Hollis Baker

This is a farewell

2008-08-07T16:35:00.000-07:00

As you have seen if you have tried to access my blog, some how my site got flagged for "questionable content." I have called all my computer buddies and none can find a way the unflag the site. We can't even find a way to plead my case with 'blogger.' Very frustrating.
One friend said, to the effect, "Shucks, we will just build you a web site and use it as a blog site. He did and we are up and running. Come see us at; http://www.hollisbaker.com/

So long, blogger. You have pushed this old man once to often.

Hollis Baker

A Train Trip into the Past and Back

2008-07-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get a song or two stuck in you head? These past few days a couple have been swimming in circles through the puddles of my brain until I decided I had to catch them and nail them to the wall before they caused more trouble. I knew they were old “oldies.” So I began searching back into my dark past. There is really not much there; just the usual things kids do when given the chance. But it seems to be a long, long tunnel never the less. Then the songs came in a flashing torrent of memory. There they were, in all their “50’s” glory.

It all started with a letter from our local draft board; “Greetings, your friends and neighbors have selected…” It wasn’t long before I was being processed into the United States Army at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. Me and about a thousand other guys were shoved onto a huffing, puffing steam train, and headed west toward El Paso, Texas. Most of us were in shock from having been jerked up and sent away from our friends, family, and sweethearts. Had I been a few months younger I think I might have cried. But big boys don’t cry, do they? In Ft. Worth I was able to wire my sweetheart a mushy telegram. I hoped she was at home crying enough for both of us. She was.

All that night our troop train crept across west Texas leaving a streak of black smoke through Abilene, Sweetwater, Big Spring and Odessa. That part of Texas was a part of my background, and seemed natural to me. I wondered what the men from back east were thinking, looking at all that nothing making its way past our Pullman windows. We arrived in Pyote, Texas in late morning. Pyote was about as vacant a place can be and still have a name printed on a board outside of town. However our train stopped there. For no apparent reason. And stayed there. For a long long time. And there was not a store or station in sight. We counted tumble weeds alongside the tracks. An old man, in a cart pulled by a donkey, ambled by. We cheered him till he was out of site. Then with a huff and puff the train came alive and we were on our way again.

Pecos was a welcome sight, with its strip of green cotton wood trees hugging the river that wiggled through town. Van Horn came into view and the rocks became red and orange; a welcome relief to the white limestone for the last million miles. Clint, Texas was just a whisper as we started the downward slope into El Paso and Ft. Bliss.

As we came into the depot of the army post the sun had just dropped behind the towering Franklin Mountains, giving the valley a warm, ruddy feel. We piled out of our rolling prison, and lined up in a shaggy formation. What a sorry sight we must have been to the Commanding Office, as he welcomed us to Ft. Bliss. We were in no mood to thank him for his welcoming speech. Then the Officer played his trump card; an Army Band came around the corner playing a popular song of the times, “If I had known you were coming, I would have baked a cake.” Now that got our attention, and perked our sprits. They played several rousing marches, and we began to feel human again. Then as they marched away, they played another popular song of those days, “So long, it’s been good to know you.” We shouted our approval and thanks for their valiant efforts in lifting the gloom from a bunch of sad recruits.

And that is where those two melodies, banging around in my head, came from. You know, after deciding where they came from, I think I will just let them stay a while longer.

Old Men on a Park Bench

2008-06-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

I have a favorite niece, Susan, that lives in Ft. Worth, and we go to see her as often as we can get away. Her home is always open and there is plenty of food, soda pop, and books. Lot of books. She and I enjoy books of all kinds and find pleasure sharing tidbits from whatever we are reading at the present time. However this time she wanted to introduce me to some one across town.

If you haven’t driven around in Ft. Worth in awhile you might be surprised. The town is abuzz with growth and excitement. Houses have been built in fields that a few years ago were planted in cotton. Between the clumps of houses businesses have sprung up to serve the communities. Downtown Ft. Worth is harder to find these days. We drove toward the old city on fine streets, crowded with cars searching for their own destinations. We passed Will Rogers Coliseum, past Southern Methodist University, and even the old “stock yards.” The yards don’t look the same, but I fancied I could still smell them. We soon entered an expansive, wooded park filled with climbing toys for kids to enjoy. Walking trails, for us more sedate, went in many directions, some skirting the Trinity River. Benches were scattered throughout the park, and it was easy to see this was a comfortable patch of nature to enjoy, nestled in the middle of a great city.

We parked and I spied a man sitting alone on a bench near the river. I was surprised when Susan, my niece, approached the man. He sported a mop of unruly hair, a baggy suit of some indistinct color, and slippers on his feet. He was reading from a small book, poems, I fancied. Susan introduced us. “Mr. Clements, this is my uncle I have spoken to you about.” I could see all of this was a well cast blob of bronze, but the magic of the moment swept me up and carried me back a hundred years.

We shook hands and he invited me to sit on the bench with him. Still in shock I sat and stammered a question. “Mr. Twain, what are you doing here in Ft. Worth?” “Well, he stated, I came to speak to the citizens of your fair city.” He continued, “I am waiting here for the steamboat, ‘Texas Belle’, to take me down river to Galveston.” I was surprised at how well he looked. He must have been near 75 yeas old. I asked him about his age. He said, “Age is a issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” This seamed to fit my question quite well. In my eagerness to keep the conservation going I asked if he might tell me about the famous Calvarias County jumping frog. You remember this is the story that ignited Mark Twain’s fame across the nation. Did that realty happen? He smiled and said, “Well, it might have happened, but if it didn’t, it should have.” He could see with his piercing gaze that I had another question and he answered it in advance. “A lie can travel half way around the world, while the truth is putting on its shoes.”

About this time we heard the unmistakable steam whistle of the “Texas Belle” as it rounded the bend and sided up to the loading wharf. Mr. Twain stood and proffered his hand in a cordial good-bye and walked to the waiting side-wheeler. As he reached the ship he turned and said “Son, always do right. This will gratify some people, and astonish the rest.”

With a shout from the Capitan, a blast of the whistle, and the boiling of black smoke the “Texas Belle” pulled away from the wharf and headed down river towards Galveston. Mr. Twain faded from view; leaving me standing on the bank of the Trinity River, with heart pounding, mind whirling, and totally exhilarated. Thanks Susan.

Family and Friends

2008-06-08T17:26:00.000-07:00

Some wag once said, “God gives us our kinfolks, we can pick our friends.” Well it looks like you folks did well on both counts. Do you have a family? Most of us do and we are very thankful for that fact.
Families are the building blocks of civilization. Without the structures these blocks build, society would cease to exist.

You and I are fortunate to live in a time where we have a close association with our families. We have the means of having family in or going to see family, regardless of how far away they live. It has not always been that way.

John Webster came from Virginia in the 1830's and fought in the Texas War of Independence. He was given land just west of here on the San Gabriel River for his services to Texas. In claiming his land, Webster encountered a band of Comanche Indians. He and all his men were killed, and his wife and children were taken captive. Mrs. Webster was able to escape, and carrying her 4-year-old daughter walked over 200 miles to San Antonio. The child grew up, married, had a family and built the village of Strickland, on her father’s land, on the banks of the North San Gabriel River. That is an example of how strong the family is.

Then more settlers came to this land walking, and in wagons loaded with homebuilding tools. They found the land fertile and well watered. With their families, they built the towns and villages of Central Texas, almost with their bare hands. Together they fought weather, Indians, and desperados. But the families held firm and made this land into a productive and safe place to live.

Our families are the building blocks of our society. As strong as these building blocks of family are, there is another ingredient. It is friends that make the mortar that binds the stones of family into a strong structure. It was neighbor friends that came in the dark of night when some dire sickness stalked the land. It was friends helping each other’s families that made it possible to build the houses, and build the barns. It was friends that came in time of plenty, and a time to celebrate that made life worthwhile.

And today, we celebrate our ease of life, knowing whatever we decide to try to accomplish, we have family and friends to lend a helping hand, and cheer us on.

Georgetown Red Poppy Festival

2008-05-18T17:49:00.000-07:00

This past weekend Georgetown held it’s annual “Red Poppy Festival.” A grand parade, with all the pretty girls, handsome men, prancing horses and, marching bands, were there to stir the spectator’s hearts. An old fashioned street dance was well attended and enjoyed by all.
The festival was a great success, a little damp Sunday morning, but still a great success. Food is always popular at any celebration such as this, and there was plenty available. Guest could eat “off-a-stick, or sit down to gracious dinning.

A “Miss Georgetown” pageant was held, and no more beautiful ladies could have been found anywhere. Picking a winner must have been a difficult, but pleasant task.
Guitar Hero competition was open to youngsters, as well as adults. Looked like all had fun: those in competition and well as those in the audience. A 5-K walk-run was held and attracted many participants as well as cheering crowds. One celebration I was able to avoid was the “Bike Ride.” Even the shortest ‘ride’, only 14 miles, would have gotten me into a rocking chair for weeks. However many entered the 30 mile, 45 mile, and even the 62 mile event. I trust all had fun peddling around our beautiful countryside.

Wolf Ranch had a showing of the classic movie, “Casablanca” under the stars. It was a beautiful setting, and a most entertaining way to watch a most delightful movie from years gone by. I hope you had the opportunity of seeing “Bogie and Lauren” again.
If you were looking for one word to describe the “Red Poppy Festival,” this year you would pick, MUSIC. Music was everywhere, and all kinds.
Bluegrass, Jazz, Latin, and Swing music was provided. Countrybilly, Classic Country, and Western as well as symphonic music were available. In the music category we must mention Ballet, Square Dancing, Folk Dancing, as well as Cloggers. There was something for everyone’s taste.

The “Car Show” attracted a lot of visitors. There were old classics as well as many new, fancy, cars for the guys and gals to view. Some were even full of gasoline, which is becoming a show all by its self.

I got to wondering about a poppy festival here in the middle of Texas. How did this come about, I mused. I ran into John Steel down town yesterday and asked him. He said that during World War I Henry Compton, from Georgetown, joined the 36th Army Division and was sent to France. There he was in the thick of the battles in and around Ypres, France. In spite of the carnage he experienced Henry was impressed with the fields of red poppies in the area. A major, John McCrae, had written the soon to become famous poem, “In Flanders Field” about the poppies. Henry gathered a Bull Durham tobacco sack of the poppy seed to bring home. Henry gave them to his mother who lived at 507 East 7th street, in Georgetown. Mrs. Compton sowed them in her yard, and they flourished. She shared the seed with neighbors, friends and anyone that wanted them. From that beginning, the Texas Legislature has since declared Georgetown the,” Red Poppy Capitol of Texas”, and you and I can enjoy the fun, food, and games of the “Georgetown Red Poppy Festival.” And we may also enjoy the many yards, and fields full of beautiful red poppies.

Burton Cotton Gin Festival

2008-04-21T16:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-16T09:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-06T19:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-31T14:16:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-02-12T14:05:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-16T07:46:00.000-08:00

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.

Eighth of January

2008-01-08T15:03:00.000-08:00

These days it seems I look at the calendar more often than any other time of the year. Well of course there is Thanksgiving, Christmas and in a few days it is New Year’s Day. I guess it becomes a short-lived habit. That may be a good kind of habit to have. Most of my habits seem to hang around a long time. No, I am not going to enumerate them here. To long of a list. I took one last look at the calendar this week and something jumped out at me. Eighth of January. I wondered why.

I decider to take a poll. “Hey, guys, you know what the 8th of January is?” One fellow, Mr. Johnson said, “Sure, it is my great grand child’s birthday.” And I bet he was right. But that was not what I had in mind. Troy Joseph said, “That is the name of an old fiddle tune.” He was correct. I remember as a little kid hanging around the dances held in the country homes. The folks would move all the furniture from the living room into a back room; throw corn meal on the board floor and dance till the wee hours. As the night wore on, sooner or later someone would holler out, “Play ‘Eighth of January.’” That tune was what they called a breakdown. And it sure livened up the dance. Even the wallflowers joined in the “Eighth” dance.

I got to thinking about that lately. Why would anyone name a fiddle tune with a date? How about naming the piece “Cold January, or Swamp Song, or something that made a little sense. So I enticed one of the grandkids to help me Google for the answer of the burning question. Wow! Did we get the answer? The same fiddle tune is also known as “The Battle of New Orleans”. In 1959 Johnny Horton made the tune famous by recording and singing “The Battle of New Orleans.” You remember how it went…..

Well, in eighteen and fourteen we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans…..

There was to much information for me to assimilate in one sitting. I noticed Horton and Colonel Jackson went to New Orleans in December of 1814. They fought back and forth until the eighth of January, 1815. That was the day they fired their cannons till the barrels melted down, so they powdered an alligator and he lost his mind. Most importantly, however, the British retreated and hoisted the white flag. That day became a great day in the nations young history, and was celebrated for years.

Well, we don’t pay much attention to that date anymore. Too bad. Even the dances in country homes are gone. But the fiddle tune is still around, and we can remember and enjoy that.

We fired our guns and the British kept a’comin
There wasn’t nigh as many as there was a while ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin’
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

Music and lyrics by: Jimmy Driftwood

Celebrating New Year's Day

2007-12-30T10:04:00.000-08:00

I drove out to John Steel’s place off county road 200 to ask him a question.
I found him sitting in a rocker on the front porch soaking up the morning sun. “ John” I asked, “Why do we celebrate New Year’s Day?” He stopped rocking and gazed off across the pasture to the far grove of sycamore trees that grow along the San Gabriel River as if he were looking for the answer. The sycamore’s bare white limbs fairly glowed in the sun, perhaps sending him the answer.

Then John began rocking again, creating a gentle beat as the chair creaked back and forth across the rough boards of the porch. “Well,” John began, “Many, many years ago, out west of Llano or Mason or perhaps even Menard, Og Rekab lived with his clan in a cave high on a hill. From the mouth of the cave one could see for miles and miles to the west; all the way to the distant horizon. At the entrance to the cave grew a small, skinny sycamore sapling. One fall evening, as the sun approached sun down, he noticed the shadow of the sapling trunk was projected on the back wall of the cave. He made a mark on the rock wall with a charcoal stick. A few days later as the sun set, he noticed the shadow had moved over a bit. But Og also noticed a frightening thing was also happening to all the trees, the leaves turned brown and fell to the ground. And the grass had turned brown. But worst of all, the game was all gone. The next day as the sun sunk low and the shadow was on the wall, it was further over still. Was the sun, the giver of life, going away? Fear gripped the clan. And the shadow moved further. The clan sang their most pleading chants, and danced their most persuasive dances, asking for the sun to return. But the shadow kept moving.” John continued, “Then one day Og noted the movement of the shadow on the cave wall stopped moving! Soon it moved back the other way! And the shadow of the sycamore sapling on the back of the cave wall continued to move back from where it had come. The sun was returning! Og Rekab shouted to the clan that all was going to be well again. Og declared a holiday. They cooked the last of the black-eyed peas with ham hock, and a big pan of cornbread and had a feast in honor of the returning sun. Og declared that this day, hence forth would be known as ‘New Year’s Day’.”

John Steel stopped rocking. All was still. He looked up at me with that mischievous grin of his, but said nothing.

“You expect me to believe that?”, I asked.
“No” John said, “But if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe that either.”
“Well John, get you coat and hat”, I said, “I‘ll buy you a Starbucks at the Exxon station and we will celebrate New Year’s Day.”

Christmas Cards

2007-12-18T08:04:00.000-08:00

I bet you are getting a lot of Christmas Cards this year. Aren’t they just great? Alice always lines them up on a dinning room table so we can admire them till way past New Year’s Day. I like them all, especially the ones with the senders family picture. Through the years we have seen our friends and family children grow from babies to full grown men and women. In some cases we have witnessed these babies grow into adults and have children of their own. Kinda gives one a fuzzy, warm feeling doesn’t it?

