I was watching ‘The Wizard of Oz” sixty-nine years ago with my parents at the Rogue Picture Show in Wheeler, Texas, a sleepy little village in the Panhandle. Right in the middle of the show, the lights came on. Mr. Guthrie, the theater owner, climbed up on the stage and announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked.
Most of the audience just looked at each other, not knowing what he was talking about. What’s a Pearl Harbor, some asked. As he went on to explain what had taken place, their puzzlement turned to disbelief and shock. But, all it meant to a five-year-old boy was that the Dorothy and Toto movie had stopped and the cartoon wouldn’t play.
I had no way of knowing then that date marked the end of U.S. isolationism; that from then on, my world and that of those about me would forever be changed.
Back then, most folks remained in close proximity to the their birthplace, so there was always a family gathering for holidays and other special occasions.
That night, the family gathered at my aunt’s next door.
We kids had no idea of the grownups’ concern.
Over the next few days, I came to realize things had changed. There was a different mood at home, in town, at school.
Then a couple uncles shipped out.
I came in from play a few days later and Mom was crying. I remember how she hugged me and said from then on, I’d have to be the man of the house. I had no idea what she was talking about.
The next day or maybe the next, Papa and Mama Conwell stopped at the house, and we all loaded into his 1940 Chevrolet.
We headed to Shamrock and the train station.
We stayed home while Dad went through boot camp on the east coast, Norfolk, Virginia, if I remember right.
When Dad returned, he then headed for California, and he took us with him. That was the beginning of two or three years of constant moving. From there Albuquerque, then Hutchinson, Kansas, and then overseas.
We stayed in Wheeler.
I don’t figure I’ll ever again witness the degree of dynamic energy created by the unified drive and motivation of the American populace supporting our country in those years. We were a juggernaut of determination and purpose.
Just about everything was rationed. Victory gardens were a way of life. Kids roamed the neighborhoods in paper drives. Farmers hauled in rusted and broken implements that would be melted down into war weapons.
If you lived back then, you remember how it was. I don’t know what percentage, but I’d guess three-quarters of everything went to support the war.
Soft drinks for example were next to impossible to find.
Once on the way to California, we stopped at a station in the middle of Arizona. My uncle and I went inside and in soft drink box, found a lone Seven-Up.
We drank it. When we went to pay, the owner exploded. He had brought that over forty miles so he could enjoy it himself.
That was how the rationing was.
I’m sure folks complained back then, but can you imagine the tenor of their complaints if called upon for such sacrifices today?
Women were taking over jobs men had once held, doing as competent and often better work.
America buzzed with the ‘can do’ and ‘never quit’ spirit, and that bulldog determination is what brought our country its greatest victory.
Times change. Today we’re facing an enemy we can’t eradicate with an atomic bomb. To me that makes it doubly dangerous, much more costly, and a battle that might never fully be won.
I hate to think the last eight or ten years being perpetuated decades into the life of my children and grandchildren.
Don‘t you?
I might be wrong, but I feel in the years to come 9/11 will prove to be as significant, and maybe arguably more so, than Pearl Harbor.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Showing posts with label family stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A Thanksgiving for Slim
A few weeks back, I was looking through some old family photos. Some of them go back almost a hundred years. The one that caught my attention was a line of grinning men and women standing in front of a clapboard shack. One young man held a baby.
Me. That was seventy-four years ago, but what caught my attention was an old man in his sixties standing at the end. His name was Slim.
I’ve mentioned Slim before. I never knew his last name. He wasn’t blood kin, but he was as much of the family as anyone.
As long as I can remember, he was always around. An old broken down cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch up near Amarillo, the rigors of cowboying had sent him to the farm.
When I was growing up, he’d bounce me on his knee, then later let me ride on his back. I was around five or so when I heard his story the first time.
An orphan, he grew up bitter and angry, resenting everyone and always looking for a fight. He got in trouble once too often in Mobeetie, and the judge gave him a choice of jail or work, and if he quit work within two years, he’d end up in the calaboose. The next day, he hired on at the Frying Pan Ranch back west.
He remained wild and angry. After a few brawls in the bunkhouse, the foreman assigned him the hated job of repairing fences, all one hundred and twenty miles of four-strand wire.
