroom to stop the whistling, I pour the boiling water into the glass beaker and stir the mixture with a long-handled spoon I keep for that purpose.  The spoon is always in a container on the drain board so I can find it.  Others around the house have learned not to fiddle with my coffee spoon.  A knife or a fork or even another spoon does not work the same.  I need to stir my coffee with THAT spoon or it won’t taste right.  If the spoon is misplaced, my coffee gets cold while I search for it.

     After I stir the coffee with my spoon, I let it steep for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, or longer if I want it stronger.  When I push down the plunger, the kitchen fills with a heavenly aroma and the beaker fills with fresh, rich, flavorful coffee.  I pour the brew into one of my special mugs and sit down to watch television and work a crossword puzzle.  (For more on the special mugs, see “Coffee Cups” in this blog on 8-5-13)

     I say “watch” television because I set the sound low, just loud enough to hear the commercials.  At that level, it is impossible to hear or understand the programs.  That is fine with me, because the programs at that time of day are all morning news.  I watch the Fox bunch, not because of my political leanings, but because the news is delivered by good-looking women in short, tight dresses.  I don’t give a whit about the news, but I enjoy watching the girls squirm and jiggle while they talk.

     Fox likes to bring in a lot of “guest experts” and sit them down on a rounded sofa, facing the camera.  They are experts about different subjects--psychology, mathematics, economics, the stock market, or world peace, but you can bet they’ll have some things in common.  They will be nice-looking, long-legged, well-built women in short skirts, wiggling around on that couch, showing a little cleavage and trying to make their case without flashing the  TV camera.  If they bring on any of the arrogant know-it-alls—Geraldo, The Donald, or Pat Roberson, I just switch over to CNN and watch the liberal cuties over there.

     I “listen” to the commercials because I get a kick out of the disclaimers.  Most of the commercials are about medicine, which says something about who is watching at six am.  They say, “Ask your doctor about so-and-so.”  They want you to think the doctor appreciates your advice.  They also want to give him a little nudge in the direction of so-and-so, just in case he hasn’t already thought of it.  The announcer low-talks real fast and tells you to watch out for the side effects of so-and-so, which may include body parts dropping off, kidneys locking up, and livers exploding, to name the most common.

     There is always a Cialis commercial, which focuses on two consenting adults on a deserted beach, relaxing in separate footed bathtubs.  Oddly enough for this day and age, the consenting adults are of opposite sexes.  As the golden sun sets, music plays softly in the background, and a quiet-voiced announcer tells you to call your doctor if you have an erection lasting more than four hours.  If I take one of those pills and that problem arises at my house, there are several people I might call to help with it.  My doctor is not on that list.

      As I said at the outset, if I decide I want to, I may be able to change some of these habits.  I probably should, just to demonstrate that I’m on board with the spirit of hope and change.  All the same, I’m not about to quit watching good-looking women squirm around in tight skirts.  Maybe I’ll try instant coffee.

San Fernando Cathedral



The San Fernando Cathedral as seen from the Main Plaza in broad daylight.  Note the young pickpocket on the right, on his way into the chapel to confess his sins and, perhaps with some loose change in his pocket, promise to sin no more.

    In 1719, the Marques de San Miguel de Aquayo, governor and captain general of Coahuila and Texas, recommended to the king of Spain that 400 volunteer families be gathered from either Galicia, or the Canary Islands, or Havana, and transported to Texas to provide settlers for the colony.  In 1723, the king decided to send 200 families from the Canary Islands.

     The governor wanted these settlers to populate the area around his newest presidio, San Fernando de Bexar.  The mission Valero, later known as the Alamo, had been established there in 1720, and settlers were needed to farm and defend the land.  The Indians in Texas were not nearly as docile as those in Mexico, and the friars were having trouble recruiting slave labor.  Comanche didn't make good slaves.

     For the next several years, governmental delays kept the project on hold, but by midsummer of 1730, twenty-five families from the Canary Islands made it to Havana and ten more to Veracruz.  The king cancelled the project, but the ten families in Veracruz, fifty-six people altogether, decided to continue overland to the remote presidio at San Fernando de Bexar, and arrived there on March 9, 1731. 