Some cards are the printed ones with baby Jesus or scenes of snow, holly and remembered mental pictures of long ago Christmases. Inside, someone has taken a lot of time and effort to inscribe a fitting greeting of the season. I really like the ones with personal written messages from the sender. He cared enough to write the very best.

Remember the cards from a few years ago that, when they were opened, somehow played a Christmas carol or a spoken greeting? I never understood how that happened but they were great. I haven’t seen any of those in some time. With the newer, smaller computer chips they should work better and less expensively.

A newer Christmas greeting method is the Christmas Letter. I know you must have gotten some of these. I trust you are enjoying knowing what has happened to your friends over the past year. Most of these Christmas Letters paint quite a glowing past year, with all things coming up roses. The success of these greetings depend on the writing skills of the senders and most do a good job. We have gotten one of these letters, for many years, from a friend who has a knack of making it humorous as well as informative. We eagerly look for his letter each Christmas. In fact if he lets us down this Holiday Season, I am going to call him up and demand he send one.

One Christmas Letter I would like to write is one with tongue in cheek. I fear I haven’t the skill, or creative ability to do it justice. How about telling the world, through the letter, how dad fell from the roof installing the Christmas lights? We hope he gets out of the hospital in time to trim the tree. Or how about the line, “This will be a wonderful holiday after winning the lottery.” I think you get the idea. One must be careful, however, not to stray to far from the meaning of this wonderful time of the year. Perhaps you would like to give this task a try. Just send it me, and I will not tell a soul. Just you and I can have a private laugh and know we love this Christmas Season, each other, and all the world.

It's That Lovely Time of the Year

2007-12-11T13:40:00.000-08:00

Notice how fast Christmas Holidays get here these days? I was just thinking recently; when I was a kid it seemed to never get here. Christmas, in those days, came about every 3 years. Now it is here every six months. And you know, I am glad. Not for me but for the children, and all the family. It is a time when you can say, “I love you,” and no one thinks you are up to something. It is an opportunity to go shopping and spend a little money on those we love. Or even better, you can make a gift to give someone special on your list. Alice is good at making cookies, pies, cakes and bread for gifts. I am pleased to be on that list.

I remember her sewing special Christmas clothes for our children when they were young. Her greatest success came one year when we were a little short of money. She had this great idea and sent me looking for a burlap bag. I had my doubts, but I did as she had asked. Alice took the bag and made a vest and cowboy chaps for the boys and a Dale Evans dress for our daughter. I got into the sprit of the season and made three stick horses for them to ride. That may have been the best Christmas gifts our kids ever had. They were the envy of the neighborhood. Then came the grandchildren, and now one great-grandchild. I trust Alice will come through with flying colors. It is just a matter of love and a little ingenuity.

Another activity that adds to the sprit of the season is cutting a Christmas tree. Alice, I, and our kids would all pile into the pickup and find a pasture full of cedars. That is not hard to do here in central Texas. We would walk through the forest of fragrant cedars looking for just the right size and shape. That was great fun for the kids. As the children grew I began letting them have a chance to chop one down. We seemed always to end up with a pickup full of trees. Each of them knew some kid that didn’t have an opportunity to get a tree; so they spread cheer by giving them away. A cedar Christmas tree in the house gives it a special smell…..the smell of Christmas. Then cane the thrill of decorating the tree. We had plenty of glass balls to hang from the branches. We had to pull up a chair for the little ones to reach the higher branches. One year they got busy with a secret activity, which they didn’t want us to see. Laughter, giggling and whispered words drifted up the hallway as they worked. Soon they came to the tree with a cardboard star covered with Alice’s kitchen aluminum foil to attach to the very top. We still treasure that star. And you know it still shines brightly from the tiptop of our tree each year.

Christmas eve at church, with candles and carols completed the wonderful feeling of this time of year. It really doesn’t matter what is beneath the tree…it is what is in our hearts.
I know, with this fast approaching Holiday, you will find many Christmas memories to hang from next year’s tree.

On Choosing a Birthday

2007-12-07T15:00:00.000-08:00

Most of us have birthdays scattered through out the year. I don’t know anyone who really forgets his birthday. Most of us think it is such a great day, the whole world should remember. Many of us, if we fear our birthday is being forgotten, find ways to drop neat little hints. This usually works well. However some I know have birthdays on important, historical dates. Like my nephew; his birthday falls on the 4th of July. He really thinks all those fireworks are for him. I am not going to tell him and no one forgets his birthday.

There are dangers being born on some one else’s birthday. How would you like to share your day with the likes of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln? No way you can over come that kind of competition. Thanksgiving and Christmas are days to be avoided when planning your own personal birthday. I have a brother-in-law whose birthday comes on the 29th of February. Poor guy; he has had only 19 big days even though he is really 76 years old. He has tried to sneak in the back door on the 28th of February, but we refuse to let him. I have known some guys who get married on their brides birthday so he will not forget her big day nor their big day. Some of them even muff both in one fell swoop. They tend to not live long; well not calm lives anyway.

Even having a birthday close to a famous date can be challenging. Troy Joseph was born the 8th of December. His first 21 years around Liberty Hill were easy enough. Then came December the 7th, 1941 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Talk about fire works! Within a month he was in the Navy. A few more weeks and he was on the USS Grant headed for the far East. Those were wild days and they weren’t spent thinking about celebrating birthdays. Troy helped in removing General MacArthur from the Philippines, to fight another day. Action was a daily encounter. Troy and the men and officers of the USS Grant completed their assignment with honor.

Troy Joseph has celebrated many birthdays since that one. He claims he will be 88 years old the 8th of December. My math is a little fuzzy these days, however Troy is not one to challenge. I know for the last several years he has worked hard at making Liberty Hill known as “The Friendly City”. He mans the Liberty Hill Information center and can be counted on to see that the job needing to be done gets done. He also has a heart warming smile and wave to all that pass the center.

Drive by the Information Center Saturday the 8th, honk and giver Troy a big birthday wave. He will thank you for it.

Thank You

2007-12-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

I trust you had a great holiday. We all did. All the family and all the stuffings were properly stuffed. All of our teams won, especially here in Liberty Hill. A new catch word is swirling around town these days…..”How about them Panthers?” I believe everyone has a smile on their face these days, and properly so. I think they will go all the way, again. I would say to the players, coaches, staff, school body, teachers and the hosts of fans, thank you.

Speaking of thank you, I ran into John Steel down at the Exxon the other day and he asked how my holiday went. I replied, just fine. He asked if I had learned anything during the festive days? Well, I couldn’t think of anything. Did you I asked? I knew when I asked I had stepped into the trap he had been setting for me. “Yes”, John said. “I learned what should have been learned many Thanksgivings ago”. “I learned the value of perhaps the two most important words in the English language”. “And what are they?” I wondered. I knew I was in for a long, drawn out explanation when I asked. John never misses a chance to ‘hold court’ when he has an opportunity. “We have set aside the biggest portion of a week to celebrate a great harvest, and rightly so.” Continuing John said, “We give thanks to a higher being for the plentiful fruit of the farm, and I am all for that.” “How about a ‘Thank You’ for the farmer and rancher?” “And a ‘thank you’ for the trucking industry, processors, grocery stories, clerks, checkers, and the kids that sack all the stuff we buy.” John went on to name the men and women that work in all the many facets of our society that makes it so pleasant to live and work in. He did, finally say, “Thank You” were the two most important words in the English language.

You know, I think he may have hit onto something. I hurried home, burst through the door, and yelled, “Thank You Alice.” You should have seen her face. What a surprised look she had. First she smelled my breath, checked the fenders on the car, smiled that great smile of her’s and kissed me big time. I then explained the revelation I had received from John Steel; a thank you for every one. Little kids get one, old men at the whittler’s bench get one, and if I run into you, you can bet you will get one also. Some times I explain that that “Thank You” is for just you being you, but most of the time they reply with a lovely grin that tells me I just hit the bull’s eye.
Now, how about a great big “THANK YOU” for “OUR TEAM”. “How about them Panthers?”

Thanksgiving Dinner

2007-11-18T17:44:00.000-08:00

Along about this time of year, to many years ago to count, Billy Van Horn and I were sitting on our duffel bags, waiting for the train to take us to our next assignment. We were dressed in our Class A uniforms and felt we could whip the world. Being late November our conversation turned to Thanksgiving coming up soon. Billy and I had become fast friends during the grueling basic training the Army had just put us through. Home and Thanksgiving seemed a million miles and years away. We got to talking about the wonderful holiday we were probably going to spend on a troop train.

“Going to miss your girl friend?” Billy asked.
“You, bet; how about you?”
“Sure. And all my family and friends.”

We spoke of other things we were going to miss during this festive holiday. Pumpkin Pie was high on our list of things to be missed. And, Mom’s hot rolls with real home churned butter. The list grew quickly to cover the laden table of our homes. Cranberry sauce, candied sweet potatoes, baked ham with red-eye gravy made our mouths water. Billy quickly added green bean casserole, mashed Irish potatoes and iced tea served in a big goblet. It was obvious we were both avoiding mentioning the main item at Thanksgiving dinner.

At that time the Sergeant blew his whistle and added some choice adjectives. We were on our feet quickly hefting our duffel bags. Billy and I were surprised and sorely disappointed. He was sent east and I was sent west. The world seemed to become covered with leaden clouds. Thanksgiving seemed even further away.

Wars come and thankfully go. Billy and I never saw each other again. Until recently. I was sweating out a session at the whittlers bench in down town Liberty Hill when a stranger stopped. Troy asked the stranger if he could help him.
“I am looking for an old Army buddy from long ago,” he stated. “His name is Hollis Baker.” Troy flashed his famous smile and pointed to me. I looked the man in the face and searched my memory. Slowly, an image of Billy Van Horn came creeping into the present. The uproar lasted until we could get our breath and I introduced him around the august body of whittlers. He said he was here on a mission. “You remember that list of Thanksgiving dinner you and I were making when we last saw each other?” he asked. “Well, all this time I have worried about the one thing not on our list…oven roasted turkey with cornbread stuffing and plenty onions, celery and sage.” Now our world was complete.

I trust this holiday, as you sit at your Thanksgiving dinner you will remember family, friends and the goodies mentioned above, and especially the Turkey with cornbread dressing and plenty of onions, celery, and sage.

Hollis Baker, 18 November 2007

Bird Watching, Revised

2007-11-17T14:28:00.000-08:00

The hobby of bird watching can be a lot of fun, and, on occasions get a little sticky.
Alice and I have been watching birds for a long time. When we first started the kids were small and did not “get” our new hobby. We would find a new bird and get all excited about finding a different one to add to our list and the kids would sigh, roll their eyes back into their heads and say, “Here we go again.” However they soon learned to live with two “old” folks acting strange. We have marked bird sightings in our little book of about 200 different kinds of birds. From the high west Texas mountains to the swampy bays of southeast Texas there are a multitude of feathered friends. Texas is a great area for spotting birds for we have over 500 kinds of birds all year, or migrate to or from our state during the seasons.

Equipment for the hobby of bird watching is inexpensive and the list is short. “Petersons Field Guide to Birds of Texas” is my favorite book for identifying birds found in the field. There are newer books available and some feel they are better. I am used to “Petersons” and think I will stick with it. The only other “tool” needed is a lightweight pair of binoculars. They don’t need to be fancy or expensive; just light weight. A new item that is fast becoming a necessity is a digital camera. I don’t have one yet, but perhaps some day in the future. Our friend, Wes Griffin, has some neat pictures of birds photographed in his yard posted on the Internet. He has many local ones, but my favorite is the picture of a male painted bunting. This fellow has a bright blue head, a chartreuse back, and a flaming red breast. This must be the brightest bird around the state. I don’t know the kind of camera Wes has, but the pictures are great. Check with him. He will be glad to share that information with you. http://papawes.blogspot.com

As you can see, this hobby is a rather staid, uneventful, safe but interesting one. However L.V. Staton who lives off county road 3405 had a rather sticky “bird watching” encounter recently. I don’t think L.V. was out bird watching. but it sure got his attention. A buzzard made an error in landing on a high voltage line and shorted out the electricity in the that community . They said it fried the buzzard to a crisp. A neighbor called P.E.C. and they promised to repair the problem promptly. She replied, “You better hurry, because I am in the middle of a Ophra show.” Staton told me he called the lady and asked her to save him a leg and thigh for supper. She replied, “You better hurry over; all the white meat is already gone.”

So, you see, the hobby is packed with high adventure, and fun, but little profit. Well, two out of three isn’t bad.

Halloween

2007-10-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

I am surprised at the popularity of Halloween these days. It didn’t seem that way when I was a kid. Oh, us boys ran around town soaping up windows and looking for lawn furniture to put into other yards. I remember one Halloween night we moved neighbors cars to the front of other houses. That caused quite a stir the next morning when they went out to go to work. But we never caused any real problems. I have heard stories of guys who managed to put wagons on top of the schoolhouse and on occasion a live donkey with it. What we didn’t have was “Trick or Treat”. Man, I think we would have liked that. I wonder who invented that activity? One very smart guy don’t you think?

There is a story that goes around this time of the year that I always like to hear. Now, I didn’t make this one up and I don’t know any of the people in the story nor if it is a true one. I hope it was a real happening. I don’t want to give the ladies that may be reading this any ideas, so I suggest they not read any further than the end of this paragraph.

Bill just loved Halloween. It was the holiday of the year he liked best. In late summer he began planning for the big event. Bill shopped all the candy stores and stocked up for the big spook night. He bought all colors and shapes of candies. When October came around he bought decorations for their house. He spared no expense. As the day approached he began cooking special cookies and muffins. Bill made sure he had plenty fresh fruit to give to the “Trick or Treaters”. Cutting faces into pumpkins to make Jack-o-Lanterns consumed all his spare time. His wife was long suffering and tolerated his obsession.

Finely the great night arrived. Bill assembled all the treats near the front door so they would be handy for the kids. And they came. In bunches they came from all over. He handed out the treats and enjoyed seeing all the little kids in their cute costumes. As the evening wore on into the night a lull came with kids to the front door. About this time his wife hatched an idea. She slipped into the bedroom, found one of the children’s old Halloween masks, removed all her clothes she dared, and covered up with a bathrobe. Quietly she made her way out the back door and around to the front. She rang the door bell. When Bill opened the door she yelled “Trick or Treat” and opened her bathrobe. Shocked, Bill stumbled backwards, fell over the coffee table, knocked over a table lamp and fell to the floor breaking a leg and cutting a gash on his forehead. In the racket and yelling the dog bit Bill’s hand. Mercifully, he passed out. His wife called 911. When the medics quite laughing they hauled him to the hospital.

Bill called in sick the next morning and decided he just might have overdone Halloween’s celebration. His wife agreed.

Now I see, some of you ladies read all the way to the end. Don’t you get any ideas, please. It might be a little painful on us old guys.

Way up Morgan Creek

2007-10-23T17:37:00.000-07:00

Way up Morgan Creek, lived my friend Ray Woods. He lived past the slow moving pools that ran dark and deep, to where the stream becomes smaller and faster and jumps from one ledge to the next. Ray lived by himself in a little shotgun cabin, the last one on Morgan Creek. Often he ventured downstream to take me squirrel hunting in the pecan bottoms, or fishing for perch in the deep pools. I liked that best. Ray was a friend of mine. He knew where to dig for the biggest and best worms to use for bait, and how to thread them onto the hook to fool the fish. He could always find the finest willow limbs to rig our lines on. Bobbing corks were made from stoppers he said were from medicine bottles, but Mother suggested they might have come from a different kind of bottle. We always fished in the pools closest to the bend in the creek, for he said that was where the best perch lived. We never went further downstream. Often we set throw lines, which we tied to young springy tree limbs hanging over the pool to catch a catfish. We would build a little fire there on the creek bank and he would tell me stories of long ago and far, far away. Sometimes we would really catch a fish big enough to fry on that campfire. They sure did taste good out there in the open, with the frogs and crickets singing their serenade.