The young hellion had a choice, barb wire or jail. He took the wire, which kept him away from headquarters a month at a time. And out of trouble.
Now he always looked forward to holidays, the Fourth, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That was about the only time he could get away from his fence mending other than paydays.
Fence mending shut down at Thanksgiving for the winter.
Slim was counting the days.
Two days before he was slated to head back to headquarters some thirty miles distant, a blue norther swept across the Panhandle.
According to Slim, for one of the few times in his life, he was scared. He had seen too much evidence of the devastation those snow storms brought.
Headquarters was out of the question. His only chance was an old shack with two walls missing about three miles distant.
Hours later, he had not found the shack. His fears grew, but he plodded ahead.
Not long after, he spotted the cabin, and to his surprise, there was a light coming from around the edges of the cowhide covering the window.
Inside, an old man greeted him, explaining that seeing the shack deserted, he had repaired it and moved in for the winter. He had even rigged up a partial windbreak for his horse, and there was room for Slim’s animals.
The cabin was warm and a mouthwatering aroma arose from the pot bubbling on the potbellied stove. It was only rabbit, but the ‘best Thanksgiving dinner I ever had’, he said.
Four days, the storm raged. On the fifth, the skies cleared, and despite the snow, Slim headed to the ranch before the next storm blew in.
‘Everyone thought I was froze to death,” he said. “They didn’t believe me about the old man. So, the foreman and me went back the next day.”
The shack was deserted; two walls were missing; and a foot of snow covered the pot bellied stove.
No one could explain how he had survived four days in such a storm without shelter, but he had.
Now, I never heard Slim say this, but Mama Holly once told me that Slim had confided in her and Papa that he knew how he had managed to survive. Someone wanted him to live. ‘I reckon it was God,” he told Mama and Papa.
Gone was the anger, the resentment, the bitterness that had caused him so much trouble.
Slim stayed on the ranch even after a bronc busted him so badly that all he could do was cook, and for the next few years, he did that with a ready smile and a
willingness to go out of his way to help other cowboys.
You know, old men, especially cowboys, like to tell stretchers. I’ve often wondered over the years if Slim was just making all that up. I don’t think he was, because after Slim passed on, Mama told me an old cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch showed up at the old man’s funeral.
Maybe it didn’t happen—or maybe it did.
I like to think it did.
Me. That was seventy-four years ago, but what caught my attention was an old man in his sixties standing at the end. His name was Slim.
I’ve mentioned Slim before. I never knew his last name. He wasn’t blood kin, but he was as much of the family as anyone.
As long as I can remember, he was always around. An old broken down cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch up near Amarillo, the rigors of cowboying had sent him to the farm.
When I was growing up, he’d bounce me on his knee, then later let me ride on his back. I was around five or so when I heard his story the first time.
An orphan, he grew up bitter and angry, resenting everyone and always looking for a fight. He got in trouble once too often in Mobeetie, and the judge gave him a choice of jail or work, and if he quit work within two years, he’d end up in the calaboose. The next day, he hired on at the Frying Pan Ranch back west.
He remained wild and angry. After a few brawls in the bunkhouse, the foreman assigned him the hated job of repairing fences, all one hundred and twenty miles of four-strand wire.
The young hellion had a choice, barb wire or jail. He took the wire, which kept him away from headquarters a month at a time. And out of trouble.
Now he always looked forward to holidays, the Fourth, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That was about the only time he could get away from his fence mending other than paydays.
Fence mending shut down at Thanksgiving for the winter.
Slim was counting the days.
Two days before he was slated to head back to headquarters some thirty miles distant, a blue norther swept across the Panhandle.
According to Slim, for one of the few times in his life, he was scared. He had seen too much evidence of the devastation those snow storms brought.
Headquarters was out of the question. His only chance was an old shack with two walls missing about three miles distant.
Hours later, he had not found the shack. His fears grew, but he plodded ahead.
Not long after, he spotted the cabin, and to his surprise, there was a light coming from around the edges of the cowhide covering the window.
Inside, an old man greeted him, explaining that seeing the shack deserted, he had repaired it and moved in for the winter. He had even rigged up a partial windbreak for his horse, and there was room for Slim’s animals.
