Burton Cotton Gin Festival

Alice and I visited a classmate and her husband this past weekend at Burton, Texas. Have you ever been to Burton? It is kind of easy to miss on your way to Houston. Burton is just off highway 290 a few miles this side of Brenham. Burton has a population of a little less than 400 peaceful residents. Its been said before, in cases like this, “…and one old grouch.” I didn’t meet him. The big doings in town Saturday was the Burton Cotton Gin Festival. The streets were full of folks being royally entertained with all kinds of fun activates. The parade made this little town proud. They even had a children’s bike parade. I felt the star of the string of passing memorabilia was a green and black, 1932 Ford Coupe with the “rumble seat” full of pretty girls. I thought that would get your attention. A tractor pull was popular, as well as all the arts and crafts lining the streets. And music was constant and varied. There was country and western pickers, barber shop singers, blue grass bands, and the Winedale German Singers performing all day and into the night.

But the star attraction of the three-day celebration is the cotton gin. The gin was built in 1914 and christened “Burton Farmers Gin.” It ran the first 11 years with steam power. The next 23 years the gin was powered by a 125 horsepower, 16 ton, two cylinder, Bessemer, diesel oil engine. In 1963 the big “Lady B” engine was retired and electric motors did the task until the gin closed in 1974, due to the lack of cotton being raised in the area. Then in 1992 a dedicated group of concerned citizens worked long and hard restoring the gin, and putting “Lady B” Bessemer engine back into working condition.

Each year since, the town of Burton has sponsored the “Cotton Gin Festival” so folks can once again experience the thrill of seeing a bale of cotton produced. At about 3pm Saturday, the whistle sounded, just like it did many years ago, calling the farmers to bring their cotton, for the gin was ready. And like, “back then” they came running to see the picked cotton, vacuumed into the “ginning stands” to have the seed removed. Soon the cotton was compressed into a 500-pound bale, wrapped in burlap, tied with steel bands and dumped onto the floor for all to see. A cheer went up and the air filled with applause as the bale was ready for us all to inspect.

Next year, about the third weekend of April, you might enjoy going to Burton, Texas for the “Burton Cotton Gin Festival.” And, if you run into that one old grouch, that lives there, tell him hello for me. I’m still glad I didn’t meet him.

End of the Tale

I once wrote a book designed to help young writers with their compositions. Well, that is not exactly what happened. What happened was I told a large group of people that I had written a book to help young writers with their compositions. Neither of these statements were correct. Both were bald-faced lies. And that is how I got into trouble with a friend.

It is a little painful, even today, to tell, but I must finely be honest. I was asked by a group to favor them with an after dinner entertaining speech. I thought it would be a lark to kind of pull their collective legs to fabricate this imagined book that was entitled, “The End of the Tail.” I stated that writing a book is easy to start. One just describes the setting of the world the imagined characters live in. Then you get them into some trouble and worry them around the countryside for a while. Now this is where the young writer gets into trouble. How do you end the story? Never fear, my neat little book comes to the rescue. The book is chuck full of endings of stories. Nothing else. Just story endings. For instance, “John leaned down from his faithful horse, Painter, kissed Rose lightly on the cheek and road off into the sunset.” (Westerns, Love. Pg. 167). You see how easy, and useful this could be? One just looks for an ending that fits the story you have written, tack on the handy, “End of the Tail,” and bingo, you have a prize winning book. The endings are entered in the book both by alphabetical, and by subject. Easy to find, easy to use, and solves a great dilemma in book writing I told them.

I guess I did a better selling job than I thought I was capable of. And that is where I got into trouble. My friend Ruth was in the audience, and she bought the whole story as the truth. She never thought her friend would lead her down the primrose path of fabrication. Ruth hurried home and sent her husband, Fred, out to buy a copy of my, soon to be, best seller. Fred drove to every bookseller in Austin, but could not find a copy of my book. They must have flown off the shelves, he thought. He tried to order a copy, but none could find where to order the famous book. Fred came home empty handed, which did not set well with Ruth. She called me. I confessed. “With a candle lit steak dinner, and a bottle of expensive wine at Hill’s Restaurant I was finely able to regain their friendship.” (Friends, Lying to. Pg. 290)

Bluebonnets and Other Wonders of Spring

I was out in the pasture, a few days ago; looking at the few bluebonnets we have this year. I suppose the dry spring was a little hard on our favorite flower here in central Texas. While on my scouting trip I noticed many other wild flowers in the area. Indian paintbrush, verbena, blue-eyed grass and evening primrose were all in bloom, but shy in abundance. One flower left me puzzled. It had a leaf arrangement similar to our bluebonnet, with kind of purple blossoms, but with smaller “bonnets.” I did not find this plant listed in any of my “flower” books.