Old men told stories of a large catfish living in the bigger pools farther down the creek. They named him “Big-un” and said he broke fishing poles and tore up trot lines just for the fun of it. Those stories sure fired my imagination. There was where I wanted to fish.

One October evening, with a touch of fall showing in the leaves and feeling in the air Ray came by with a strange look in his eyes. He said he was going down Morgan Creek to the Blue Hole and catch “Big-un”. Wow, was I excited? “You can tag along, but you gotta’ stay out of the way and be quite” he said. “This is my mission.” I was hurt, but I tagged along anyway. Ray set his line and tied it to a young, green cotton wood tree with plenty of spring in it. He lay back in the grass and did not say a word. How strange. I kept to myself, as I watched the moon rise over Spider Mountain and fill the valley with silver light. Ray lay silent.

The moon climbed higher, but Ray never moved. Suddenly the cotton wood twitched, then jerked. The water in Blue Hole churned to a white froth. The limb bent double as Ray leaped to his feet to grab the line and yelled I’ve caught him. Into the water Ray dove with the line in his hand. He managed to get astraddle the fish yelling all the time, “I caught “Big-un”, I caught “Big-un”. The line snapped from the limb and the man and fish headed down stream and into the Colorado River. The last I heard of Ray was a faraway cry of joy, “I caught Big-un”, as they headed for the Gulf of Mexico and open water.

Years later I was down on Morgan creek, near Blue Hole, getting a load of rocks to build a walkway when Ma called. “Hollis”, she yelled, “You have a letter!” Now who in the world would be writing me a letter? I didn’t know anyone outside the creek bottoms that would need to write me. I hurried home to see. Getting a letter in those days meant one of two things, glad tidings or sad news. The postmark and return address was Ma Smith, La Grange, Texas. It was easy to see an older person did the labored printing in pencil on the envelope. With trepidation I tore the it open. The letter read;
Dear Mr. Baker,
I felt you would want to know, your friend, Ray Woods died a few
Months ago. We buried him here on the river bottom. He spoke
Of you often. Yours Truly, Ma Smith

I packed my pick-up and headed for La Grange the next day. I found Ma Smith living in little shanty down on the Colorado River across from the town. We sat in a swing on the porch and chatted. She scratched out a living with the help of a beautiful garden and a few Rhode Island Red hens. She said she spent most of her spare time ironing for neighbors in town and fishing. The mention of fishing brought us to Ray. Together we pieced the story of what had happened to Ray after he had caught the catfish named “Big-un” from Blue Hole on Morgan Creek. He probably rode him down the creek to the Colorado River, then through Austin, through Bastrop, Smithville and on to La Grange. There, along the bank of the river a low hanging limb of a pecan tree, knocked Ray from the back of the catfish “Big-un”. Ma Smith said she found him clinging to the branch more dead than alive. “I nursed him back to health and he lived in this area for the rest of his life.” He was the greatest cat fisherman I have ever known. That is how he made his living: catching catfish and selling them in town. “In fact, everyone around here knew him as “Catfish Woods”.

We walked down river, past his cabin, to a meadow where the folks had buried him beneath a mighty pecan tree. There he could keep watch on the river he loved so much.

I retrieved a Morgan Creek Blue Hole rock from my pick-up and set it at “Catfish Woods” head. I trust there are plenty deep pools, full of catfish, in Heaven.

Sort of an Obituary for a Friend

2007-10-13T13:16:00.000-07:00

I lost a good friend the other day. I say friend, I never spoke to him, but we waved to each other often as I drove to work. Well, I waved. It looked like he was waving back as he wiggled his long ears and hopped off into the 100 or so acre field where he and his family lived. Mr. J. W. Rabbit, better known around here as Jack Rabbit. Or more correctly, jack rabbit. I affectingly just called him Jack for short. He seemed to me a connection to the land in a primeval way. Jack died when he was hit by a motor vehicle. His internment was a little primitive and we will all miss him. You see, his home, the large, open field he and his ancestors have lived on forever, had been claimed in recent years by the Carrol family, has been sold to a developer. The developer has cleared the land of brush, put in underground utilities, and built curbed, paved streets. One more piece of the farm has gone to the city.

This, at first, distressed me. However we have been doing this very thing since landing at Plymouth Rock. I remember when we first moved to this area from the big city. The first night, camping out on our newfound property, the whippoorwills calling kept us up most of the night. They weren’t really whippoorwills we later discovered. They were chuckwillswidow. They look alike, act alike; they just sing a different song. We cleared the land of brush and mowed the grass to make it look more like the city we had just fled. And, sure enough, the chuckwillswidow had to find another place to live. Not only the loss of the night singing birds, we lost the quail. Remember how peaceful it sounded, late in the evening as the shadows lengthened, the call of the Bob White quail made a peaceful feeling that seemed to envelope us? I miss that.

Across the road from Jack’s field was another open field where lived families of Shrike and Scissor Tail Flycatchers. They have been evicted by yet another home developer. Who knows what other creatures we have run off in building more and more houses. I don’t suppose we should be surprised. We did the same to the buffalo and Indian.

I don’t really mind those folks building beautiful houses, soon to be homes. And I welcome the new folks that will move into them. That is the way our society is working. I trust, when I drive to work each morning, just as the sky is blushing orange, that the people going for the paper, will take a moment to wave back to me. Then I will remember Jack, and say a prayer for his health, where ever he has gone.

Williamson County Jumping Frog

2007-09-30T15:06:00.000-07:00

Hanging around the “Whittlers Bench” you can hear some wondrous things being discussed. And I have the tendency of believing them all. Past adventures is one of the most often used story lines. These stories range from wild horse roping to big fish catching. If you lined up all the horses corralled and the fish netted end-to-end they would reach from here to Andice. And handsome horses and fat fish they all were. But please don’t ask for the exact meadow or fishing hole they came from, for these things are private information being kept secret for future use.

Another theme used around the “Whittlers Bench” is dangerous encounters. Or encounters of any nature. These tales usually began, “One day, back in the fifties, this ole boy--------“. The characters in these stories have by now gone to their rewards, or are pushing walkers down rest home hallways. But they were heroic and important in their time. And speaking of heroes, the teller, most often, come out on top in the conclusion. And some time the conclusion is evasive and hard to recognize. In fact, some conclusions never happen; they just trail off into the never never land. However I enjoy them all and make a mental note to tell the tale myself in another time and another place. Shucks, I just might get to be the hero if I am careful with the telling.

Politics are not discussed much around the bench. Occasionally a new boy will broach the subject of happenings in our government, both local and national, with zeal and excitement. He is usually ignored, or put in his place with tact and he learns soon this is not the place. It is neat to see the professional men in session skirt the subject.

But by far the most popular subject in story telling is the weather. “Boy, aint it hot today?” One question that is always asked, “How much rain did you get?” Another popular query is, “How are the crops?” With all the rain we have been blessed with recently frogs have become a popular subject. Alfred Nelson came by the other day and told of mowing his grass. He said he was about half way through mowing his rather large lawn when he spied a big frog right in front of where he was mowing. He didn’t have time to stop and ran right over the rascal. Alfred stopped, looked back, and there the frog sat. Alfred said he swears he winked. I’ll fix him for his smart-aleck way. He backed the mower over the frog real fast and looked forward. There he sat, this time with raised fist. Alfred raced forward and stopped right on top of the frog. But he did not hear a ”bump” he expected when he should have hit him. Getting off the lawn mower and looking under the deck, he saw the frog just grinning and jumping the blade each time it came around. Super frog if there ever was one.

Now I like and believe this tale. Thank you Alfred. If you want to hear a neat story, well told, with verve and honesty, come by the “Whittlers Bench” and sit a spell.

Sounds of Summer

2007-09-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

Crickets, June bugs , and cicadas singing in the warm summer night remind me of sitting on the porch with Dad and Mom and the other kids. Us kids, tired of chasing fire flies, would listen to the night sounds. The crickets had a constant beat of four-four time while the June bugs had a beat more like three quarter time. The ones I liked best were the cicadas. Hundreds would sing in perfect time and harmony a loud buzzzzzzuzzz., holding that note for perhaps a minute. Then they would go quite and hundreds more across the meadow would answer back....buzzzzzzzuzz.

That must have gone all night, but I never knew for sure. I always got sleepy and crawled into a cot on the porch and fell asleep. I think the whippoorwills sang all night. They were hollering and answering each other as I fell asleep and were still at it when I awoke. Sleeping on the porch some times became a little scarey. We had a family of barn owls that always waited for me to go to bed, then start their hooting. I knew they were just owls, but they conjured up visions of all kinds of buggers. I never really saw any night animals that would eat a little kid alive, but I knew they were out there.

A kid can handle day sounds of summer much easier than those of night ones. How about the sound of about a half dozen kids playing in the creek? If we were lucky, some one would rig up a swing that went from this bank to the other side. The yells of laughter and sounds of pure delight filled the creek bottom every summer day. The splashes of bodies falling into the water was as near heaven as us kids wanted.

Another sound of summer was the cotton gin. The whole town was bathed in the hum of those mysterious machines at the gin. The sounds permeated the town like the smell of money, for that was the life blood of most small towns it those days. I liked it when the man at the gin blew the whistle loud , long, and clear , telling the farmers he had a head of steam up and was ready to gin their cotton.

But you know the sound that excited us most in the summer? The sound of a steel sledge hammer driving a steel stake into the ground. No matter where we had ridden our bikes, or where we were playing, when we heard that sound we came running. For you see, that meant a circus or medicine show was on the way. We would hurry to the city park where they always pitched their tent to watch the great event. And sure enough there they would be, in all the flurry and confusion getting ready to raise the giant tent. It was a happening not to be missed. One day we were fooled. We heard the beautiful sound of steel on steel. Like flies to honey we swarmed to see the great show of all that ducking being raised to house the acts. As the massive cloth building became erect, and the sign was unfurled advertising the coming show, our exceptions were suddenly dashed. There for all of us to see and read, in bold print, “Come, hear Brother Johns Preach the Gospel Tonight.”

Labor Day Profit

2007-08-30T18:31:00.001-07:00

This past Monday was a grand holiday; Labor Day. I trust you and your family had an enjoyable day off. Labor Day holiday is much older than I had thought. With a little research I found the movement started in 1882. Congress passed a resolution in 1884 making the first Monday in September a legal national holiday to celebrate the work force of our nation. In the beginning parades and speeches by dignitaries were the order of the day. It was a day of leisure, and picnics for the entire family. In the time of six days, 60-hour workweek, the holiday was eagerly anticipated. And deserved. As usual as time passed the parades and speeches became less and less and the picnics, water sports, and just watching the grass grow became the usual celebration.

I did a highly scientific, carefully designed study of the local folks plans for the day. Most often the reply was, “Just enjoy the day with the family.” Some of the more energetic planned a boat outing on the area lakes with the kids and friends. Most even planned to cook on the outing. That is the man’s macho way of proving he can take care of everything out in the woods. I suspect, however, instead of killing a bear or mastodon they will drive by H.E.B. for steaks and ribs. My how times have changed.

I did not find anyone that planned to work. I can’t score them on that count for that is my idea of the day also. Which brings me to my old friend Mel Ellison. Mel never worked. He was spoiled early on to avoiding work. I have always admired him for his convictions. I asked Mel how he came by that vocation. He said it was his mother’s entire fault. “Early on”, Mel said, “mother gave me a chicken to sell so I could go to the movie Saturday afternoon”. “I sold the chicken, went to the movie, and had enough left over to buy two more chickens”. This is pretty heady stuff for a young man to handle at such an early age. Well the chicken project lasted for a while until Mel needed more income, so he went into the buying and selling hogs. That lasted until he found cows were bigger, and sold for more and didn’t stink so bad. Mel shared with me his method of buying and selling for a profit. To buy the farmers steer Mel would guess the weight, which was always low, and offer market price. The farmer would guess the weight of the animal, which was always high. They would then split the difference and Mel would become the proud owner of a fine steer that was soon out of the pasture and into his trailer. He would then go to little towns in the area and park on the square, with the animal in a trailer. Soon another farmer, needing to add to his heard, would approach Mel to buy the steer. The weight guessing game was played out again and Mel would sell the bovine at market price. The secret, Mel said, was an animal in the field looks smaller that the same animal in a trailer. That is where the profit comes from, and the fact that Mel never had to work.

I don’t think Mel ever celebrated Labor Day; he didn’t know it was a holiday. I hope you enjoyed your Labor Day time off. You deserved it.

Sunrise with John Steel

2007-08-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

You remember John Steel don’t you? John lives north off County Road 200 on a little place he farms and raises a few cows, chickens and tomatoes. The white clap board house he lives in was built by his father in the 20's high on a hill over looking San Gabriel River. The house faces east with a gallery running the length of the house. The building has only two rooms. The front room has a bed in the south end , and a sort of living room in the north end with a fireplace built of native stone. A few small windows let in the light and breeze on sunny days, and a view clouds and occasional rain on other days. A surprising number of books are stacked in wooden boxes, reminiscent of Thomas Jefferson’s library. The other room is a shed room attached to the back of the house that serves as a kitchen and dining room. Once there was a wood burning stove that was replaced by a kerosene stove in the 40's. An oilcloth covered table and two straight backed chairs completes the kitchen furnishing.

The other morning I went to see John. When I say morning, I mean the country understanding of the word--- before daylight. I was on a mission. I wanted to see again a sunrise with an old friend, sitting in a rocking chair, on the front porch , with a cup of boiled coffee in my hand.

I turned off CR 200 through a wooden gate that had seen better days onto a dirt road that has always been the same; rough. There is something about driving down a dirt road that makes a nice sound. The rocks, dirt and gravel play a lovely little tune as you ease forward. Sure enough, as I approached the house I saw John with a cup of coffee in one hand, and petting a spotted dog with the other. John stood, we howded, and he invited me in. The dog hardly noticed. A couple wags of his tail was all I got, or deserved from Old Spot.

I told John I had come out to watch the sunrise with him. His laconic reply was something like, “you couldn’t have picked a better time.” With a cup of coffee we sat on the porch rocking, watching the sky melt from a dark to a light gray. Down the hill toward the light fog shrouded river we could hear the wake up song of the cardinals and an occasional whipoorwill’s last call of the night. We rocked and sat quietly letting the sounds drift past us. Talk is not necessary with a friend like John.

Soon the sky began to show a light pink, like Mother’s favorite rose that quickly became bright pink like a ripening peach on the tree. A streak of low clouds far in the east turned red, then scarlet and the sun raced toward the dawn. The pink and red burst into a brilliant orange of a camp fire as the sun peeked over the ridge of cedar covered hills. The darkness fled as if in terror as the giant fiery orb popped up. Long streaks of shadows slashed across the yard making a delightful patten on the face of the house.

“Well”, John said as he stood, “that takes care of that” as if it would not have happened if we had not been there to help Old Man Sun get out of bed.
I left soon in spite of an invitation to stay for breakfast. If you ever have a hankering to see a real country sun up, go see John Steel. He would be glad for your help.

Old House Upon the Hill

2007-08-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

I am a house and I stand upon a hill.
My windows are darkened and my halls are still.
My shingles have thinned and the doors are sealed.
The specter of Death lurks in the shadows of the eaves.

But once I was young – And I laugh to remember my Birth.

Foundations dug straight and true, by men who laughed and
Sweated and knew, that my very life depended upon careful use
Of their skill.

Stones hewn from quarries across the valley were dragged, carted,
Planted, plumbed and cemented.
From this skeleton etched in moist, black soil,
My body was to form as workmen began their toil.

Bright yellow pine, fragrant lumber from forest tall,
Cut, sawn, planed, and hauled over river, valley and rill,
Piled in decks upon the bosom of the hill.

Random lengths of lumber raw were recruited.
Cut and shaped into studs who soon marched around the
Perimeter wall.
Signaled the first beating, thumping, stirring of life.