     Due to marriages while en route, fifteen actual families arrived in Bexar.  The cagey islanders must have realized that single daughters, no matter how sweet, received no land, but young daughter-in-laws and their husbands were awarded a farm.  Four single men, ranging in age from 17 to 22, arrived with their families and were collectively designated the sixteenth family.  Each family was allotted a generous farm, and the single men each received one half a family share.

     In 1731, the Canary Islanders established the San Fernando Cathedral and started construction on the chapel, which was finished in 1750 or so.  To put this time frame in context, the population of New York City was around 9,000 loyal British subjects when San Fernando was started, and the famed San Juan Capistrano Mission in Southern California was not built until almost fifty years later, in 1776.   

     The San Fernando Cathedral has quietly existed in its spot in the exact center of the city of San Antonio for 282 years.  It is the mother church of the Archdiocese of San Antonio and the seat of its archbishop.  Pope John Paul II visited there in 1987, during the only trip to Texas by a sitting pope.

      In 1831, Jim Bowie married the beautiful Ursula de Verimendi in the San Fernando Chapel and his two children were, no doubt, christened there.  In 1836, William Barret Travis and Green Jameson watched from the church's bell tower, the highest structure in San Antonio, as General Sesma led the advance guard of Santa Anna’s army into town.  The Mexicans unfurled the famous blood red, “No-Quarter” flag from the belfry and it remained there during the siege and fall of the Alamo.

The cathedral during Richemont's presentation.

     Now, in addition to its other functions,  the building is used as a backdrop for a fantastic light and music show.   For the next ten years, four nights each week, the facade of San Fernando Cathedral will be used as a sort of movie screen to reflect the imagination of French artist Xavier de Richemont.   Visitors are urged to bring lawn chairs and find places in the main plaza to watch and listen as the free presentation unfolds three times nightly.

     The show is called “The Saga at San Fernando Cathedral” and consists of a series of psychedelic-like visions in intense full color that condense the three hundred year history of San Antonio into a twenty-four minute visual and auditory experience.  It is, in a word, incredible.

     I am not a fan of contemporary art.  I’ve seen too many slick talkers foist off absolute junk on unsuspecting patsies by calling it “art.”  We had an ole boy in Lubbock named Terry Allen that scratched out a living doing just that.  Oh, he also wrote some songs that pretty much rhymed, and picked a guitar around town, just about anything to make a living without working.  One time, at an art show in New Mexico, he put a used Airstream trailer house on display as a piece of art. If I remember correctly, he artistically leaned a broom up against the side of the trailer.  He was a lot better salesman than artist.

     This “video art installation” isn’t like that.  It is art on a level with any I've seen, but entirely different.  I watched the show on the Internet and was mesmerized.  In the beginning, the chapel was all darkness with hints of red in the background, as if the viewer is peering toward an early morning red sky through a dense black forest.  Thunder rolls.  It's raining.  The sound of the rain becomes music. I feel as if this represents the dawn of time—the instant of creation.

The church as it appears toward the end of the presentation.

     In continuous color, synchronized with fantastic music, the story of Texas unfolds on the face of the cathedral.  Geronimo, Sam Houston, Stephen Austin, LBJ, Abraham Lincoln and dozens of others are recognizable on the face of the chapel.  Tepees, horses, cattle and oil wells drift by.  The Alamo with Travis, Bowie, and Crockett, all in living color and all accompanied by appropriate music, fill the scene. 

     The music ranges from distant thunder to a lonesome flute or guitar.  A complicated pipe organ ensemble precedes the plaintive lyrics of simple folk music sung by a nasal hillbilly.  Accordions and mariachis follow symphonic sounds from a full blown orchestra and choir, all perfectly coordinated with the visual extravaganza taking place on the facade of the old church. 

     I watched in rapt attention as the saga played out.  I marveled at the talent of Xavier de Richemont, and the foresight of those who commissioned him for this piece, his first in the United States.  I watched the whole show on my computer and have yet to see the saga in person, but that will be remedied shortly.  If need be, I will go alone and sit in the cold rain.  I will see this work of art in person.