The best solution I have found with these sorts of problems is to call for John Steel. Well, you can’t “call John Steel” for the old man doesn’t have a phone. I left word at Winkley’s Feed Store, which is just about as good as a phone, to have John stop by when he could.

Sure enough, in a few days I saw John’s pick-up, with him and that old spotted dog, coming up our lane. I showed John the mystery plant that had me stumped. He looked at me as if to say, “where have you been all these years Baker.” He was kind enough not to rub my nose in my ignorance. “Baker,” he said, “this plant is a scurvy pea, sometimes called buffalo peas.” “The Indians used this plant to cure all kinds of sickness that befell them.” John went on to tell me the Indians shared their “medicine” with the white man on the frontier. They made teas, and poultices of the leaves and ground the roots and seeds for placing on wounds and boils. “Did it work John?” I asked. “Sure it did, and it still will if you stay in the pasture and out of the drug store. I suppose you can guess I got a pretty good lecture on folk medicine and how I might live forever if I would pay attention.

I suppose that lesson would still be going on if Alice had not interrupted it with a welcome glass of iced tea. And the tea was from Lipton’s I might add. Now I take John Steel’s knowledge about the world and all that is in it, as near to gospel as you can find. From now on, when I find that plant I will instantly know it is “scurvy pea, or sometimes called buffalo peas.” However, the next time one of the grandkids comes by here, I am going to ask them to Google that for me.

Center of the Universe

On the west side of the square of my hometown, sandwiched between Butch Riggs barbershop and Bill Hanes boot shop, was S & Z Feed store. Earl Sawyer and Guy Zimmerman ran an emporium designed especially for the farmers and ranchers of the area. They stocked, of course all kinds of feed, as well as supplies and medicines for the farm trade including a place for the men to gather and swap tall tails of daring do. The feed store also bought most all of the produced and raised by the farmers and ranchers.

I was proud to work for these gentlemen. My job was to keep the brass disk embedded in the sidewalk in front of the store polished to a high luster. Among my other duties were, testing cream, counting eggs, weighing hides, stacking hay and shoveling oats and corn into bins. But my main, and most important task was polishing the brass plaque. I polished it the first thing each morning and the last thing at night. On muddy days it often got an extra rubbing during the day. In the center of the round disk was a large engraved “X”. Around the perimeter, in bold capitol letters were the words, CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. I knew it was the truth. I could stand with both feet planted on the disk, my eyes closed, arms extended and feel the world, the heavens, and all the universe swirl around me. Mr. Zimmerman told me in strict confidence, one could start from that brass plaque and go anywhere in the world or universe. I believed him.

Finally I grew up, left home, went to school, and opened a shop of my own. We didn’t cater to the farmer; I had other clients. But in those years I often felt uneasy. Things didn’t quite fit. I remembered the brass plaque. Perhaps that was it. I was living in an exocentric world. I resurveyed the universe. Sure enough, just as I suspected, the center was a little off from my youth. I found the center to be right in the middle of my shop. I embedded a brass disk of my own, with a “X” and everything.

I did feel better. For a while. But the uneasiness crept back into my tortured soul. I sold the shop and moved to Liberty Hill. I was relieved for a while. But I needed to know exactly where the starting place was. Where was the “X”? With much trepidation I again began surveying of the universe. I used Polaris as one benchmark and Scorpio as the second. For the third point of reference I found a USGS mark out past Llano. With lot of stake driving and chain dragging I worked many long hours. Each day I felt better. Success must surely be just around the corner.

I bet you can guess where I found the CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. Yep. You are right. Downtown Liberty Hill, Texas. I feel great! And if you get to feeling a little uneasy, nauseous, frustrated, just go downtown, stand on the brass plaque, close your eyes, extend your arms and feel the universe swirl about you. That is guaranteed to make you feel great.

A Eulogy for Pete

Frank Edward “Pete” Ebeling, a life long rancher of Burnet County died February 26, 2008. Pete was born April 4th, 1922 at Shovel Mountain Community in southern Burnet County. Pete is survived by his wife of 53 years, Leta Ebeling. His sons Don, Mark and his wife Stephanie, Steve and his wife Julie, and daughter Marianne Ebeling also survive him. Pete and Leta have 9 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren.