Floor joist, ceiling beams, rafters followed fast in rhythmic
Cadence.
Windows boxed, doors jammed, decking nailed.
I soon felt the shape of life to follow.

Clay, wet and cold, clawed from earth’s depth, squeezed, formed,
And fired into bricks of red
Came stacked tall to ward against winters dread.
Siding carefully planed and sawn, soon embraced the studs to
Shape my body and exclude the hot, the cold, the wind, the sand
And the foe.

Shingles split from ageless cedars became my crown.
Their fragrance permeated my body, filled the air and spilled to
The ground.
Sturdy oaks, sentinels of eastern slopes, came to carpet my floors
With polished bodies unyielding.

Following in quick procession, doors hinged, windows glazed,
Walls painted, trim carefully fitted.
And I was spanked to life a new house, soon to become a home.

What joy, what exultation I felt when first he came with bride
In hand.
Their look of joy, their touch of love, their tread of respect, made
Each to know we were of the same strand.

Soon my halls were full of laughter, warmth and fun.
Then came two, but soon were three, then four, then six.
I held them all.
I shaded them from summers sun, in fall embraced them as
Winter’s cold crept close.
THESE WERE MINE… NONE COULD TOUCH!

Of course nights came when lights burned low.
Hushed voices worried over some mysterious malady.
BUT ALWAYS THE DAWN!

Sun burst through; laughter reigned as master of the hill.
Seasons swiftly slid by.
A ball exploded window replaced.
A new sweater of paint, a repaired stair marked the passing years.

One by one the fledglings feathered and flew the nest.
THE HALLS WERE SILENT.
Yet love lingered long, with the two,….then one,…..then none.

Now I am a lonely old house.
And I stand on the hill.
My shingles have thinned and the doors are sealed.

I am old and my paint is peeled.
I hear a measured tread of my executioner who is coming still.

For I am a lonely old house upon the hill.

Worlds Biggest Tomato Contest

2007-07-14T16:08:00.001-07:00

Kala Neuenschwander, 12 years old, won the "Worlds Biggest Tomato Contest", which concluded this past Fourth of July, with a glorious finish. Bands, Parades, and Fireworks marked the conclusion of the tomato contest as well as the Fourth of July.

There were many Liberty Hill and area residents that entered the "Race for the Big Red". Craig Davidson brought in a tomato first and was leading the pack with a 14 oz Brandywine beauty. Carl Williams pulled ahead quickly with a 15 oz Big Boy. Craig could not stand the heat, so he entered another Brandywiue that weighed one pound. The horse race continued when Carl countered with another one pound Big Boy.

John Steel stopped by with a tomato or two. We were surprised with his entry, after all his bragging about gardening, for his tomatoes hardly tipped the scales. Many nice tomatoes were brought by and entered. Even Dennis Wiley came by with two beauties. The next day Jack Copeland shook up the competition with a giant Arkansas Traveler, weighing one pound six ounces. It sure looked like we had the winner . Early the next day Dennis Wiley came in laughing about their prank. He and Jack had gotten H.E.B.’s biggest tomato on the shelf and entered it in the race. He fessed up to the dastardly deed and we all had a good laugh, after we tied Dennis to a post and administered forty lashes.

Finally, on Monday, Troy weighed a one pound nine ounce Adoriable; a perfect tomato. The handsome product of the garden was grown by Kala Newenschwander. Kala lives with her parents, Mark and Sheila Newenschwander in Sundance Ranch. Perhaps, just as important, Kala’s grandparents, Roy and Carole Newenschwander live next door. Kala works with her parents in the garden and she nursed this giant to its winning size. Kala won, for her efforts, a Big Chief Tablet, a cedar pencil, and four tickets to a Round Rock Express baseball game.

We all enjoyed the "Tomato Caper" and are looking forward to next year’s fun and games. A big thanks to Troy Joseph and Mike Jacobs for running the Official Weigh In Station. Also a "Thank You" to Greg Baker for the station’s banner. But a special thanks for the many gardeners that entered the contest. I trust youall had as much fun as we did.

Happy Birthday Uncle Sam

2007-07-04T05:14:00.000-07:00

Today is the Fourth of July. Happy Birthday, United States of America! Two hundred and thirty one years ago today a squalling baby nation was brought into life as the brave men signed the Declaration of Independence. It had been a rough road getting to this day. And my what troubled days lay ahead. It took a lot of strong leadership, and a lot of blood to get the "new kid on the national block" into adulthood. But they did it! Through the years this nation has had many ups and downs. Many troubles have beset this nation, but always, with much hard work, sweat, tears and yes even more blood, we have over come them all.
Many years ago, I was out of the country for longer than I liked. The voices on the streets grated on my ears. The customs seemed strange and difficult to understand. The laws of this land seemed unusual and convoluted. I yearned to be home where I could know what was being said, and done. I began, perhaps for the first time, to understand what a great nation we live in. As my flight home began its slow, low approach to the runway I spied, out the window, our flag. Those stars and stripes, fluttering in the breeze, looked like heaven. Our flag seemed to be saying, "Welcome Home son." And, indeed, it felt like heaven when I stepped off the plane and embraced again this land of freedom and opportunity.
Today we seem to have our hands full with many and varied troubles. Few seem to have an answer to the travails that face us. However we are not short on men and women who would like to have the chance to solve these dilemmas that beset us. It is now our task, and duty, to pick a set of leaders to guide us through the darkness. You know what? I have faith we will find the right leaders that will solve these problems and will over come them all. We will scale these troubled mountains and stand on the summit again. We will be able to see the shining future stretch out and across the valley below. Happy Birthday Uncle Sam.

Road to Riches

2007-06-21T15:12:00.000-07:00

J. W. Smith lived in the largest house in town. Mr. Smith owned the dry goods store and was on my paper route.
Mr. Smith was kind, gentle, friendly and rich. The first three I could handle but the rich part scarred me into avoiding him at all cost. I figured any rich man had to be dodged as if they were from an alien planet. I was half right. One day I had to knock on his door to collect for the paper. He answered the door. I nearly turned and ran. He invited me in; paid for the paper and started a conversation. He was not an alien. He was just a great man even though he was rich. That started a friendship that lasted for the rest of his life.

One day I was brazen enough to ask about life. He answered in a most unusual manner. He said life was a race from the cradle to the grave in quest of success. Some find it; some don’t. When we speak of success we must define success, he said. Success is the search of a worthwhile, personal goal because you decided to do it. For instance, when you get on your bicycle to deliver the papers you have a goal, a purpose, a destination and you always get there. But Saturday mornings when you ride around town you really never arrive anywhere. But he said there is a key to success and I will tell you what it is some day.

I am sure the wise old man knew he had already spilled more wisdom than my timid mind could absorb.
The following months I wondered just what that key might be, Each evening as I loaded my papers and delivered them I thought about his analogy of success, but what I wanted was the key.

I could hardly wait to collect for the paper each month. Horrified I learned Mr. Smith had suddenly died. I was saddened for the loss of what had become a warm friendship, but anxious for the loss of the key to my future.

Some time later his widow called and asked me to stop by. She gave me a letter Mr. Smith and written to me. He wrote;
Dear Hollis, The key to success is, you become what you think about. Now don’t think this statement is just a simple answer to a complex problem. Men put little value upon free things. Your body, your mind, your love are all given free and we take them for granted. You rarely give these things a thought. Most men place great value upon things that cost money. Cars, houses, land, business. In fact most think about these things all the time. But the free things once lost can never be regained. Money is cheap and easy to obtain. We can replace things gained with money. Just remember, Have a personal worth while goal, Think about it daily and with this key you will gain any thing you desire. Respectfully, J. W. Smith.

The years fled by and I forgot this mans sage advice. Like Jason searching for the golden fleece far and wide, I scoured the world looking for success. Then one day, like Jason, I returned home and going through old papers I found Mr. Smith’s letter. There upon the paper my Golden Fleece was discovered. A key to success, shining brightly it gleamed in the sunlight of my searching mind.. Eagerly I tried the key upon each locked door and found it worked every time.
From Mr. Smith of the faraway past came success. And it can be yours also. Have a personal worth while goal, think about it daily, and with this key you will gain any thing you desire.

2007-06-03T14:42:00.000-07:00

Last week we talked with you here about growing tomatoes. I wanted to share with you the story Zona Galle told me about her tomato garden. Omer, her husband, installed a drip watering system and she said it sure helped with tomatoes. Zona and her husband live east of Liberty Hill, in the country, on a beautiful strip of Central Texas land. Some 25 years ago some yellow tomatoes came up voluntarily. They enjoyed them so much she saved the seeds. She still plants these tomatoes from seeds each year. Often Zona plants heritage tomatoes that ripen blackish, stripped, orange, and yellow . They look a little strange to our eyes, however they have a great taste.

I was talking to my friend, John Steel , who lives out county road 200 on a few acres, about how much fun it has been talking to the folks about gardening. Especially tomatoes. He suggested if I were so wound up about the little red fruits perhaps we should have a contest. A contest to see who could grow the largest tomato by July the Fourth. Well I think that is a champion idea. We talked about how to stage the event and he suggested we have the gardeners bring their tomatoes in to Troy Josephs’ Liberty Hill Information Center for the official weighing in and recording. They can keep the fruit or if they feel charitable, leave the tomato for Troy and his lieutenant, Mike Jacobs, to give to those who need them. Then on the Fourth of July the winner will be announced. As a prize the gardener will win from this paper four Round Rock Express tickets, and a plaque declaring he has grown the worlds largest tomato. Well at least this areas largest, by weight, tomato. That brought up the question of what this area meant. We discussed the question and decided that, This Area, meant all of Williamson County, the northern part of Travis County, the eastern part of Burnet County and the southern part of Lampassas County. And you can draw the line of east west, north south boundaries yourself.

Now for a contest we need an official set of rules. They are as follows:

1. You plant and grow the tomato yourself in your own garden.
2. You have them weighed at the official weight station.
3. You share some of the smaller brothers with your neighbors and friends.
4. You don’t have to be present to win, but you would miss a lot of attaboys.

All of that seems pretty simple and that is the way John Steel wanted to keep it. Fun and great eating. We hope you will join in the contest and show the rest of us how to grow great tomatoes. Now go baby a couple of Big Boys or Early Girls and win the contest. Good Luck.

Alfred Lord Tennyson & The Care & Feeding of Tomatoes

2007-06-03T14:32:00.000-07:00

Spring, and old men’s minds turn gently to the art of growing tomatoes. This statement requires some research. I have spent some time interviewing gardeners around the area and find most old men are indeed serious about the cultivation of tomatoes.

Carl Williams is a champion tomato grower. This year he planted 42 plants. He says he likes tomatoes and enjoys giving them away to friends and neighbors. He feeds his plants once a month with 10-20-10 and Epson Salt. He spreads the fertilizer on the ground, scratches it in then waters heavily. No he does not mulch his garden. Big Boy and Early Girl are his favorites.
George Prestridge has been gardening since he was a young man and enjoys tomatoes most of all. He fertilizes when he plants but not much later. I forgot to ask how many plants he has but plenty for sharing and canning. All his neighbors consider him a Master Gardner.

I met Mike Nappo who lives north on 183 who desperately wants to garden tomatoes but his soil is only this deep. Understanding he is from Upstate New York this must be frustrating. His family were great gardeners and brought up their son on the farm to work hard. Being clever he joined IBM and came to Texas. However that deep ingrained work ethic is trying to come out if he can find a few inches of soil. He said his folks, with a strong Italian heritage, planted Beef Steak and Roma.

I talked to a man from east of Weir in the long gone community of Mozo. He didn’t know where the name came from. There is nothing there except him and the other farmers. He likes to plant Homestead and Fantastic tomatoes. He feeds them when he plants, mulches heavily but does not water the tomatoes the rest of the year. I sure would like to see his garden. He must have a close relationship with the rain maker.

However, I may have to amend the idea of old men and the tomato to include lovely ladies that have reached a certain thresh hold of time. I refuse to guess just what that age might be, nor shall I dare ask.
While waiting for my car to be repaired I got to visiting with a mature lady who is a tomato gardener. Guessing she had a few pots of patio tomatoes in the back yard I asked how many plants she had. Forty she replied. Who helps you I asked and she said she did it all by herself. I was a little surprised to find a lady so excited about the "Queen of Plants" for most of us are old men.

Tennyson wrote that in the spring young men’s mind turned gently to the thoughts of love.
Had he been a few years older I think he might have said........tomatoes.

You gotta dance with who brung you

2007-05-15T17:51:00.000-07:00

You know one thing I miss here in Liberty Hill? The Whittler’s Bench. I think it used to be down town along about where the Fantasia Flower shop is today. I remember going by there and seeing great piles of wood shavings at each of the whittlers’ feet. I think the talking that went on may have piled up higher that the shavings, but you couldn't see it. I have heard it said a lot of blue smoke was generated in the area. " But of course where there is smoke there is fire." "That dog wont hunt." and of course the classic saying, "The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree." are just a few of the words of wisdom given the light of day around that bench. I liked the pithy thoughts like, "It is hard to fake a shoe shine", and "Dance with who brung you." And of course there were the on going stories of local folks, told over and over. They always generated laughter even though all had heard the story many times. The member, or members, discussed in these stories were not present at the telling. This encouraged a full house most of the time. One such story was when D. Willie Vaught asked Joe Spivey , "You know Joe, I don’t think there is as much kissing going on now as there used to be." Joe shaved a few more curls of cedar wood then replied, "No D., there is same amount going on; it is just other folks doing it."

Now Troy’s Information Center is a pretty close mimic to the Whittler’s Bench in down town Liberty Hill, but no one whittles there. They do tell some great stories and a few neat thoughts to guide us through the darkest hours. If you are feeling all alone and unloved, just drive by the Center and you are sure to get a big wave and smile. That will just about cure what ails you.

Recently I was offered another job. Now not one to take the job I have, but one to add to the one I wrestle with daily. It was a great compliment to be asked. This new job could very well add to the glory and fame I am now enjoying. The added income would come in handy when I go to pay my taxes or buy crewing gum. What a difficult place I found myself in. All through the night I tossed and turned trying to decide what to do about the new job.

At daylight upon awakening from the few hours of sleep I managed to get, can you guess what popped into my mind? One of those little diddes from the Whittler’s Bench came rushing from nowhere to the fore front of my mind. Just as clear as the ringing of a silver bell the words and music from the long ago forgotten statement; "Dance with who brung you." There. That is settled. I will find great satisfaction in working and dancing with the folks that brought me this far.

Now, "That dog will hunt."

Ram in the Thicket

2007-05-01T14:37:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were a kid in Sunday School? All those stories of men and women in the Bible really grabbed us boys imagination. Most of us wanted to play like we were Samson, or Moses or David. There is no telling how many sling shots I made to throw rocks. I remember seeing how far I could get a rock to go. However I never hit a thing I was aiming at. It made me wonder how David was able to overcome Goliath.

We thought how neat it would have been to float down the river in a basket like Moses. One look at my puny arms convinced me I would never be a Samson. Samson was not popular with us boys. He was involved in stuff we did not understand. Like Delilah. Where did she come from? What was she doing in our lives? So we mostly just ignored Samson and worked on getting our muscles to grow big enough to climb a tree and swing across the creek hanging on a rope.

One story really caught my imagination was Abraham and Isaac. The story kinda faded in the mist of time except for God’s voice ringing out to Abraham to hold on! Don’t take Isaac’s life, there is a "Ram in the Thicket". That picture was so vivid I could even see the bushes of the thicket where the ram was caught and could not escape. A reprieve for Isaac. I think that is what us boys looked for each day in English class, a "Ram in the Thicket".
But as time so swiftly sped by we grew into teenagers and forgot those heros of the Bible. We went off to school, got a job, or started our own business and families. Our lives were filled with the demands of the days, the weeks and the months. Just making a living was adventure enough to keep us worn to a nub.