The cabin was warm and a mouthwatering aroma arose from the pot bubbling on the potbellied stove. It was only rabbit, but the ‘best Thanksgiving dinner I ever had’, he said.
Four days, the storm raged. On the fifth, the skies cleared, and despite the snow, Slim headed to the ranch before the next storm blew in.
‘Everyone thought I was froze to death,” he said. “They didn’t believe me about the old man. So, the foreman and me went back the next day.”
The shack was deserted; two walls were missing; and a foot of snow covered the pot bellied stove.
No one could explain how he had survived four days in such a storm without shelter, but he had.
Now, I never heard Slim say this, but Mama Holly once told me that Slim had confided in her and Papa that he knew how he had managed to survive. Someone wanted him to live. ‘I reckon it was God,” he told Mama and Papa.
Gone was the anger, the resentment, the bitterness that had caused him so much trouble.
Slim stayed on the ranch even after a bronc busted him so badly that all he could do was cook, and for the next few years, he did that with a ready smile and a
willingness to go out of his way to help other cowboys.
You know, old men, especially cowboys, like to tell stretchers. I’ve often wondered over the years if Slim was just making all that up. I don’t think he was, because after Slim passed on, Mama told me an old cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch showed up at the old man’s funeral.
Maybe it didn’t happen—or maybe it did.
I like to think it did.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The End of a Generation
When most of us old codgers think about our childhood, we always manage to remember the good rather than the bad, but even the bad, we’ll often view through tinted glasses.
I was lucky to have been part of two wonderful families, families vastly different from each other in some respects, yet bound by the common chains of hard work, frugal spending, and boundless love.
Dad’s families lived in town. Mom’s on the farm.
And even back in the thirties and forties, there was a world of difference between the two cultures.
Mom had four brothers and three sisters. She was next to the youngest of the girls. The youngest was Mae. Of the four brothers, Troy was the youngest.
Two weeks ago at ninety-four, Mae passed away, joining Mama and Papa Holley and all her siblings, except one, Troy, who lives in Nevada.
Remembering her seldom dull ninety-four years, it is sort of apropos that she left us on July 4. She went out with a bang, just the way she lived her life.
She was a beautiful girl and striking woman. Of all the girls, she was the one most likely to pull against the traces, to live life as she chose.
Back in the twenties and thirties, farm girls had to be tomboys, but Mae was even more of a Tomboy than the other girls. She could give as much as her brothers could hand out, then throw it back at them harder than they could take.
Once sitting out on the patio on a warm summer night in Fort Worth, Dad recollected helping the family harvest a patch of cotton. They had an old goat running loose, wandering the cotton field, chewing on the leaves. Kids being kids, none like pulling cotton, so Mae, looking for some distraction to perk up the boredom of their sweaty work, discovered that if she hit the goat with a green cotton boll, the goat would scamper over to Papa Holley and jump up on his cotton sack.
Papa, according to Dad, would curse and scream at the goat, which promptly bounded away. Despite Papa’s raving, no one would admit throwing the boll. But, every time the goat came within Mae’s range, she popped the animal with another boll.
Now Mae was in her teens, so when Papa finally figured out the culprit, he couldn’t whip her. She was too big, but after that out in the cotton field, he always kept one eye on the row, one eye on the goat, and the other eye on Mae.
I remember once when I was small. I’m guessing around five. We lived in Wheeler, and Mama and Papa Holley were out around Littlefield, north of Lubbock. Mae was visiting us, and she and Mom got it into their heads to visit their folks with me in tow.
Now, that in itself wasn’t unusual, but the fact they decided to hitchhike was unusual. And we did, over two hundred miles. As I remember, they dressed me in a sailor suit. What driver or his wife could refuse a five-year-old in a sailor suit with his thumb out?
We made it without a problem.
She was always adventuresome, and more than once out on the farm, she’d get into rock fights with my cousin, Ed, and me. She won most of the time. She didn’t hurl a rock like most girls. She whipped her arm over her head and twisted that wrist just as she released the rock. She was a darn good rock chunker.
She married a construction boss. The company for which he worked built dams, so they traveled a great deal, taking with them their children. Not one to whine, Mae was one of those women who adapted and adjusted to whatever the circumstances. And in those years of traveling around the country, pulling their trailer house behind them, Mae always was bright and cheerful—at least as bright and cheerful as possible with a handful of kids around.