Family and friends, we are here to celebrate Pete Ebeling’s life. Pete’s life was full and varied and he pursued it to the fullest. To quote a fellow gardener friend of his, Gary Rowland, “Pete Ebeling is what makes Burnet County unique.”
Pete was a rancher, farmer, gardener, student, and romantic. He was an adventurer,
philanthropist, athlete, collector, and most of all a dreamer.

Pete enjoyed ranching and seeing his goats belly high in grass and about ready to give birth to a new kid. Pete almost lived with his animals during that time of year. He always had a small length of rope in his pocket to pull a kid if needed. Once on the road to Mason to a goat show, with Leta, Buck and Robin, he spied a young heifer in a field, having trouble calving. Pete stopped, climbed the fence and pulled the calf with his trusty rope, then went on to the show. Later Pete was sorry he had not left the rope on the calf’s leg just to confound the unknown owner of the cow and calf.

Pete loved farming and planting his fields. He planted acres of peas, okra, and turnips. I don’t think he wanted that many vegetables, he just wanted to see if he could grow them and give them away. Leta said he once planted 10 acres of okra: they harvested the first fruit and then Pete turned his goats into the field. The goats harvested the rest.

Pete’s garden was a pleasant place to visit. It contained many of the plants listed in the seed catalogue, and grew with abundance. If you visited his garden you could not leave without an arm full of produce. With Leta’s help, there was always one row of zinnias blooming their heart out. Pete loved all the flowers.

Pete studied everything. History perhaps was his greatest interest. He went with Lewis and Clark all the way to the Pacific and back….several times. And he shared his wonder of that journey with us all….several times. But all category of books caught Pete’s mind. Medicine, adventure, humor, as well as pleasure.

Pete was and incurable romantic. That old man you ask? Emphatically yes. He loved to watch the coming of spring, the gentle rain on the tin roof, as well as the billowing of summer clouds. But he especially watched, in spring, for the first daisy blossom to take to Leta. In the dusty dryness of fall he might take Leta a bouquet of dry weeds. He was likely as not to have left a note on the table for Leta before he went to the pasture.

The open road was an adventure to Pete. On a trip to anywhere Pete might turn off the route and take a side trip just to see what lay over that hill or string of trees. And there is where he found many new lands and new people. One grand adventure was the buying of the old steel bridge that spanned the Colorado River at Kingsland. Pete hauled it to the ranch and has used the steel for all kinds of construction.

The word philanthropist usually means a lot of money: not this time. This time it means Pete’s generous heart. He gave to all the fruit, vegetables, and flowers from his fields and gardens. Should a passer by want to buy a bushel of peas, they always got two bushels. And if it were near mealtime he would insist they stay for dinner. Leta said she has cooked for people from around the world.

Pete excelled as an athlete. He was careful which sport he played. To Pete burning prickly pear was not a job, but a sport. Burning pear he once conjured up a lightening storm that lasted for days. Pitching washers was a game he enjoyed. He could sink a washer into the hole at 30 feet often enough to win most of his games. He once said “Its to bad the Olympics did not have a washer pitching contest. But Pete’s greatest sport was the game of “42”. I think he enjoyed playing 42 more that eating dinner. He often traded a few dominions with Alice just for the heck of it. He won some, and he lost some. The last time we played 42 with Pete, he drew 4 consecutive “84” hands. That pleased Pete. We even won some of those hands.

Pete collected things. Like old worn-out cars and trucks. He even managed to drive some them way past their prime. But what Pete really collected were friends. His neighbors, the Duncans and the Mannings were not neighbors, but rather friends. Some one once said if you walked down Park Road 4, you were in mortal danger of being fed and made into a friend. Pete has friends scattered in all points of the compass. And we are all pleased to be counted in that group.

Pete dreamed of many things. Pete dreamed of having a beautiful farm. A farm with more dirt than rocks. Pete dreamed of a soil that was deep and rich and could support any crop. Pete dreamed of living where it rained on time, and the sun shone just the right amount. He dreamed of a land where the breezes cooled his back, but the wind rarely blustered. He dreamed of a growing season that was gentle to crops as well as kind to the animals. Pete dreamed. Perhaps he has now found that land he dreamed of.

Betty's Birthday

Frank Taylor awoke early that morning on the farm. As he was going to take care of the animals he remembered tomorrow was his wife, Betty’s birthday. He was proud of himself. Often, in the past, he had forgotten. “But with money short this spring how am I going to get her a nice gift?” he mused.