In time I had my own business with men working for me and looking for a pay day at the end of each week. One Wednesday about noon I realized we had no more work in the shop. And none was scheduled to come in. Two more days with no income but the need to make the payroll made a cold feeling creep up my back. The phone rang. I grabbed the phone with a plea and prayer in my answering. At that instant a picture flashed into my mind of a story I had heard long ago. A story learned in Sunday School. I fancied I heard God’s voice saying, "Hold on Hollis, here is a " Ram in the Thicket". The voice I did hear was a friend in another town needing my help in completing a job for him. Cash money was to be had. Pay roll in hand. We will be there at daylight in the morning.

Since that day, many difficult times have arisen in my life. I get anxious and stressed out like all of us do. Then I remember, the " Ram in the Thicket". And it has always been there. I trust you too will find your "Ram in the Thicket" when you have a need.

Ol' Blue

2007-04-19T18:49:00.000-07:00

Ol’ Blue was a hog. Ol’ Blue was a wild hog that roamed the Morgan Creek country of western Burnet County. To know Ol’ Blue you must know the land of Morgan Creek. Morgan Creek may be the last clear unfenced, untamed creek in the county. It is a stream that runs through rough rock canyons, leaping down falls into sandy pools lined with willows and sycamore. Up the side canyons that feed Morgan creek are numerous caves and ledges just right for wild hogs to bed and hide in. The verdant, aromatic, cedar line the edges of the cannons, peaking over the rim to watch the free flowing crystal stream making its way down the canyon floor.
As the creek makes its way out of the last canyon walls it makes a slow wide ark embracing the ranch house of Uncle Luthers home. There are the gardens, pens and chicken house of the ranch. And that is the center of Ol’ Blues world.

Ol’Blue regards the garden having been planted just for him. The tomatoes, squash, melons and beans are his
grazing range. A hole in the fence is a personal invitation for him to enter and shop. And if no opening is available he will root and make one.
Like a Methodist preacher, next to a cute shoat Ol’Blue liked chicken best. He could steal a hen and be gone quicker than the flash of lighting on a stormy night.

Uncle Luther had nailed an apple box to the side of the chicken house and set his favorite dominecker hen on a dozen eggs. It did not take the chicken stealer long to find her and make away with the prize. When Luther discovered the loss he called the dogs and the chase was on. The blue devil’s trail headed up the roughest canyon on Morgan creek. Soon the dogs began their incessant barking and we knew we were on the thief’s trail. We ran trying to keep the sound of the barking dogs in earshot, climbing, stumbling, frantic to keep up. As the dogs came closer Ol’Blue used ever trick in the book. He doubled back, crossed over the creek and ran in circles to confuse the dogs. Finally the trail headed up the mountain and onto the flat Mesa of the glade. What a relief to run on even ground again. Then the rascal fell off the ridge into the next canyon.

The sound of the dogs pulled us on even though exhaustion dragged us down. Once we glimpsed him through the brush, easily keeping the dogs at a distance and from cornering him. He used these moments to plan his next devious move and was gone like a ghost. We chased him up a gorge, and down the mountainside. We tumbled down more that ran. Blind tired it seemed we ran all day with little evidence of gaining on the culprit.

Finally with an assist of nature Ol’Blue was cornered at a bluff on the mountainside. I had the ropes ready for the capture and Luther was poised to make the catch.
Then Uncle did a strange thing. He called off the dogs. Ol’Blue seeing his chance made a break for freedom.

Why did you do that? We had that thieving devil for sure!!
Uncle Luther looked off across the hills by now bathed in golden light from the setting sun and the shadows already filling the cannons. We could hear the brush popping as Ol’Blue raced for freedom. "Son, Luther said, when God creates a free, brave animal like Ol’Blue, no man has the right to put him in a pen.

And I suppose Ol’Blue is still up Morgan Creek, rooting up gardens and stealing chickens today.

Easter and Mr. Mesquite

2007-04-08T18:06:00.000-07:00

One month ago you and I talked here about Mr. Mesquite and his ability to predict the coming of spring. Man, did he ever miss the boat this year. Two weeks ago I went back to the west side of our place, upon the hill and He was all leafed out. I asked as politely as I knew how, you really think spring has arrived? He bowed his limbs, flouted his bright green new leaves and answered with a resounding YES. I went back to the house and planted the tomatoes I had in pots into the garden. I planted two Celebrates, two Better Boys, an Early Girl and a few Merceds. Not only that but I retrieved my Impatients, and various Ivyes from the green house and scattered them around the yard. Then came Easter Eve. Rain, sleet, and snow fell separately as well as all together. With a hurried blast of energy I was able to cover the tomatoes and all the ivyes. The Impatients went back to the green house where I trust they will be happy until spring really does arrive here in central Texas. I haven’t had the nerve to speak to Mr. Mesquite since the wild weather debacle. I secretly kinda hope he got his feathers....leaves scorched. He is an old man, and I respect him, but he needs to pay a little closer attention to the weather.
Alice reminded me of previous Easter Sundays when our children were young and scooting around the house. My bride worked for weeks making our daughter a pretty, pink and blue Easter dress. It had ruffles and puffs and buttons and bows about every where one can have them. She even cut a little rabbit out and sewed it on as a pocket for the dress. Our daughter was indeed a lovely sight for the Easter pageant we were to have. You want to guess what happened? Right. It came a raging norther that curled our toes. My daughter had to get into my coat to keep from freezing. To bad about that beautiful dress. No one got to see it. And come to think of it, many Easter Sundays seem to fall into that pattern. All the girls and moms dress up real pretty in bright spring colors and march off to church. Half the way there, in comes old man norther for one last blast of winter. I think we need a government grant to study the problem. While studying the weather problem we might look into the loss of Easter bonnets. I kinda liked the way they looked on our girls. Have you seen an Easter bonnet lately? Me neither.
One thing is for sure, once Easter has had its fling you can feel safe that spring has, at last, come again. I fear Mr. Mesquite has lost his testimony where it comes to knowing when spring is here. Next year I am going to wait until after Easter to plant.

April The First

2007-04-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

This time of the year can get a little trying for some of us. I remember a few years ago when Alice and I were newly weds we moved into a little house up on the side of Mount Franklin in El Paso. What a lovely house to live in. The view eastward across the dessert floor is Ysleta, the oldest town in Texas. Ysleta was established by the Church in 1680 in Mexico. The river in meandering around caused Ysleta to become a part of the United States in the 1830's. As the sun crept across the scrub mesquite the village came to life in full color as we sipped our breakfast coffee. Toward the west lay the sleeping giant Mount Franklin. We felt like puppies nestled at natures breast embraced by that great mountain, as it changed colors and moods as the sun raced across the sky.
Out back I found what was left of a garden, abandoned long ago by the previous tenants. The only color showing this early spring morning were a few strawberry plants. My heart did a quick beat, for strawberries were a plant I always wanted to grow, but never before had the sandy soil to try. If El Paso is nothing else it is sandy. I quickly transplanted the strawberries into a new bed of rich soil. A trip into the wide expanse of desert furnished ancient compost to nourish my new found plants. And they flourished. Each evening, home from work, I hurried out to inspect the plants progress. New leaves quickly came to collect the warm rays of the spring sun. I hardly kissed my bride before inspecting my strawberries each day. No blossoms. No green fruit. The ritual of homecoming, plant inspection, disappointment became a drag. I began to ignore the garden, in secret hoping this flouting of not caring would spur them on to victory. This charade of not caring turned quickly into forgetfulness. They were on their own.
Then came April. I hurried home from a long day to be met at the front door by my excited bride with great news. " Come quickly and see your garden,"she said. I hurried out back to the strawberry patch to find around each plant an abundance of bright red strawberries just ready for picking. Wow, my careful plan of ignoring the prima donna’s must have worked after all. I reached down and picked the best one as a reward for my bride. I noted that it came loose from the plant easily. As I handed it to Alice I noted a mischievous gleam in her eye. I picked another plump red orb and it also came off the plant easily. Something was amiss. All the fruit was loose of the plants. All of the beautiful cardinal red strawberries were just lying loosely beneath the green leaves. With a sudden rush I realized someone had placed the strawberries there. I had been taken. I looked up into the face of my bride to see a great smile of glee. "April fools", she shouted.
Dinner was delicious that night. Strawberry short cake for dessert tasted great served with a big dollop of laughter. However, each April the first I still get a little cagey.

Gone Fishing

2007-04-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

You remember my friend, John Steel, that lives out on county road 200? He called me the other day wanting to go fishing. He said we could go down on the Gabriel and seine some perch for bait. We could then stop by Parkers and pick up a pound of bacon, dozen eggs and a can of coffee and head for the river.
A lot of guys used to go fishing like that. Didn’t matter what day of the week or what month it was if the notion struck, they went fishing. Some times they dug a can of worms or made a batch of dough bait. But if they were serious they would seine bait. What they really wanted was a bunch of sun perch about finger long to hook onto their trot line. That was the bait of choice when fishing for catfish. Some believed the size of the perch dictated the size of the catch. John told me that was not so. He said a big catfish will bite a little sun perch but a little catfish can’t bite a big sun perch.
I didn’t sound to eager when John called so he began with a stronger sales pitch. " We will take along a quilt or two to nap on between running the lines ,"he said.
Fishermen that took pride in their trade looked down on a string of little channel cats. They felt any one could catch those fish. Blue catfish stood a little higher in their estimation but the prize went to the man who caught yellow catfish. He was a man to be admired. Most of the yellow catfish men would share with you how to catch yellows, but they were a little shy about telling you where they fished to catch the big ones. In private they called their special fishing place their "honey holes", "sweet spots" or sometimes "never fail".
I still didn’t rise to the bait of going fishing just now. John tried again, playing what he hoped was his ace in the hole. "The moon is in the second quarter, and that is the best time to catch the big yellow cats." he declared.
While John waited for my answer I got to thinking about the pleasure I would miss if I turned him down. One, this is the middle of March. One day will be the ideal spring day. Then in the middle of the night a flash of light and a rumble of thunder and you whole fishing trip is a soggy mess. And another thing I wasn’t to keen on doing in March was wading the Gabriel to seine sun perch for bait. The temperature of the water must be just above freezing. Cooking on the river bank never appealed to me. I have gotten used to my bride’s cooking , served at a table, while I sit in my special chair. Sleeping wrapped in a quilt, lying on a sandy river bank has little charm in it for me. I guess some of us get a little soft as we grow older and wiser. Seasoned is the word I like to use
I got to thinking what that twenty five pound yellow catfish would look like in the back of my old pickup parked in front of Troy’s place. All the men gathered ‘round asking where, what, and how. And me and old John just standing there grinning and saying nothing. By dang, if I am not here next Wednesday about this time, you will know we are up on the Llano having a great time.

Financial Success

2007-03-20T12:14:00.000-07:00

I attended a fund raising the other day at Lake Victor Community Center. You can drive through that country and not see a single person. But if you have a need to help someone the folks come in from all over. While there I ran into an old neighbor and friend from long ago, Hubert Hyman. We laughed and talked of old times until we played that line out. Hubert asked me if I remembered telling him how to become rich. I am about 8 or 9 years older than Hubert and I probably told him all sorts of things. Now I don’t make thing up these days but I surely may have done so in my tender years. Becoming wealthy was a song I remember singing an inordinate amount of time.
I envisioned becoming a farmer and selling cows, chickens and hogs until I had all the money I needed. The lack of land reared its ugly head and squashed that plan. I did have a paper route that financed all a kid needed but little extra. I swept W.H. Smith’s Dry Goods store each morning before school and that was a success. Mr. Smith was a kind man and encouraged us all to become something. I agreed, but I had no idea just what road to Nirvana to take. Mr. Smith suggested perhaps getting a higher education would help. Mr. Smith was an Aggie so when asked where to go to school you can guess his answer.
So off to Texas A & M I went in search of my fortune. I just knew in a few short years I would find that pot of shining gold sitting in the middle of the road waiting for me to take home. I also tried working for a road builder, house builder, and salesman. I even tried other schools. Each had suggestions for finding Jason’s Golden Fleece. I noticed one thing all of them had in common. Hard work.
So I went into business for myself. It has been an interesting adventure and has supplied most of the things I really need. Fortune? Not exactly. It may be I revamped my idea of just what a fortune is.
Hubert’s remembering me having a plan for sure wealth in those early years hit a musical cord within me. Maybe it is not to late after all. What did I tell you Hubert I asked? He said I told him if he would just save one cent a day for one million days he would become rich. Hubert ran home all excited about learning how to have all the money he would ever need. He soon realized he might not live that long. Hubert took a different road to find his financial success. And Hubert wears his success with grace and dignity.
If I had saved one cent for each day I have been alive I would now have a total of
$288.35 in the bank. I think there may be a better way.

Go Fly A Kite

2007-03-15T16:26:00.001-07:00

I was visiting with one of my grandsons, Zane, the other day and he said he had been to the kite flying at Zilker Park. Said there were over a thousand kites bobbing, weaving and soaring in the air at one time. Wow, what a exciting site that must have been. I asked what kind of kites were there. Zane said there were kites of all kinds from giant 18 foot wing span Oriental brightly colored kites to small home made modest kites. I don’t think I have ever seen any of those large gayly decorated kites flying. Come to think of it I can’t remember seeing many kids out in a pasture flying kites in several years. If they were, they were mostly store bought ones.
I found myself reminiscing about us kids flying our home made kites in Shillings' field when I was about this high. We didn’t know they even made store bought kites. Most of us found apple boxes or orange crates with straight enough planks to saw our sticks from to make our kites. Mom made us flour paste to stick the tissue paper on the structure. With the proper wheedling Mom found enough brightly colored cloth to tear into strips for the tail. Dad usually supplied five cents for a ball of kite string we purchased from Hagg’s Variety Store. In about thirty minutes we were airborne. Our bare feet were on the ground but our spirits were in the air looking down at the world and all that was in it. We wondered how much higher we could fly if we just had one more nickle to buy string. As high as the clouds? Maybe.
The Sizemores lived just down the street from the Shillings' field where we flew our kites. They had a kid in almost ever grade in school and Sam was in my grade. Sam was the champion kite builder, and flyer in the world. His kites flew even in light breezes, and flew higher than any of ours. We built our kites with the standard two stick model because they looked slick. Sam built his high flyers with three sticks in spite of the fact they looked awkward and clumsy, they flew great. Where our flyers flittered with the sparrows Sam’s kites soared like an eagle. Not only did Sam’s kites look awkward and clumsy he covered the frame not with brightly colored tissue paper, but plain black and white newspaper. We made snide remarks, but his bird flew the highest and grandest. Sam seemed oblivious to our opinion of the looks of his labor. To compound our disgust at the looks of Sam’s kite, he used small pieces of string knotted together about each six feet. When we found where he got his string we were taken aback. Because Sam’s dad had few nickels for string, Sam’s Mom saved the string that sewed up flower, and corn meal sacks. All year long Mrs Sizemore was carful to unravel the sewing string and wind them into a ball for her kids use in the windy days of March and April. We didn’t tease Sam about his knotted string for it reflected a strong love of Mother for her children. Teasing meant little to Sam. He knew his kite flew the highest, longest and most graceful of all the kids in our town. I don’t know what happened to Sam. Perhaps he was at Zilker Park with my grandson Zane. I do know that what ever he did, his efforts, regardless of looks, flew the grandest and highest..