     For more information on The Saga of San Fernando Cathedral, and to view the work, go to www.mainplaza.org, read about the installation and see the show.

Some of the remains of the Texians slaughtered and burned by Santa Anna's troops at the Alamo were recovered by Juan Seguin and are interred here at San Fernando.

Luxury

A road like this in the moonlight becomes magic in a Jaguar

     When you see that title, your first thought may well be, “What does anyone from Lubbock know about luxury?”  I admit West Texas is not exactly chock full of luxury, but if you look past the surface, it is there.  

     As a young man, when I considered the word “luxury,” the first images that came to mind involved objects.  Automobiles, diamonds, mink, leather, and silk—that sort of thing.  After spending my life chasing all the above, I discovered that luxury has nothing to do with things.  Luxury is much more complicated—and simple.  It is a state of mind.

     In 1975, I made a decision.  I had been to the showroom three times the week before, looking, touching, admiring, and dreaming.  At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon,  a neighbor and I finished pouring his new concrete driveway.  He and I started at seven that morning, and worked in the heat and humidity of late-summer Houston.  We were hot and sweaty, dressed in tee shirts and cut-off jeans, splashed with concrete.

Remember, this was 1975

      “You want to take me down to Overseas Motors, Rudy?  I’m going to buy that car.”

     “Right now? Overseas Motors?  Dressed like that?”  Rudy was incredulous.

     “Right now.”  I said.  He grinned.  Rudy was a Rice professor, a PhD, and the idea appealed to his overdeveloped sense of irony.

     I wrote a check for a brand new, 1975 Jaguar XJ6L, a four-door sedan, midnight blue, with extended wheel base.  The seats were Corinthian leather and the dash gleamed with polished burled walnut.  The car had power everything, two gas tanks and a state-of-the-art sound system with eight speakers.  The speedometer was pegged at 140 mph. I drove it home that afternoon, dressed in concrete-splattered cut offs, with a day’s growth of beard and a lot of what I considered justifiable pride.

     The Jaguar was not just a car.  It was a statement.  I was thirty-nine years old, my company was thriving, my wife was lovely, my children were beautiful, and I was just getting started.  I well remembered the one room house on the dirt farm in Lubbock where I started first grade.  It would fit in my West University living room. I knew where I came from and I knew where I was going.  It was time everyone else did.

American version, with the controls on the left.

     Charlotte, Rudy, and Jola, his wife, loaded into the car for a demonstration ride.  Immersed in classical music from the unbelievable sound system, we eased onto the Southwest Freeway.  The powerful vehicle accelerated soundlessly while music and the smell of leather permeated the interior.  We were cruising at seventy in the far left lane as the independent suspension straightened the curves and buffered the road noise.  Luxury.  Pure automotive luxury.

     Tink.

     The small rock was evidently kicked up randomly by a junky ’63 Ford Galaxy going fifty miles an hour in the lane ahead of us.  The stone created a ding just under the rearview mirror in the exact center of what the English call the windscreen.  A dark circle, maybe three-eights of an inch in diameter marred my view of the world and shattered my sense of superiority.  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach.  I wanted to cry.  I turned the music down and drove home.

     One night, in February of the next year, Charlotte and I drove from Breckenridge to Copper Mountain to meet some friends for dinner.  On the way back, it was late and powdery white snow covered the black pine trees that dotted the mountains.  A bright moon lit the landscape; the curvy road was lonely and dry.  The Jaguar was in its element.  Dual heaters silently kept the interior cozy and Ferrante and Teicher filled the car with fantastic music as I effortlessly negotiated the sweeping curves.  To this day, I cannot forget the intense pleasure I felt that night.  It is easily the most memorable drive of my life.

     Back in Houston, about six months later, Charlotte called me from Wagner Hardware, on the corner of Kirby and Rice Boulevard.  “The Jaguar quit.  Just died in the middle of the intersection.  What should I do?”

     “Call Triple A and have it towed home.  I don’t have time to fart with it now.  I’m trying to work.”   

      When I got home, I raised the bonnet and inspected the motor.  I checked the wiring connections and wiped dust off the air cleaner.  Nothing amiss.  I tried the starter.  The car started immediately and ran beautifully.  