She was one of the most positive people I’ve ever known.
When we lose a loved one, all of us reflect on what has been, and we all feel the pain of knowing that what once was so vital in our lives is almost gone. With Mae’s passing, only one brother remains, and then it’ll be like an era has ended.
It hasn’t, and I know that. Their blood still flows in many veins. I guess what really bothers me is they, as countless families in the past, will soon be forgotten.
Two generations from now, who will remember the little things like Mae being a great rock chunker, or that she and Mom hitched over two hundred miles with a five-year-old?
Small things, but it is the small things that define us, that most of us cherish.
I was lucky to have been part of two wonderful families, families vastly different from each other in some respects, yet bound by the common chains of hard work, frugal spending, and boundless love.
Dad’s families lived in town. Mom’s on the farm.
And even back in the thirties and forties, there was a world of difference between the two cultures.
Mom had four brothers and three sisters. She was next to the youngest of the girls. The youngest was Mae. Of the four brothers, Troy was the youngest.
Two weeks ago at ninety-four, Mae passed away, joining Mama and Papa Holley and all her siblings, except one, Troy, who lives in Nevada.
Remembering her seldom dull ninety-four years, it is sort of apropos that she left us on July 4. She went out with a bang, just the way she lived her life.
She was a beautiful girl and striking woman. Of all the girls, she was the one most likely to pull against the traces, to live life as she chose.
Back in the twenties and thirties, farm girls had to be tomboys, but Mae was even more of a Tomboy than the other girls. She could give as much as her brothers could hand out, then throw it back at them harder than they could take.
Once sitting out on the patio on a warm summer night in Fort Worth, Dad recollected helping the family harvest a patch of cotton. They had an old goat running loose, wandering the cotton field, chewing on the leaves. Kids being kids, none like pulling cotton, so Mae, looking for some distraction to perk up the boredom of their sweaty work, discovered that if she hit the goat with a green cotton boll, the goat would scamper over to Papa Holley and jump up on his cotton sack.
Papa, according to Dad, would curse and scream at the goat, which promptly bounded away. Despite Papa’s raving, no one would admit throwing the boll. But, every time the goat came within Mae’s range, she popped the animal with another boll.
Now Mae was in her teens, so when Papa finally figured out the culprit, he couldn’t whip her. She was too big, but after that out in the cotton field, he always kept one eye on the row, one eye on the goat, and the other eye on Mae.
I remember once when I was small. I’m guessing around five. We lived in Wheeler, and Mama and Papa Holley were out around Littlefield, north of Lubbock. Mae was visiting us, and she and Mom got it into their heads to visit their folks with me in tow.
Now, that in itself wasn’t unusual, but the fact they decided to hitchhike was unusual. And we did, over two hundred miles. As I remember, they dressed me in a sailor suit. What driver or his wife could refuse a five-year-old in a sailor suit with his thumb out?
We made it without a problem.
She was always adventuresome, and more than once out on the farm, she’d get into rock fights with my cousin, Ed, and me. She won most of the time. She didn’t hurl a rock like most girls. She whipped her arm over her head and twisted that wrist just as she released the rock. She was a darn good rock chunker.
She married a construction boss. The company for which he worked built dams, so they traveled a great deal, taking with them their children. Not one to whine, Mae was one of those women who adapted and adjusted to whatever the circumstances. And in those years of traveling around the country, pulling their trailer house behind them, Mae always was bright and cheerful—at least as bright and cheerful as possible with a handful of kids around.
She was one of the most positive people I’ve ever known.
When we lose a loved one, all of us reflect on what has been, and we all feel the pain of knowing that what once was so vital in our lives is almost gone. With Mae’s passing, only one brother remains, and then it’ll be like an era has ended.
It hasn’t, and I know that. Their blood still flows in many veins. I guess what really bothers me is they, as countless families in the past, will soon be forgotten.
Two generations from now, who will remember the little things like Mae being a great rock chunker, or that she and Mom hitched over two hundred miles with a five-year-old?
Small things, but it is the small things that define us, that most of us cherish.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Roman Candle Shootout
As a youngster up in the Panhandle, I was always been a sucker for holidays, especially the Fourth of July and Christmas. And to be honest, the fact that firecrackers, torpedoes, rockets, and other pyrotechnic devices were part of each was one of the reasons.