The Coming of Spring

2007-03-05T13:22:00.000-08:00

About this time of the year most of us start looking for spring. The garden centers are where it shows up the earliest. My bride and I were in one the other day and I could not keep from buying two tomato plants. Now what in the world am I going to do with those things until the last frost? I replanted them into larger pots and put them in a sunny window, hoping for the best. I will keep you posted as to their fate.
Leon Hale, who has written a column for the Houston papers for over 50 years, worked out a solution. He and a buddy, O.F. Morgan, would load up their pickup truck about this time each year and head south, looking for spring. This column ran for over 20 years and Leon said it was the most popular set of columns he ever wrote. Perhaps looking for spring reveals a deep rooted desire and hope that only spring can solve.
So I pulled on a jacket, warm cap and braved the brisk north wind yesterday and walked around our place, looking for signs of spring.
And I found a few brave little anemones poking their heads above the brown dry grass. Anemones have daisy like blossoms, with a scrawny looking plant and leaves. They bloom white, blue and rich pink. Most bloom white, some blue and very rarely pink. I can’t guess why one plant in the wild would color itself in such a manner. Any way they think spring is here. I sure hope they know what they are doing.
Down in the draw grow a few red bud trees. I ventured into the valley for a look. Sure enough some of the blossoms have swelled and burst into a bright magenta color. It is indeed a welcome sight this time of the year to spot a red bud shining like a beacon of color in the drab cloth of winter. I wondered if the red bud really knew something of the coming season. I trust they do.
The big show off this time of the year is the wild plum. They have burst into full bloom all over our place. Their snow white blossoms attract not only us mortals looking for spring, but also the honey bee, as well as many moths, and wasps. The woods are awash with the heavy fragrance of the blossoms. The French Boutique would do well to copy the smell of the wild plum tree. What a heady feeling the smell brings and bodes well to ushering in the coming season. But is it really true? Does Mr. Plum know something? We hope.
However, I remembered something my old friend, John Steel, once said. "Don’t count on spring until the mesquites bud out." We have a ancient mesquite tree high on the ridge to the west that has weathered the coming of many springs. Surely this patriarch would know if spring is just around the corner. I made my way to the tree’s domain. There he stood, in his battered beauty totally barren of green. Not a swelled bud was evident. Not even a promise of green to come. That nailed my search for spring to the barn door. Not yet my son. We must wait for Mr. Mesquite to make the announcement of the coming of spring.

Getting to Work on Time

2007-03-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

The guys were talking about their pick-up trucks down at the garage the other day. That got me to thinking about my favorite truck. Oscar was his name. Oscar was an 1982 Ford Courier and we drove to work each morning for years. I talked to Oscar and Oscar talked to me on the way to work. Oscar was a Democrat and I am a Republican. You can see right off we had many spirited conversations. The political climate was heated and convoluted then as it is today. However Oscar was quite civil and polite. I trust I was also.
One morning on the way to work in the pre-dawn hours Oscar asked how I was feeling. I had for some time been anxious about my health and this morning my left arm ached and my chest felt there was a heavy weight on it. I told Oscar the truth, I didn’t feel well. "Hold on buddy, I am taking you to the hospital of the Future." The truck lifted off the pavement and quickly gained altitude. I looked down to see other cars below on the roadways. The steering wheel and brakes were useless for Oscar was in total command. We raced onward, high above ranches and farms and into downtown. Oscar circled and made a perfect 4 point landing in front of the most magnificent glass, stainless steel, polished marble building I had ever seen. There on the facade of the tall building were the letters, DEMOCRAT NATIONAL MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. "Go on in, they will take care of you," Oscar said. I entered.. I was quickly whisked away and undressed., redressed and wheeled into a bright cheerful room staffed by beautiful nurses and interns. I was tested, weighted, temperature checked and wired for sound. Handsome doctors soon arrived and had me rubbed, smoothed, and salved for processing. All of this action occurred to the beat of the sweetest music ever heard and in lightening speed. Lights flashed, colors came and went. I was shaken up, splashed down, pushed and pulled in all directions and quickly indeed felt better.
I was redressed and ushered through a door into a long hall way with two doors at the distant end. As I walked down the polished marble hallway my footsteps echoed off the glistening steel walls. My newly repaired heart kept time with my measured tread. Feeling good!
At the end of the hall way at the two doors, I noticed one door was labeled Democrat. The other door was signed Republican. Well, I have always voted Republican, so I opened that one. As I stepped through the door it quickly slammed shut and locked behind me. I found myself standing in the alley of the building. A cat scooted away, upending a can of trash. But there in the middle of the alley was Oscar wearing a big grin. "Feel better" he asked. "Yes", I replied, "The hospital of the future did a great job." "Well hop in" he said. "And I will get you to work on time."

Thoughts On Brother In Laws

2007-02-21T14:56:00.000-08:00

You have a brother-in-law? Most of us do. I seem to be blessed with a wide assortment of brother-in-laws. I have rich ones and poor ones. I don’t hear much from the rich but I have a constant contact from the poor. I have tall ones and short ones. Which proves a point that height has no relation to intellect or ability. I have brother-in-laws that are farmers-ranchers, and ones that are bankers-lenders. I kinda stay in touch with the latter. You never know when the day may arrive when you might just find they are the worlds greatest brother-in-law. However the farmer-rancher have more good eats than the others. I have noticed they are the ones who invite us to come have dinner most often. And we go. It makes it a little difficult to reciprocate dinner invites with these guys for we have no fresh beef, pork, beans, or turnips. I usually just grill something and they think it is great. Ever notice, country folk don’t grill? Just isn’t in their make up.
Lets see, I have bald brother-in-laws as well as hairy ones. Not much difference there. The hairy ones take longer getting ready to go some where. The bald ones brag about combing their hair with a wash rag. The bald ones insist grass will not grow on a busy street and the hairy ones suggest that smarts pushes the hair out.
Some brother-in-laws are mean as a skunk and others are nice as little Sunday School choir boys It is not hard to figure which ones are the most fun to be around. The choir boys will not lead you into the path of no return but the skunks are a lot more fun, especially on a fishing trip down on the San Gabriel river. If you can’t catch the cat fish with hook and line a little dynamite tossed into the pool will supply supper with plenty to eat. Now you understand I have only heard about doing that for I have never been involved in such doings.
I counted up the other day and I have had 14 brothers-in-laws. That will pretty well cover the spectrum of folks. Most of them I have had for a long time. Some came a while and then moved on. Almost all of them have been good friends that have not borrowed any money from me nor loaned me any money. There seemed to be plenty of advice of which I can’t remember taking any . Perhaps I should..
I have enjoyed hearing real war stories of landing on the beaches at Normandie and fighting their way to Paris. I have also listened to tales of parlaying ten dollars into a million. I didn’t believe all of this one. But I have also endured many sad tales of failure of which I believed They seem to be evenly distributed in our lives.
This next week I plan to visit one of my favorite Brother-in-laws. He has one thing none of the others have. I bet you don’t know many that have what he has. This brother-in-law has a birthday on the 29th day of February. He will be celebrating his 19th Birthday. Even thought he will be really 76 years old, fate forbade him being able to have all the birthdays normal folks have had. He seems to be just fine. He has plenty of hair, is rather handsome, doesn’t borrow money from me, and tells a pretty good war story. I am going to ask him how it feels to be 19 years old. I have forgotten.

St. Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T06:53:00.000-08:00

Fifty Six years ago I was in tall cotton. Had a good job making $1.10 an hour, living and eating at home and courting a beautiful young chick that would one day become my bride. Then came a letter, "Greetings, your friends and neighbors..........." Uncle Sam said he needed my help and would I please come. I really had other things in mind. Going off to fight a war in a place I had never heard of, didn’t exactly fit my plans. In fact it did not fit at all. It didn’t take long for Uncle Sam to change my mind. He even sent a Greyhound Bus to pick me up and take me to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. There he tested me over and over till he found what he was looking for. He then issued me a pretty uniform and poor fitting boots. In one fell swoop me and my duffel bag were stuffed on a troop train headed for Ft. Bliss, Texas.
The only thing I could think of was that poor, pretty young thing back home pining her heart away. I had made plans to have a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates delivered to her home. But that seemed little consolation to her for my absence on the 14th of February. The troop train stopped in Ft. Worth for some reason and I sneaked off the train, found Western Union and sent a mushy telegram to my lonely girl. I don’t know if it was the roses, chocolates, or the mushy telegram, but that girl became my bride 56 years ago and is still putting up with me.
You are probably asking yourself why some old man is telling you this story. Hey, son, look up at the masthead. What is the date? Uhhu! February the Fourteenth, St. Valentines day. You just have time to hurry to the store and find some flowers and chocolates but I don’t know where you will find Western Union. May I suggest the Dollar Store? They have candies and cards but no Western Union. I bet Fantasia Flowers are open late today for us a little slow on the uptake. I know I saw heart shaped boxes of chocolates on the shelf at Parker’s . And I bet the other groceries have bright red stuff with ribbons that smell good. One place I have been intending to visit is the Bead Store. I bet they have pretties for sweet young things.
Now you have been encouraged to get with it before it is to late to warm that girls heart. I am going to add, "Get a move on boy, or you will be too late." And if you are wondering what I wrote on the mushy telegram, I ain’t telling.

Child and Old Man

2007-02-06T13:00:00.000-08:00

Child and Old Man sat on the porch in the morning sun. The warm rays filtered down through the oak leaves and painted a streaked pattern on the rough board porch.
Old Man rocked gently in cadence with time as it ticked inexorably on. The sun climbed higher till the pattern of shade moved off the boards of the porch and onto the dirt of the yard.
"Old Man", Child asked, "Tell me about life." Old Man stopped rocking. Time stood still as the doors of his mind creaked open and contents dragged into the light for the first time in ages.
Old Man began to speak and rock, and time resumed its march. Child listened, making notes and forming more questions. When Old Man stopped speaking the sun had moved westward and its shadow masterpiece raced eastward across the meadow.
Quiet draped the porch and the yard, the meadow and the world. Finally Child poked a hole in the stillness with the question, "But Old Man what is the most important fact of Life? Old Man replied, "Two things Child, are the only things that really matter in life. The first are Roses, " the Old Man said. "Roses are like life and love and beauty. Each rose has a thorn to remind us that life must be handled gently, not clutched, or yanked about indiscriminately, " Old Man stated. "Each rose forms a promising bud, to be nourished and coaxed into full bloom. As the blossom unfolds in all its pristine beauty they make life worthwhile." Old Man continued, "And even in death the faded petals fall to earth adding nourishment to morrows blossoms."
Old Man became silent. The shadows began to climb the far mountainside. An orange glow streaked the sky. Child waited. Finally impatience swelled and burst into the question, "But Old Man, what is the second most important fact of life?" Old Man sighed and stated, "The second is a source of warmth from winters chill. A salve for man’s many infirmities and an every ready weapon to fight off life’s invading hosts. The second most important fact of life is Vicks Vaporurb.

Baby Bluebonnet

2007-01-31T08:49:00.000-08:00

This is what John Steel was trying to show and tell me about. I think I got the message, even though the kids have not been by to Google the information.

Wild Flower

2007-01-31T08:01:00.000-08:00

I went to the feed store the other day to buy some wildflower seed. I know, that is God’s job but I just wonted to be of some help. There is nothing prettier than a hill side covered with springs blanket of bluebonnets. The color, the smell, the feeling of bluebonnets raises a mans sprits. I have the proper setting, blue sky, green trees and plenty of space. All I needed, it seemed to me was a few packets of seed. Besides the picture on the container looked beautiful and the instruction on the back sounded easy.
About that time a voice behind me said, "What are you thinking of doing Baker?" I turned to find John Steel standing there with a whimsical smile on his face. Now John is a tall, slender, slightly stooped man with plenty of experience showing in his lined face. He wears faded jeans, muddy boots, and a jacket of some undefined color or shape. John lives by him self on a little ranch out county road 200. He keeps a few cows and one old horse he has retired from years of work on that ranch. But John is a warm honest man and tends to make people trust him and listen when he speaks. I explained my plan to paint the hills with the bluest of bluebonnets, that Mother Nature not to mention God would be proud of. "Put those packets of seeds back in the rack and come with me?" John said. I don’t think Chris, the man who runs the feed store appreciated John Steel just then, for I put the seeds back and went out with John.
We drove in his battered, ‘ 85 Ford Pickup out to his ranch. We walked out into the pasture behind the barn. "There", said John pointing down to the ground, "There they are." He kneeled down and showed me a small gray-green plant no bigger than a half dollar. They were everywhere. " These are bluebonnets," he said. "But this is January" I said. "They can’t be up now!"
These plants he explained, came up last October. "Won’t they freeze?" I asked. "No, they can stand a lot, but they do need moisture to handle extreme cold." They come up in October and just lay flat on the ground, pushing their roots down deep, getting ready for spring. On their roots the bacterium, Rhizobium, buries itself to live on the juices of the bluebonnet and in return extracts nitrogen from the air for the plant. This works well for both of the life forms for a while. In time the nitrogen builds up in the soil and promotes the grass to grow stronger and chokes the bluebonnets from their field. In the middle of March the bluebonnet begins its growth spurt for the gold, in this case, the blue. By the middle of April they have reached their peak and are almost gone by May. John explained the plant throws its seeds by June where they lay until the rains of October. They then start the cycle over again. "So that is why I could not let you buy those seeds. You are to late for this spring."
All of this seems a little farfetched to me. However John Steel said it and most would say it is so. Before I embrace John’s story I am going to wait until one of my grandchildren comes by and Googles it. If the story passes Google I will accept it. Just don’t tell John what I said.

Barns

2007-01-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you would like to see one of the better barns being used in our area. I have no idea how old the structure is. It has looked just like this as far back as I can remember, and that is a long time.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

One of the difficulties I have with a new year is the idea that I should make some resolutions. That is heady stuff. In fact it is so intimidating I have never been able to make a resolution, let alone a list of them. To do so would be tantamount to admitting I am not perfect. There seems to be plenty of reasons to believe I am not. In fact it has been discreetly pointed out many times that I just may fail the perfection mark by a wide margin.
This time of year most publications have an article on making resolutions. Newspapers and magazines are full of Cabbages and Kings who have drawn up dandy lists to try following during the coming year. Even the internet and television parade their polished and shinny versions of suggestions to make the new year better. I have a fellow blogger who has filled a page of neat suggestions of ways to change his and my life for the better. He speaks as if I didn’t have a clue how to do my own. Now I am appreciative of his help, but it still pangs me to be so introspective. So I decided to make a little survey of my fellow villagers on the subject of making New Year’s Resolutions.
To start a survey one needs to begin at the very center of our universe and that is at Liberty Hill Information Center, manned by Troy Joseph. He is the fellow who waves to everyone as they go by, whether they are a Democrat, Republican, Independent or none of the above. He said he never makes a list of resolutions. Said his dad told him, long ago, never make a promise you can’t keep nor one that doesn’t help someone else. Troy said, "And I have done that ever since and it always works".
I stopped at Parkers Corner Market for a coke. I asked Majda Parker if she made a list of New Year’s Resolutions and she said, "I resolve to better serve our customers." I felt that was an easy one for she has been doing that always. But it is good to know she is going to keep it up. Corinna, who works at the Market said she intends to stay healthy this year. Good idea.
I ran into Jimmy Oliver at Foundation Park. He was straighten up a leaning sign that had inadvertently gotten knocked over. He is not the care taker but sure works like one on our Park. I tipped my hat to his industriousness to duty and a clean orderly place for us all to play. I asked about my quest for resolutions and he said he always made a list but hated to check back on them as the year progressed. That is my kind of man.
Our Liberty Hill Public Library was open and I stopped in to chat with Mrs. Linda McClane, our librarian. We made some small talk until I broached to purpose of my mission. "No", Mrs Linda said, "I never make a list of resolutions." I knew again I had found, as Anne Shirley in Green Gables so often said, "a kindred sprit." Keep up the task, Mrs Linda, for you are doing a great job without a list. On the other hand, Sandy Schultz, who works with Mrs Linda, said she always makes a full list of resolutions on several areas of her life. I didn’t ask how many her list contained. I did ask if she checked them later to see how she was progressing and she said she did, and often. Sandy is doing our city and Library a fine job. So there you are. Two approaches to life in a new year that are poles apart but both are successful.
I stopped by the Post Office to check my mail. I didn’t have any which was no surprise. I spoke to Mrs. Mary Guice about New Year’s Resolutions. Mary is the lady behind the counter that sports a lovely Louisiana accent. I love to hear her talk and never miss a opportunity to speak to her. She said she made a list ever year. I didn’t have the nerve to ask about keeping them, but I bet a good pair of alligator boots she does.
So there are the results of a carefully conducted scientific study on New Year’s Resolutions. I am not sure just what the study proved if anything. However it has brought me to the conviction I need make a New Year’s Resolution. Therefore I resolve next year to consider making a New Year’s Resolution.