Later that morning at M&L Pharmacy, picking up a filled prescription, Frank noticed Betty looking at a necklace in the jewelry department. Carola, the sales lady, was showing her a gold chain with a pink stone. Frank could tell Betty asked the price of the necklace. He also knew Betty had thought to herself, “No, we can’t afford that.”

On the way back to the farm Frank hatched a plan. “Betty, I will be out most of the day,” he said. “I am going to load up a few sacks of pecans we picked up last fall, into that old trailer and sell them to folks from the side of the road.” Now Frank’, you know you are not a salesman,” Betty said. “Besides, who would stop to buy pecans, from a trailer on the side of the road?” “We will see,” Frank replied.

Frank hitched the trailer to his pickup and loaded four burlap bags of pecans. He chose one sack of Burkets, one sack of Chocktaw, and two sacks of Cheyanne pecans; the best ones his orchard had produced. He drove west of town until he found a wide place beside the highway where folks could easily park. He unhitched the trailer, nailed up a sign reading, “New Crop Pecans For Sale.” He parked his pick up near the fence where he could enjoy the shade of a post oak tree. He sat in his pick up and waited. Cars and trucks whizzed by, but none stopped. He counted cars as they sped by. None stopped. The early spring sun climbed to its zenith and started the down side. No cars stopped. Then one old, rattletrap car slowed. To slow. Immediately Frank saw to his left a great eighteen-wheeler approaching fast. At the same instant to his right he spied another freighter approaching even faster. The trucker to his left had only a moment to make a choice; hit the other trucker head on, hit the slow car in the rear, or take his gigantic rig to the ditch. He chose the ditch. BAM, the trucker hit Frank’s pecan loaded trailer full broadside. Pecans, burlap bags, and trailer were splintered, rolled, crumbled and dragged fifty yards down the right of way.

The truck driver hurried back and was relieved no one was hurt. He paid Frank for all the pecans and the destroyed trailer.

Frank hurried home and called to his wife, “Get dressed Betty; I’m taking you out for dinner at Hobo Depot tonight to celebrate your birthday” he said.
“Did you sell some of your pecans”, Betty asked.
“I sold them all… and the trailer too.” Frank replied. “And before dinner, we have to make a quick stop at M&L Pharmacy”.

Getting Elected; Building a Platform

I must have been dreaming the other day. I decided I would run for President.
Now I know that sounds a little ambitious for a country boy, but I will have plenty of company. One of the most important first steps in running for an office is to build a solid platform to stand on to make speeches. Naturally I went to Cashway Lumber to get the needed planks to build the platform.

Smitty, who has worked for Cashway for years, came out to see what I wanted. I guess he knows where each stick of lumber is stacked in that yard better than anyone.
Smitty said, “Can I help you?” I explained I was going to build a Political Platform and needed his help. He said their Political Lumber was right over there.
“What boards do you want?” he asked. I looked over the pile of Political Lumber and I must say I was under whelmed. Many were crooked, full of knotholes and looked rotten. “Is this the best you have?” I asked. “Yep” he replied. “You should have seen the ones we sent back to the mill”. “Give me your list and we will pick out the best ones we have”, he stated.

I gave him my list. Four, ‘Balance the Budget’, one ‘Cut Taxes’ and half dozen ‘Reduce Government’. Give me 10 ‘Increase Welfare’, 2 ‘Peace in our Time’, and two ‘Build more Schools’. Now I will need enough planks for my Political Platform to include, ‘Heal the Environment’, ‘Become Fuel Independent’, ‘Get Tough on Crime’, and ‘Disband the Lobbyist System’.

“Wow!” exclaimed Smitty. “You sure are building a big platform”.
“Well, I need to get elected; I have a lot of bills to pay and I haven’t had a vacation in years”. “And, oh yes I want the best ‘A Chicken in every Pot, and a Pick Up in every Garage’ boards you can find” I insisted.

Smitty suggested I might need a keg of nails to put that platform together. “Nope”, I explained, “I want a box of screws. I may have to remove some of the planks if the going gets a little rough. Unscrewing is easer than pulling nails.”

We loaded the Political Platform Lumber on my old pick-up and I headed home. That is when I got into trouble. The police said I was overloaded, sticking out back, and driving to slow for traffic.

When the right rear tire blew out I awoke in a cold sweat and shaking all over. I wasn’t dreaming…I had just had a nightmare.

A lot of that is going around these days.