Then, as today, families gathered for the Fourth. Now, that was well before the barbecue craze, and usually after a dinner of fried chicken and all the side dishes topped off with icy sweet tea, the men, along with their various libations, set about churning up a batch of homemade ice cream while we kids ran amuck with our explosives.
It’s a wonder some of us didn’t have something blown off or put out or burned up because the only thing we had on our warped little minds was fireworks, certainly not safety.
One Christmas on my maternal grandparents farm, Ed, one of my younger cousins, and I got tired of being knocked around by our Cousin Dooley, who was five or six years older. It was small things like pushing us into the hog pen or throwing one of us in the cow tank or hurling cow patties at us.
He was too big and strong for us, but we had a supply of Roman candles. We caught him in one of the barn stalls so he couldn’t run and peppered him good with Roman candles. Even burned a couple holes in his clothes.
That wasn’t all we burned. Luckily we saw the smoking hay in the stalls before it got out of hand. We never did tell anyone about that part of our adventure.
Naturally, when he caught up with us later, he gave us a good pummeling.
Now I never did burn anything down. Set a few grass fires and on occasion caused my grandmother’s hens to stop laying. One of my friends wasn’t so lucky. And, but for the mixed blessing of a case of measles, I would have been right in the thick of it.
There were a handful of us boys who sort of, kind of, hung together. If one had something in mind such as a camping trip or swimming trip to the creek, he’d get in touch with the others.
Anyway, we had planned our Fourth of July battle for a couple weeks, a replay of the shelling of Fort McHenry in 1812. What brought that scenario all about was that Donald had read about Francis Scott Key writing the Star Spangled Banner while watching the battle at night.
Now, Donald’s dad had just moved a chicken house onto the back of his property. As I remember, he’d bought it from another farmer and hauled it in. That was our Fort McHenry, and since the idea was Donald’s, and the fort his father’s, he insisted on being Francis Scott Key.
That meant only two more of us could be Americans. The other three were British. No one wanted to be British, so we had to draw straws. Naturally with my luck, I was a Briton.
Two days before the Fourth, Mom decided I had measles. I wailed and pitched a fit, but to no avail.
Two days after the Fourth, I was grateful for the illness with which the good Lord had blessed me. That was the day I learned during the epic Battle of the Chicken Coop—I mean, Fort McHenry, the fort, flag and all, under the deadly barrage of Roman candles, had been reduced to ashes. The nearby barn had been hit; it lost only one stall; both armies had been punished severely.
A week later after Jerry’s dad let him leave the house, he stopped by and told me of the battle.
It had waged back and forth for hours (minutes really). Francis Scott Key was firmly entrenched in the chicken coop writing the Star Spangled Banner with firecrackers and rockets and Roman candles exploding all around. One firecracker burned the paper in his hand, and he had to start over.
Now, rockets are notorious for going everywhere except where they are pointed, and it was one of those rockets that did a ninety-degree curve and hit the barn.
All in all, he whispered with sneaky grin, it was a great fight. Sorry you missed it.
I was too.
After Jerry left, Mom came in and said what the boys had done was a terrible and foolish thing. Thoughtless! Childish! She looked at me and cocked her head to one side. “Did you know they were going to do that?”
Wide-eyed and innocent, I shook my head. “No, Ma’am. I would have told you if I had.”
I groaned after she left. What a great battle, and I had missed it all.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Then, as today, families gathered for the Fourth. Now, that was well before the barbecue craze, and usually after a dinner of fried chicken and all the side dishes topped off with icy sweet tea, the men, along with their various libations, set about churning up a batch of homemade ice cream while we kids ran amuck with our explosives.
It’s a wonder some of us didn’t have something blown off or put out or burned up because the only thing we had on our warped little minds was fireworks, certainly not safety.
One Christmas on my maternal grandparents farm, Ed, one of my younger cousins, and I got tired of being knocked around by our Cousin Dooley, who was five or six years older. It was small things like pushing us into the hog pen or throwing one of us in the cow tank or hurling cow patties at us.
He was too big and strong for us, but we had a supply of Roman candles. We caught him in one of the barn stalls so he couldn’t run and peppered him good with Roman candles. Even burned a couple holes in his clothes.