Winter

2007-01-09T17:40:00.000-08:00

Slim Wilson's Christmas

2006-12-22T15:47:00.000-08:00

The weather on the ranch had turned from a beautiful sunny Christmas Eve into a threatening north wind with a hint of cold to come. All day the other cowboys had been teasing Slim about him going to the Church social tonight just to hear Christmas music. Little did they know his main reason was the chocolate cake he just knew they would serve after the music program. He hadn’t had any chocolate cake since he had come to work for the Rocking B ranch 8 months ago and that was a long time for a young man.
They finally drove the last cow into the pens and the days work was done. Slim saddled his horse and rode off towards town to the shouts and teasing of the other cowboys. By now the weather had worsened into a fine mist and much colder, but the vision of chocolate cake danced merrily in his head. On the ride to town he came by the widow Brown’s place, a poor run down farm she was trying to keep together and raise her 5 year old son, Jimmy. As he approached the house he heard the widow chopping wood. The light was fading fast and she had hardly gotten an arm full cut. There’s not much of a contest between chocolate cake and cutting stove wood but Slim knew "Duty is duty". He dismounted, tied his horse and took over the job of cutting wood for the widow. By now the mist had turned to a light snow. Slim filled the wood box just as the widow Brown called him to have some supper. In his haste to leave the ranch he had forgotten to eat. The smell and sounds of a hot home cooked meal tore him from the vision of chocolate cake.
At supper Slim asked Jimmy, the 5 year old if Santa was going to come see him. Jimmy hung his head in silence and the widow said quietly that things were tough on the farm and Santa probably would not come by their home. Slim left the kitchen with and idea. He went to the barn and found an apple box and took the end off. He quickly drew a horses head and roughly sawed most of the head out. He then went back to the house and found Jimmy had gone to bed. Slim sat by the fire and began to whittle the horse head with his pocketknife. It was slow going but he soon had a fair looking horse. He found an old mop and sawed the strings off and nailed the horse head to the stick. He then used some of the old mop strings to fashion a main for the horse. Two buttons made the eyes and a leather pigging string from his saddle for reins. Quite a stick horse Slim felt.
Slim took his leave of the widow Brown’s home and went on to the church. As he made his way through the now heavy snow to the music social he found all had gone home except the ladies cleaning the kitchen. He went in and found one slice of chocolate cake left. The ladies wrapped it for him and he left for the ranch. As he came by the widow Brown’s house there were lights on and he stopped. Little Jimmy had awakened and found the stick horse. He was riding around the living room whooping and hollering and having a great time. "See what Santa left for me!", he shouted. "This is the best Christmas I have ever had!". Slim gave the slice of cake to Jimmy and rode on to the ranch.
The guys were still up and playing cards. They began teasing him about the Church social. "You know", said Slim, "I have found that maybe a stick horse is better than chocolate cake."

A Christmas "Stool" for Santa's rest

2006-12-22T15:37:00.000-08:00

Christmas Shopping

2006-12-06T10:10:00.000-08:00

Notice how many people are not around town these days? They have all gone shopping. They have gone Christmas shopping in Austin. I am not much of a shopper and I find myself going Christmas shopping about the 23rd or 24th of December, about dark. Now if I should go shopping I would most likely go to a hardware store. Like Winkleys Hardware store for instance. From where I see things he has about anything one would need any day and for even Christmas. Chris stocks a full assortment of plumbing tools and supplies if you just can’t get out of repairing some water problem. A lot of folks wrap their pipes with insulation on warm fall days. That sure beats repairing a busted faucet on these cold mornings. I just may try that next year.
What I really like about hardware stores is their tool display. A man never really gets all the tools he wants. He may not use them often but it gives us pleasure to know if we should happen to find the courage to tackle a task we have the tool for the job. This is really a hint for Santa’s helpers to check out Winkley’s for that perfect give for the old man of the house.
And speaking of gift hints, consider the electric section of Chris’s. What would warm your hubby’s heart more than a few wall plugs, light switches, or lamp fixtures under the Christmas tree? Think of all the fun he would have installing all those things during the holidays.
Another thing I like about this hardware store is the feed store in the back. One, it gives the store a nice smell and warm secure feeling of living in a country town. And two, you can buy feed for your cattle, sheep, goats, chickens and hogs. He even has feed for your catfish. The only animals I buy feed for are my cats. Well they are really not my cats. They just came here after being tossed out along the country road that goes by our place. I feed them because I can’t stand to see them starve. Then in return they have kittens. Lots of kittens. Chris likes that. If I had a dog that is where I would get his dinner. Well, as you can see, if you are on my Christmas List you just may get a bale of hay, sack of cement, or bag of nuts and bolts for your holiday gift.

Winter is Coming

2006-12-03T12:48:00.000-08:00

Armistice Day

2006-11-11T06:28:00.000-08:00

Remembering Armistice Day as a kid, I’m not sure I understood what was going on. We liked the bands, and flags and speeches by long winded town dignitaries. The veterans marching units with ill fitting uniforms and paunch bellies were fun to watch. My hometown was probably much like yours and we enjoyed it. But it took a ner-do-well and a math teacher to let me know the real meaning of Veterans Day.

There lived in my hometown a real, pure to the bone, rascal, Mule Johnson. Mule didn’t have a job and really didn’t want one. Oh, he would help a neighbor build a fence or butcher a hog in the winter. But no real job.
He was best at ploughing widow’s gardens with his old mule and a middle buster. He was well liked and welcomed any where in spite of his brogans boots and blue bib overalls. He had never been far from home except to serve in the army during World War I. All he brought home was a limp and the fear of regular work.

John Chamberlin was our math teacher. Mr. Chamberlin was the kind of teacher that kids just liked and we tried to do our best. He was calm, humorous, but had a firm hand in dealing with rousty kids. He spoke quietly but with a sparkle in his eye. He could always find something to brag about each of us kids.

Then in the early ‘40s came a letter from the selective service office “Greetings, your friends and neighbors………
Too soon Mr. Chamberlin was off to war and our prayers with him. The war raged and the news told of something called the Bulge that swept across the lowlands of Europe. Mr. Chamberlin’s position was overrun and the terrible truth was not long in coming, “killed in action.”

His body was sent home and the shocked town tried valiantly to give him an honorable burial. We met at the cemetery with the high school band and the entire town. The flags flapped in the gentle breeze. The sun shone brightly but could not penetrate the cloud that hung over our hearts. The Mayor spoke, the pastors of all the churches gave eulogies and we sang little hopeful songs of good-bye.

As a bugle somewhere played silver taps, Mule Johnson came forward, dressed in his best overalls and rundown boots. It was obvious he was not on the program but that did not deter his measured tread toward the lectern. He stopped, fished in his bib pocket of those overalls and retrieved a yellowed, often folded scrap of paper and laid it on the lectern. Then he began to read in a voice we had never heard him use before, a poem, copied long ago in an earlier war, a poem from the battlefield.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Then Mule Johnson carefully refolded the paper, returned it to its pocket and strode purposefully out as the last notes of taps faded.
The torch has been passed. It is our duty to seize the opportunity and carry the flaming light a little further down the road toward freedom.

Zinnia and Friend

2006-10-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

Thought you might enjoy this past summers visitors.

Paw, A Man of Steel

2006-10-01T14:06:00.000-07:00

I’m glad Paw can’t see my hands today. They are small, soft and worst of all sitting at a desk the calluses form other places. I remember paws hands most of all. They were big, muscled, sinewy, hard hands, used to working far beyond what I can now imagine. Paw was a cedar chopper, and the double bit ax swung daily from dawn until dark promoted a layer of tough horn like calluses across the palms of his hands.
Paw was the best cedar chopper on Morgan Creek. Most ever one agreed to that and especially me. I remember after supper sitting on the porch listening to paw and mother talk in low soft tones that kept time with the crickets and twinkling stars. I sat there smelling the cool night air and whiffs of cedar wax from dads impregnated work clothes. I felt the world was just right.
Best of all was when Paw would tousle my hair with those rough hands in a most gentle way and say something to me directly. I hope I responded in a way to make him as proud of me as I was of him.
My world was shaken only once that I could remember. One night we heard a wagon coming up the road from town and there was Leon Fry, the biggest cedar post buyer in the area. I never cared much for him. He was fat and his eyes bugged out just like the hogs in our pen. He always smelled like the barbershop. You could tell right off he made his living from the sweat of other men and especially Paws.

Well Paw and Mr. Fry howded and he was invited to get down and have a chair. You could tell he was not there to do any socializing. He had some idea hatching under that black derby he always wore. “ Homer, he said, I know you are the best chopper in these parts and we all admire you for it.” I agreed under my breath but wondered why he came all the way out here to tell us something we all already knew. The answer was not long in coming.
Mr. Fry continued, “I have heard of a fellow, John, over in the Llano brakes who says he can out chop any man alive and I think there may be something to his brag. “Any way he says he will bet any man $25.00 who could out chop him in a day. Would you be willing to take him on?”
My stomach did a couple flops and Mr. Fry moved up a notch on my dislike scale. But Paw answered in his soft, gentle way, “Now Leon it just may be so. I have never heard of this fellow- but maybe we can arrange to let this man see if he can.”
As they began making plans for the contest I could stand it no longer and ran into the darkness of the night. I ended up down by the hog pen, chunking cobs a Mr. Fry’s twin and feeling that first twinge of doubt creep into the very depths of my young soul.
The day of the contest came in early summer. The air was warm but without the oppressive heat that would soon fill the brakes. The cedar where the contest was to be held was high on the side of Spider Mountain. From the summit you could see the whole world and all that was in it.

Paw and Llano John flipped a coin to see which got which strip of cedar. They were equally good and bad. Some large virgin trees and some small second growth with under brush. As the sun peeked over the hills they began work. It was soon apparent that John was indeed a man of steel and attacked the cedar with the vengeance of a man possessed. The chopping sounds rang through the canyon of green aromatic cedar and spilled out into the valley with a cacophony of sound.
Word of the contest had spread throughout the creek bottomland and men came to watch the contestants in their struggle. That black feeling of doubt crept back by ten o’clock for the Llano man had Paw down by 5 posts. I could see him shoot a glance toward Paw as he swung the silver blade into yet another green cedar. But Paw never slackened his swinging, but played a constant staccato of chops as his ax bit into a post.
By noon, when the women brought dinner to the brakes Paw was down 6 post and had a bad strip of underbrush ahead. John and Paw sat and talked during lunch as if they were old friends. They discussed good and bad cedar. They discussed which ax was better and how best to cut for maximum efficiency.
Then at 1:00 sharp the battle began again. But now I could see that Paw had shifted into another gate and was slaying the trees without moving around the trunk. He would shift from left to right hand cutting and back again, and another post lay upon the battlefield. I scarcely breathed as I counted. Paw had moved up to within 3 of the Llano man.

Then Paw did a strange thing. He stopped, leaned on his ax handle and shouted, “Come on John, lets show these folks how to make the chips fly.” John only grinned and swung again. He knew the stretch was upon them. The sun had sunk to where the shadows stretched out across the valley and began to crawl up the far mountainside.
Two down and Paw was humming softly. One down and I thought I heard him laugh out loud. I peeked at John and saw he was stretched to the limit and didn’t find much to laugh about.
Sun down. Leon Fry called a halt and the official count began. Racing down the mountainside was pure delight. It was more of a flight than a run to announce to the waiting folks the winner. “Paw won by one post I yelled triumphly.”
Here came Paw and John, followed by Leon Fry, all laughing and kidding each other. These 2 men were truly giants of the cedar brakes, Paw number one and Llano John number 2. The cedar is all gone now and the battles done. But I can still see Paw, 10 feet tall and a man of steel.

A Bit of Texas

2006-10-01T08:13:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to Big Bend

I was impressed at the

Magnificent view

of the Chisos Mountains

Love Story

2006-09-17T17:21:00.000-07:00

He was a tall angular man with a shy grin. He said he only knew about hogs, dog, and bees. Well he did in fact know about those things. But he knew many other things as well. Many things. Like castles, and stars and oceans and history and math. Fact was town folks felt he knew just about everything because of all the books he read constantly. But he rarely spoke. Some said he talked at the pool hall that was on the west side of the square. But most of us never heard him speak at all. He dressed in fresh washed kakias and knee high boots. His straw hat had seen better days but it was plain to see it had many more to go before retirement. He worked hard and tended to his business diligently. He liked coming to town and hanging around the feed store and pool hall, but rarely talked. Most folks said he was a shy man and when cornered with the question about talking he just said, “I’ll let you know later.”

She was the new school teacher. Pretty and petite she came to town talking. Her beauty gave her permission to speak to everyone and she did. She talked of kids and school, church and pie suppers and seemed to know how to get things done. Soon she had the whole town visiting school each month for the socials she organized. The women came to enjoy talking to her and the men came just to stare and eat the fixings. Most had never seen such a beauty, or if they had it was long ago and far away. She had a way of fixing that raven hair so it fairly glistened the light. The dresses she wore fit all the right places and was the color of fall leaves. Her laughter sounded like silver bells at church on Easter morning and she had a way of using it to punctuate what she said. And she said plenty. It she had not been so pretty some would have been piqued at how much she talked.

Some of the boys at the feed store tricked him into going to one of the socials at the school house. He enjoyed the view and food, but he said nothing. But at the next social he was there. He stood in the corner with that shy grin and apple pie all over his face and said nothing. He got some teasing from the boys at the feed store and pool hall. He took the ribbing good naturedly, but said nothing. The next month he was at the school social. She held court and talked to all. Then looking at him directly she asked about some problem in math encountered that day. He mouthed some word or two but no sound came.

Quickly, like a flash of lighting on a summer night she reached out and took his hand to lead him to see something in one of the class rooms. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t release the hand either. Soon they were outside walking around the school yard. Her laughter lighted the way and soon he was talking. He told her of blue fields of flax in England. He spoke of red poppies in France and chateau’s in Germany. He named the constellations and pointed out special stars. She listened. Perhaps for the first time. He told of tigers and elephants and coyotes and prairie dogs. He described the bluster and cold of the north wind off the pole and oppressive heat at the equator. And he talked and talked but he never let go of that little hand. Like a pent up frozen river in the Yukon at thaw time he talked on and on. And she listened.

In fact over the years since, he has rarely released her hand nor quit talking.