     The next day, Charlotte took the Jaguar to the dealership.  They could find nothing wrong, so naturally, they replaced the spark plugs, the spark plug wires, the distributer cap, all the filters, the oil, the coolant and the fan belts.  The amount of the invoice was obscene.  During the next two months, the car died in the middle of the street four more times.

     No matter how fantastic the sound system, it is little consolation when you’re stopped in the center of a busy intersection with the motor dead and half of Houston honking at you.  Just ask Charlotte.  We bought a Buick station wagon for her and I kept the Jaguar to play with.

     I talked with an architect friend of mine who loved Jaguars.  “John,” I said, “I’m thinking of buying another Jaguar, an XKE.  What do you think?”

     “Jim, if you had two Jaguars, what would you drive?”

      The logic of his comment was obvious.  I had no reply.

       Charlotte still loves silk, fur, leather and Joy perfume, but my idea if luxury has evolved.  Luxury is simple.  A faucet that doesn’t drip.  A spotless bathroom. An intelligent conversation.  Sharp kitchen knives.  Warm, thirsty towels.  A drink of cool water.  Homemade lasagna.  Ironed sheets.  Strong, black coffee.  Things that touch you and make you feel good.  That is luxury.

     A friend of mine put everything in perspective.  He said when we’re young, we want everything to be up to date and stylish.  Our clothing must be snappy and well-tailored, our cars need to be sleek and shiny, and our women trim and shapely.  As we grow older, we begin to place a lot more value on comfort.

     A new Jaguar, fresh off the showroom floor, is nice, but it is not luxury.  It is a machine.  If you’re lucky, one day you might drive it through snowy mountains at midnight, and remember the trip for a lifetime.  That is luxury.  Luxury makes us feel good, no matter what it costs.

Putting the Lid on the Churn--Final Episode of the Fishing Trip

The Conejos River, near Platoro.

 

     The wake-up aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted up the stairs.  I knew it was sometime after 4:30, and, as John Wayne said, we were burning daylight.  That whole idea confused me, but I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bath room.  I could hear Roy telling his story as I dressed and went downstairs.

      Coffee just tastes better out of a heavy mug.  We pulled on jackets and went outside to sit on the front porch and drink the steamy brew, watch for any hint of daylight, and listen to Roy weave his endless tale.  He was building the drama as he neared the climax.

    “Finally, she got this little gleam in her eye and said, Uh, er, uh—oh shit!  I forgot!” Roy said.

     “What do you mean, she said, ‘I forgot!’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Collins said.

     “She didn’t say 'I forgot.'  I did.  I’m the one who forgot.  I don’t remember what she said, but it was really cool,” Roy explained.

     “Dammit Roy, you mean we been listening to a story for two days and you can’t remember how it ends?  What the hell kind of deal is that?”  Wayne was stunned.  He never failed to properly finish a story, even if he had to make up the ending, which I suspect happened more often than not.   We let Roy off the hook because we all tend to let details drop through the cracks on occasion.  That may be a function of age.

     I fixed “Country Eggs Benedict” for breakfast.  Simply split one of Neil’s big scratch biscuits and top each half with a thick slab of fried ham and a poached egg.  Smother the whole thing with a ladle full of Tabasco-spiked cream gravy and serve with a side of German fried potatoes and onions--sophisticated, southern, and delicious—stick to your ribs food.  I know, I know—some of it will also stick to the inside of your arteries.

     On a fishing trip, I don’t do real Eggs Benedict for several reasons.  We don’t generally bring English Muffins and Hollandaise Sauce to camp.  I could do the sauce from scratch, but it is just not civilized to serve Eggs Benedict unless preceded by spicy Bloody Marys and accompanied by crisp, dry, fermented-in-the-bottle Champagne.  After a breakfast like that, it’s impossible to concentrate on fishing.

A mountain with the not unusual name, "Old Baldy," adjacent to the Alamosa Canyon, near Platoro.

     Time passed, as always, and our few days stolen from reality came to an end.  Someone may find it possible to leave those fellows and not miss them immediately, but not Wayne and not me.  We talked all the way to Kerrville, over 800 miles, about Roy’s wonderful stories, Neil’s quiet wisdom, and James’ quick wit.  We marveled at how little we all have changed, while the world kept turning and perhaps, passed us by. 