That wasn’t all we burned. Luckily we saw the smoking hay in the stalls before it got out of hand. We never did tell anyone about that part of our adventure.
Naturally, when he caught up with us later, he gave us a good pummeling.
Now I never did burn anything down. Set a few grass fires and on occasion caused my grandmother’s hens to stop laying. One of my friends wasn’t so lucky. And, but for the mixed blessing of a case of measles, I would have been right in the thick of it.
There were a handful of us boys who sort of, kind of, hung together. If one had something in mind such as a camping trip or swimming trip to the creek, he’d get in touch with the others.
Anyway, we had planned our Fourth of July battle for a couple weeks, a replay of the shelling of Fort McHenry in 1812. What brought that scenario all about was that Donald had read about Francis Scott Key writing the Star Spangled Banner while watching the battle at night.
Now, Donald’s dad had just moved a chicken house onto the back of his property. As I remember, he’d bought it from another farmer and hauled it in. That was our Fort McHenry, and since the idea was Donald’s, and the fort his father’s, he insisted on being Francis Scott Key.
That meant only two more of us could be Americans. The other three were British. No one wanted to be British, so we had to draw straws. Naturally with my luck, I was a Briton.
Two days before the Fourth, Mom decided I had measles. I wailed and pitched a fit, but to no avail.
Two days after the Fourth, I was grateful for the illness with which the good Lord had blessed me. That was the day I learned during the epic Battle of the Chicken Coop—I mean, Fort McHenry, the fort, flag and all, under the deadly barrage of Roman candles, had been reduced to ashes. The nearby barn had been hit; it lost only one stall; both armies had been punished severely.
A week later after Jerry’s dad let him leave the house, he stopped by and told me of the battle.
It had waged back and forth for hours (minutes really). Francis Scott Key was firmly entrenched in the chicken coop writing the Star Spangled Banner with firecrackers and rockets and Roman candles exploding all around. One firecracker burned the paper in his hand, and he had to start over.
Now, rockets are notorious for going everywhere except where they are pointed, and it was one of those rockets that did a ninety-degree curve and hit the barn.
All in all, he whispered with sneaky grin, it was a great fight. Sorry you missed it.
I was too.
After Jerry left, Mom came in and said what the boys had done was a terrible and foolish thing. Thoughtless! Childish! She looked at me and cocked her head to one side. “Did you know they were going to do that?”
Wide-eyed and innocent, I shook my head. “No, Ma’am. I would have told you if I had.”
I groaned after she left. What a great battle, and I had missed it all.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Summertime, and the Living is Easy
‘Summertime and the living is easy
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy’s rich and you mama’s good-looking
So hush little baby, don’t you cry.’
Who doesn’t remember George Gershwin’s fantastic song from ‘Porgy and Bess’? I first heard the memorable little tune up in the Texas Panhandle when I was just a kid.
Every time I hear it now, it evokes a feeling of those halcyon days of my youth during WWII, a lazy, carefree life my boyhood chums and I enjoyed each summer, laidback and unfettered, soaking in the heat and summer afternoon baseballs games while loafing in the shade of the giant cottonwoods. Of course, aren’t we all like that, in our own way?
But, back to our summer.
Everyone awaited the final day of school with high anticipation. And when that last bell rang, the school exploded with deafening cheers and shouts of relief. And that was just from the teachers.
You could track the route every youngster took on the way home by the trail of crumpled and torn paper left behind.
My best friend, Jerry, and I had been laying plans for our summer. Of course, we had our chores, chopping corn and cotton, milking, and making sure there was always plenty of lime in the outhouse.
But, we had enough spare time that we had decided to build us a yacht from a barrel we had discovered half submerged in the creek a few hundred yards west of us.
Now, what appealed to us about the barrel was that one side was cut out, and one end looked like a funnel. We never did figure out the purpose of the barrel, but to us, it was a ready-made ship with its own bowsprit.
The creek in which it was mired flowed into Chapman’s Lake, a small ten-acre lake that Mister Chapman used for his dairy herd. We lived just down the street from him, so he knew us well—probably too well, but he didn’t mind if we used his lake as long as we didn’t spook his cows.