Great News

2006-09-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

Olivia’s Flag
August 31, 2006 Our first Great Grand Child,
Olivia Susan Baker,
Was born to Sarah and Zach Baker.
All we did was run the pink towel up the flag pole

in honor of her arrival,

a long tradition of the Baker Bunch

You Can't Go Home

2006-08-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

Thomas Wolf said, "You can’t go home again." Well I tried. Grand Pa’s farm was on the north fork of the San Gaberial Creek and was Mecca for me. West of the house he had built a 3 by 8 by 2 foot watering trough of stone he had carried down from the hills. He piped water from the windmill tank and installed a float valve so the cattle would always have fresh water. He caught several sun fish perch from the creek and put them into the tank and that became my private fishing hole. With a bent pin for a hook and Grandmothers sewing thread I caught those fish several times.
Just inside the yard fence in the back stood the wind mill that pumped cool well water into a tank mounted on a high circle of stone. I would climb the stone and walk around the tank which became my castle. From the heights of the walk way I could get a good shot at the many invading Vandals and Goths. Never once were they able to storm the walls and take the castle.
In the east corner of the back yard was the cellar. It was dug into the cool dirt and was intended to be used to store canned fruit and vegetables from the orchard and garden. They called it a cellar, but in reality it was a great cavern where I lived and fought off the pesky saber toothed tigers that roamed the farm. With red mud and black charcoal I painted pictographs of my exploits on the walls. Woolly mammoths, raging bulls and giant sloths raced around the wall of the cave.
The front yard contained an apricot tree that was just right for me, Tarzan to climb. Plus the added bonus of ripe fruit on special occasions it became a magnet for a kid just my size. Grandpa called me his little racoon, but I knew he meant, you Tarzan
By the east yard gate stood a desert willow given to Grandpa by his mother. He planted it and watered from a bucket carried from the windmill each day. It was no good for climbing, and any way Grandpa guarded it carefully for he prized the orchid like blossoms that covered the tree most all summer.
The farm house was built in the shape of an "L" with a dog trot where the two lines met. There is where I slept, when they could get me to lie down. The wind whistled through the dog trot and all the night sounds used it as a short cut to get to wherever they go. Owls, night hawks, and frogs made up the band producing the night music. Of course crickets in the fall and June bugs in the summer added to the cacophony of music marching through my dog trot room. The kitchen was my favorite room in the house. Grandma always had tea cakes for me and usually a left over biscuit and bacon from breakfast helped me live until lunch. She always managed to cook exactly what a kid needed to make it in this world. Grandpa was careful to keep the wood box full with plenty of kindling to start the fire.
The living room had a fire place and a rocking chair for Grandpa. In the winter nights, after the chores were done, he sat there close to the fire and read by the light of a coal oil lamp. Occasionally he would find a morsel of information he thought I might like and toss it to me like a bone to a dog. I remember him telling about a giant telescope, with a 200 inch mirror that was being built and would take ten years to complete. I wanted to know if they could see men on Mars and he said perhaps.
What a lovely world for a kid to be in. If I had know the word then I would have called it idyllic. I think I just called it Grandpa’s, but that means the same to a youngster.
Recently I tried to go back in spite of Tom’s warning. Walking across the field I could see nothing. Brush and weeds were everywhere. Then I spied my castle. The stone still stood but crumbled some what. The walls of that majestic, impregnable fortress was not quite as tall as I remembered. The wind mill was gone and a stone covered the well. A pebble dropped into the darkness gave a small splash. My fishing hole was still intact but empty and dry. I wondered what happened to the fishes grand kids.
My special cave had indeed caved in and left only a small depression in the soil. I sure remembered it being longer and walls of solid rock. No sign of the apricot tree was visible. Not even a stump. The house was gone. Just a few post and some rocks that held the wood house off the ground. There is where the fireplace stood, but not a single brick remained to mark the site. And now the night sounds had to find other places to go, for the short cut of the dog trot was gone.
All was gone. Maybe Thomas Wolf was right. Perhaps there is no road back. Was it really ever here?
But wait. What is that? There where the yard fence once encircled my world was a struggling gnarled tree. A few green shoots graced the twisted limbs. Yes! It was! It is! The desert willow my Grandpa had planted over 85 years ago still grows. A few small timid blossoms mark the valor of the past. Grandpa’s labor was not lost. And Thomas Wolf is wrong. I can go back. And I can enjoy the adventure again for it lives forever in my mind.
To bad for you Mr. Wolf.

Posting Notes

2006-07-25T12:46:00.000-07:00

A friend just reciently built a blog but is having trouble getting pictures to post. This is a try to see if I can manage it again myself. I notice a icon of a picture just above where I am typing this.
I will see if that works. If so, my friend may try it, and find success.
That last move didnot work.
I will now try pasting a picture. I opened one of my pictures in word, copyed it to the
clipboard and will now attempt to paste it below.
Didn't work.
I will try something else. Magic.
Even magic failed. So much for blogging pictures.
I wish I could talk to Mr. Blogger.com
Now! I got three for the price of one! I used the icon as I talked about in the beginning.
I know this is not very helpfull. Keep trying. It just may respont to stubborness. ( However I am not stubborn!)

Hollis

A Summer's Play

2006-07-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

Life has ceased. Nothing grows. Nothing moves. The land is silent, patient, mouth agape with parched lips. The heat is oppressive, pervasively covering the land in a pall. Color is gone. All things are monotone tan. The sky and the earth blend into one. There is no up, no down, no now, no yesterday, no tomorrow. The air is heavy, still, asleep unmoving, uncaring. Leaves hang limp, curled waiting. Grass has prostrated itself in prayer upon the earth’s dusty bosom with only a quite hope. The sky is mantled in brown haze with only a finger of wispy clouds.
The scorching sun marches slowly across the sky as if he had all day. Finally with what seems a year he falls reluctantly behind the sweltering cedar covered hills. Timidly the dark creeps in. The night blots out all the world except the heat and an ominous expectancy. Few stars peek down and wink for fear of being accused of mockery.
From the northwest, as if in a dream comes a flash of light. A flash of light that seems to be only a thought, a hope.
There, again a gentle, silent flash, but this time real. This time indeed a wink of light.
Expectantly earth and life hold its breath. Was it real? Could it be? Possibly? THERE! Again and again a burst of light. A gentle low rumble is more felt than heard. The flashing light begins a visual display illuminating the far hills. In counter point the rumble becomes a cacophony of music. The rumble creeps across the hills, through the meadows, down the valleys and creases the dry world with a velvet glove.
Gently a smell drifts by, buoyed by a rustling breeze. A smell of hay. A smell of new, damp hay! A smell of hope, a smell of promise.
With the cannonade of thunder and a swish of wind the curtain is drawn for the opening act of an ageless pageant. The parched leaves stir, the trees sway, the heat surrenders and hastily retreats. Flash and thunder crack in unison of a drum roll with lights. The first fat drops of cool refreshing water splash down and are quickly blotted by the powder dry earth. The cold rain dashes itself against the trees, the grass, the waiting earth in a furry of a raging bull. Dust is soon inundated and becomes puddles, breaks away to become Lilliputian streams. Pools quickly form to catch the new drops in a hissing, impatient sound. The lightening, thunder and audacious wind march quickly on. The quenching, life giving rain settles down to the business of succoring the parched earth and its children. With a satisfied smile all life goes peacefully to sleep.
Morning comes softly. Morning breaks clear. Morning awakens to a new earth. Leaves wave plump in the gentle breeze. Swaying grass glistens with the timid morning sun. The earth’s bosom is soft, full, nursed. Life begins again.

Spring In Texas

2006-03-04T11:01:00.000-08:00

Spring Time In Texas

Wild Plum
Just a few months ago I warned you that winter was coming. It never made it here this time. Now with the warm days and cool nights the flowers have been fooled into thinking it really is spring. Perhaps it is. And a very dry spring it is. The woods are full of wild plum and the air smells great. The trees are full of wasps, flies, moths and butterflies all sucking nectar and laying their eggs in the blossoms. Few blossoms will develop into adult fruit this summer. But they are beautiful now.

Hollis

2006-02-18T09:16:00.000-08:00

The Eulogy

She lived at the far end of our mall on a ragged
limestone outcropping. She was sprouted and grew slim and tall making it through those early adolescent years in peace. Then came the “coming of age” time ---the teen-age years. Prairie fires and winter ice passed dangerously close but she escaped without a scratch.
For all those 480 years she grew taller and greater in girth. Her limbs reached into the blue giving birds a place to hide or build. The shade she cast was deep, dark and cool. Bison, deer, and antelope found comfort there. On occasion a passing red man rested or napped in her comforting shade.
She cast her fruit about her feet upon the moist soil. Some of them even sprouted but most were eaten or carried away and tucked into the dirt by mischievous squirrels, there to unfold and grow into handsome plants like their mother. But most did not have their parent’s good fortune, succumbing to the ravages of nature and hungry animals.
Then there came into this idyllic place the greatest danger of all. Then came man with his steel ax. He felled all that stood before him for shelter or warmth. None seemed to escape his slaughter. Standing before this, by now, giant tree he raised his ax and flashing down in a mighty arc struck the trunk. Only a nick. Flashing again the ax struck but only a burse to this 12-circumference monolith resulted. The ax man stood back in awe for he knew his metal was not equal to the task and moved away looking for easier prey.
Time clicked inexorably on and the hunter came. He nailed boards up her trunk to better see the grazing deer in the mall. What a brave ambusher!
Then I came. How proud I was to walk around this mighty oak and gaze up into her gently swaying mass of leaves. With my arms totally stretched I could barley reach the halfway mark. Towering tall at the end of the mall she seemed to smile with contentment. How vain it was of me to think I now owned this monarch of the woods. Little did I know I had entered her life in the twilight years.
Last fall I feared all was not well. A few leaves had fallen during the summer. Her crown was visibly thinner and I expected the worst. This spring she put forth a few brave green leaves but succumbed to the grim reaper with the coming of summer.
She had lived 20 score and 80 years, a comfort to all. She asked little but gave much.
With a fond farewell we will miss her leafy spring, her shady summer, and lovely bare arms of winter May the sprit of this mighty oak rest in peace.

Thoughts & Ideas

2006-01-01T16:00:00.000-08:00

Thoughts & Ideas
Hey, Rekab, a well written blog. And thoughful also. My compliments on the neat design. I trust you will get many fun hours from your site.
I must admit the name had me big time. I told Alice to check the AboutMe button to find where she was from. Then it hit like a bunch of bricks. Gotchu!!

Hollis

Shorty Johnsons Christmas

2005-12-23T10:32:00.000-08:00

The weather on the ranch had turned from a beautiful sunny Christmas Eve into a threatening north wind with a hint of cold to come. All day the other cowboys had been teasing Shorty about him going to the Church social tonight just to hear Christmas music. Little did they know his main reason was the chocolate cake he just knew they would serve after the music program. He hadn’t had any chocolate cake since he had come to work for the Rocking B ranch 8 months ago and that was a long time for a young man.
They finally drove the last cow into the pens and the days work was done, Shorty saddled up his horse and rode off towards town to the shouts and teasing of the other cowboys. By now the weather had worsened into a fine mist and much colder, but the vision of chocolate cake danced merrily in his mind. On the ride to town he came by the widow Brown’s place, a poor run down farm she was trying to keep together and raise her 5 year old son. As he approached the house he heard the widow chopping wood. The light was fading fast and she had hardly gotten an arm full cut. There’s not much of a contest between chocolate cake and cutting wood but Shorty knew, duties duty. He dismounted and tied his horse and took over the job of cutting wood for the widow. By now the mist had turned to a light snow. Shorty filled the wood box just as the widow Brown called him to have some supper. In his haste to leave the ranch he had forgotten to eat supper. The smell and sound of a hot home cooked meal tore him from the vision of chocolate cake.
At supper Shorty asked Jimmy, the 5 year old if Santa was going to come see him. Jimmy hung his head in silence and the widow said quietly that things were tough and he probably would not come by their farm. Shorty left the kitchen with an idea. He went to the barn and found an apple box and took the end off. He quickly drew a horses head and roughly sawed most of the head out. He then went back to the house and found Jimmy had gone to bed. He sat by the fire and began to whittle the horse head with his pocketknife. It was slow going but soon he had a fair looking head. He found an old mop and sawed the strings off and nailed the horse head to the stick. He then used some of the old mop string to fashion a main for the horse. Two buttons made the eyes and a leather pigging string from his saddle for reins. Quite a stick horse Shorty felt.
He took his leave of the widow Brown’s home and went on to the church. As he made his way through the now heavy snow to the music social he found all had gone home except the ladies cleaning the kitchen. He went in and found one slice of chocolate cake left. The ladies wrapped it for him and he left for the ranch. As he came to the widow Brown’s house there was a light on and he stopped. Little Jimmy had gotten up and found the stick horse. He was riding around the living room whooping and hollering and having a great time. See what Santa left for me he shouted. This is the best Christmas I have ever had. Shorty gave the slice of cake to Jimmy and rode on to the ranch. The guys were still up and playing cards. They began teasing him again about the church social. You know, said Shorty, I have learned that maybe a stick horse is better than chocolate cake.

Winter is Here

2005-12-08T10:41:00.000-08:00

Well winter did make it to central Texas! It was 22 degrees this morning. We almost had a white landscape but there was not enough moisture in the air to produce snow or sleet. I trust you are warm and snug at your home. I haven’t ventured our today. The tempt is still below freezing so the roads may be slick. Perhaps after noon the streets will be safe.
One way to enjoy today is to build up the fire, pop some corn, make a cup of cocoa and remember August.
Hollis

Advice

2005-11-23T16:55:00.000-08:00

The Red Rooster and the Dominecker Hen

Old men like to give advice. Now I don’t know just how old you need to be to be in that august body of sages but I know I am approaching that time. Young men see us running around with no place we have to be, driving expensive cars and playing at work, and wonder just how we got here. But I have yet to have one to come to me and ask. I have been practicing just what I would tell them. Something like, “hard work” seems too evident. “Keep your nose to the grindstone, and your ear to the ground” seems silly. Can you imagine getting any work done in that position? An early American named Benjamin suggested, “Early to bed and early to rise----“ and that may be good advice.

One suggestion might be to look at other men and see how they got there. Like Bill Gates. He fits the mold of success. He saw a need, got quickly to the heart of the business and struck fast. There are better operating systems but he was there first.

The early American canal system was to move products and produce from the outlands to the cities, but they dilly dallied around until the railroads got on the job and overnight put the canals out of business. What a roaring success the railroads became and still move most of the freight around the country. That worked successfully.

Michael Dell got an idea. Build computers in your dorm room and sell on the phone, now the internet. It was soon evident to the young student really didn’t need to know any more Roman history and he quit school and has been building PC’s ever since.
I think he can now drive any car, work any time, and eat at any restaurant he wants. That spells success.

I wondered if some of these things might be some of the advice us old men might be able to pawn off on youngsters, should they ask for advice. But these ideas seem a little clumsy and hard to get past the “Yeay, but-----“ Pondering this question I found myself out by the chicken pen. I sat on a stump waiting for the inspiration to unfold so I could run through the streets yelling eureka! I have found the answer! By chance, I heard the Red Rooster and the Dominicker Hen talking. She said, “ You know rooster, I have laid eggs all over this pen. I even layed one on the roof but it splattered on the ground. I want to lay an egg where no hen has layed one before.” I eased closer for I felt I may be in on a historic act of nature. The Dominicker Hen said, “I want to lay an egg in the middle of that road out there.” Red Rooster looked surprised and taken aback, but he soon regained his composure and said, “Little Hen, let me give you a piece of advice. Do it quick, lay it on the line, and don’t hang around to cackle!”

I ran from the pen and almost yelled eureka. For this advice fits the problem just fine. So if any youngster ever comes to me asking for advice of how to become successful I will tell him what the Red Rooster told the adventurous Dominicker Hen,
“Be quick, lay it on the line, and don’t hang around to cackle.

19 June 2005

Winter

2005-11-16T20:05:00.000-08:00

And all this time you didn't think winter would ever get here. I didn't either. With summer
just hanging around like a mangey old dog asleep on the porch I could not believe it would
ever get cooler than 70. But it did. It was 39 here this morning. But I fooled the old man. I
moved all my potted flowers into the greenhouse yesterday. Today they look great and the
cold can just keep blowing around the corner, looking for a crack into the warm, sunny safe
place for the blooming plants. Now while winter rages, I can visit "the house" and enjoy
what was saved from summer all winter long.
I trust you have a warm, sunny safe place to stay this winter.
Hollis

New Earth to Plough

2005-11-15T08:49:00.000-08:00

Being a little older than most of you out there, this is a new world to me. However, I will
try to keep up with you fast running guys and gals. For starters may I send you all a
flower to brighten your day.

Hollis