     No doubt, we have changed—we’re almost eighty years old.  For one thing, we drink better whiskey.  We also drive better cars and eat better than we once did.    All of us parlayed the lessons we learned in West Texas into a good life.  The work ethic we learned is taken for granted out there, but in the rest of the world it is much admired and sought after.

     I think the lack of change in our personalities is due to the fact that we were pretty well satisfied with who we were when we got out of high school. We chose not to change.  College and professional life taught us new ways to express our ideas and expanded our vocabularies, but short of superficial changes, we stayed true to the land of our youth and the rules of life we learned on the high plains.

     We all have made new friends.  Part of being from the Texas panhandle has to do with being open to friendship.  In the early days out there, neighbors lived on lonely farms, miles apart, and seldom saw each other.  When they did get a chance to visit, they took full advantage of the opportunity and regaled each other with stories, news, and gossip.  Friends were necessary, whether building a barn, rounding up cattle, fighting Indians, or chasing outlaws.  New friends were desirable, and old friends were indispensible.  We inherited these traits, refined them to suit the times, and live with them to this day.

Neil, James, Wayne, and Roy.  Four better fly fishermen may exist somewhere, but I doubt it.  About 280 years of experience is represented here.

     The guys on this fishing trip are some of my closest friends.  We’ve known and loved each other since we all had pimples.  We’ve shared each other’s highs and lows.  We know instinctively which buttons to push…. and which ones to leave alone.   We sometimes don’t visit for months, but that does not matter—we know where we stand.  We’re friends.

    James Collins called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.  During our conversation, he mentioned that Neil and he were already planning next year’s event and it was going to be a regular stem-winder.  He intimated that if Wayne and I were nice to him for the rest of this year—very nice to him—we might be invited.  Ford nailed it—the little S.O.B. has been that way since he was five years old.

The Fishing Trip----Part Three

    

One of the massive hammer mills in the canyon beyond Creede.  Ore was loaded into wagons under the shed at the base, but back then few people rode bicycles--they got exercise in other ways.

                             

     Monday morning we broke camp—meaning we moved our gear out of the log cabins and packed the vehicles—and headed for Platoro, Colorado.  On the way, we visited the old mines in the steep canyon just above Creede.  The mines at Creede operated continuously from 1890 until 1985, producing tons of silver, gold, lead, zinc and copper.  In the early days, ore was broken down here in massive hammer mills, then loaded on mule trains and carried overland to the railroad at Alamosa, where it was loaded onto railcars and transported to the smelter.  The whole canyon is full of history.

     Bob Ford shot Jesse James in Missouri, and ten years later, Ed O’Kelley shot Bob Ford in a tent saloon in Creede.  Bat Masterson and Poker Alice both lived and gambled there for a time.  Wide open, with gambling halls, saloons and whore houses, the local motto was, ”There is no night in Creede.”

     When the “Holy Moses” Mine was discovered in 1889, six hundred people lived in Creede.  By the end of 1891, the population had grown to over ten thousand.  When the mines closed in 1985, the locals continued digging for gold, changing their focus from ore to tourists.  The little city is filled with brightly painted, perfectly restored Victorian buildings.

     We made our way through South Fork and on to Monte Vista, then, because there are no front roads, took back roads to Platoro.  Platoro is a mining town, and an active mine still operates, boring into the mountain on the western edge of the community.  No idea what they mine there, but there may be a clue in the name.  A Mexican friend tells me the name Platoro is a combination of Plata, Spanish for silver, and Oro, which means gold.

Looking down into the metropolis of Platoro, at the curve of the Conejos River. 

     The last forty miles of road into Platoro is dirt, and according to the signs, must be graded by the county once each twelve months.  We arrived at the Skyline Lodge, cabin number eleven, about two P.M.  Roy Turner had already arrived—his gear was inside.  He was out exploring, but drove up within fifteen minutes.

     Ratisseau said having Roy show up was, “just like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae.” As soon as we stowed our gear, the fishermen began to talk in tongues as they prepared for battle and pulled on their waterproof suits of armor.

     “I reckon I’ll use one of them black-and-yellow pity pons this afternoon,” said Wayne, “or a solid black cinco loco.  Them big ‘uns cain’t hardly let one of them cincos go by.”

     “When I think back over the past sixty-some-odd years of fly-fishing, I doubt if I ever caught anything on a pity pon, much less a cinco.  My best luck has always been with a red-and-green jumble-iya, tied on a number eight hook with my daddy’s secret knot,”  Roy drawled.

     “I wouldn’t use anything red and green today.  Look at those birds—they’re going crazy over dark blue hotty-tottys.  I tied me some of them last week and that’s what I’ll be using,”  McMullen put in. 

      “You guys need to make up your minds and get moving or we won’t get any fishing done today,”  Collins said.  “I’m gonna use one of these McFly Terminators that Neil tied for me last Christmas.  Never fail to catch something with one of them.”

Roy, Wayne, Me, James, and Neil in front of cabin #11.  I took one look at this picture and started a diet.

     As I sat there on the porch and listened while the group discussed the proper weight of a leader, the exact color of a fake tsetse fly, the most advantageous length for a rod, and the type of line best-suited for dry-fly fishing, I suffered from an utter lack of understanding.  Except for the obvious West Texas accents and phrasing, I could have been listening to a bunch of Greek farmers arguing about the best way to cook a goat.

     After the afternoon fishing, Neil broke out a bottle of Ezra Brooks, and happy hour commenced as we fried trout for dinner.  Now, let me point out once again, none of us are spring chickens.  The guys moved slowly getting into their fishing gear.  They took forever to rig the fly rods.  Everyone maneuvered gingerly up and down the rustic steps at the front porch, and it took three rest periods for any of us to clomp up stairs to the bedrooms.  Not so with the whiskey.  A sack of crushed ice and more than half of Neil’s bottle disappeared instantly.  I suppose the thin air up there melts ice and evaporates good bourbon.

     I hated to put a damper on the festivities, but I had to relay a comment to James Collins. “Now Collins, I don’t hardly know how to say this, but I need to tell you something.  Our friend, Davis Ford is hurt that he was not invited up here to enjoy this trip with the rest of us.  He wouldn’t want me saying anything, but he was absolutely crushed.  He had a little catch in his throat when he told me you all had been friends since before the first grade and he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t invited.  Maybe you ought to call him—you know, maybe help him feel better.”  Davis had asked me to lay a good, thick guilt trip on Collins and I did my best.

     “You tell Davis Ford if we’d wanted him up here we’d have invited him.”  Guilt trips don't work on Collins, and that closed the subject of Davis Ford.  “Pass that bottle over here, Jimmy Paul—as Rat says, ‘I need a half-sole on this drink.’” 

     Later, when I told Ford about the incident, he laughed heartily, and said, “The little S.O.B. hasn’t changed a bit.  He was just like that when he was five years old.”

     Turner started telling a story about two of our classmates.  During a brief pause, Ratisseau told three jokes.  Roy went on with his story.

     As Roy caught his breath, someone mentioned that Collins was the only guy they knew who reached puberty and went bald all in the same year.

     “Nineteen sixty-one at Fort Bragg,” Collins said.  “I was a brand new second lieutenant.”

     Roy went on with his story.

     “Let’s call Merriman,” Ratisseau said.  “Maybe he knows how Tom is doing.”

     I had Larry’s number in my phone, and he answered immediately.  He and Brenda were on vacation in the Caribbean somewhere.  We passed the phone around and everyone talked with him a few minutes.  We marveled at what a great age we live in—routinely talking with a friend in the Caribbean from the outback of Colorado.  Roy went on with his story.

     For dinner, we had fresh, pan-fried trout, crisp wedge salad, and corn on the cob.  I made a cherry cobbler that was a bit dry, but otherwise passable.  After we cleaned the kitchen, it was bedtime.  Everyone knew James would be fixing coffee at 4:30 in the morning, so we better get to sleep.  Roy went on with his story….

A bit dry, because I was unacustomed to working with fresh cherries, but passable.

To Be Continued…..