And believe it or not, we never did, not deliberately at least. His lake was our refuge, our fishing hole, our swimming hole, our hideout on Halloween Night, and a perfect spot to camp, pretending we were on a great safari in Africa, where next morning, we’d venture out into the wilds of sage and scrub oak to hunt down the most dangerous game of all, the wily and deadly jackrabbit. Last thing we wanted to do was make Mister Chapman mad.
The first day after our chores, we hurried to the creek and began dredging out our soon-to-be flagship. While the land is sandy, a combination of muck swept down stream combined with the deposits of the local bovines, the mud we stirred up was pretty rank. But we didn’t mind. Strange how a wild dream blocks out all sense of reason and reality.
Anyway, we managed after a few hours to roll the barrel up on the bank and clean it out. That’s when we discovered, to our horror, that it had a couple holes rusted in it.
Now Jerry was always brighter than me, and he suggested we patch it with tar. It so happened his Dad had some cylinders of tar, so we hacked off some with our Boy Scout hatchets, and back at the creek, built a fire and melted the tar in my Mom’s bean pot. We even rigged a jig to hold the melted tar in place until it cooled.
And it cooled pretty fast, but not as fast as it did in Mom’s pot.
Finally, we were ready to launch our flagship. Believe it or not, it floated.
By the way, did I mention we knew absolutely nothing about nautical physics?
Jerry proclaimed he was entitled to the first voyage across the lake since he was our leader.
There we stood, ankle deep in muck and knee deep in water. I held the boat steady so Jerry could climb in. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on my uncle’s paddle to steady himself, he climbed in and knelt.
We were both beaming. Christopher Columbus and Magellan combined. “Okay,” he said. “Push me off.”
I did as my leader ordered, and even before he could sweep his paddle once, our mighty flagship flipped over, dumping Jerry and immediately sinking once again.
Only later did we learn that a rounded bottom needs great weights in the keels to maintain stability.
And we also learned that melted tar even scraped off a bean pot still leaves a horrible taste.
And once again, we were both faced another session with the business end of our fathers’ belts.
But still, it was summertime—and despite the belts, life was good. In fact, our next project was a tree house for our dogs.
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy’s rich and you mama’s good-looking
So hush little baby, don’t you cry.’
Who doesn’t remember George Gershwin’s fantastic song from ‘Porgy and Bess’? I first heard the memorable little tune up in the Texas Panhandle when I was just a kid.
Every time I hear it now, it evokes a feeling of those halcyon days of my youth during WWII, a lazy, carefree life my boyhood chums and I enjoyed each summer, laidback and unfettered, soaking in the heat and summer afternoon baseballs games while loafing in the shade of the giant cottonwoods. Of course, aren’t we all like that, in our own way?
But, back to our summer.
Everyone awaited the final day of school with high anticipation. And when that last bell rang, the school exploded with deafening cheers and shouts of relief. And that was just from the teachers.
You could track the route every youngster took on the way home by the trail of crumpled and torn paper left behind.
My best friend, Jerry, and I had been laying plans for our summer. Of course, we had our chores, chopping corn and cotton, milking, and making sure there was always plenty of lime in the outhouse.
But, we had enough spare time that we had decided to build us a yacht from a barrel we had discovered half submerged in the creek a few hundred yards west of us.
Now, what appealed to us about the barrel was that one side was cut out, and one end looked like a funnel. We never did figure out the purpose of the barrel, but to us, it was a ready-made ship with its own bowsprit.
The creek in which it was mired flowed into Chapman’s Lake, a small ten-acre lake that Mister Chapman used for his dairy herd. We lived just down the street from him, so he knew us well—probably too well, but he didn’t mind if we used his lake as long as we didn’t spook his cows.
And believe it or not, we never did, not deliberately at least. His lake was our refuge, our fishing hole, our swimming hole, our hideout on Halloween Night, and a perfect spot to camp, pretending we were on a great safari in Africa, where next morning, we’d venture out into the wilds of sage and scrub oak to hunt down the most dangerous game of all, the wily and deadly jackrabbit. Last thing we wanted to do was make Mister Chapman mad.
The first day after our chores, we hurried to the creek and began dredging out our soon-to-be flagship. While the land is sandy, a combination of muck swept down stream combined with the deposits of the local bovines, the mud we stirred up was pretty rank. But we didn’t mind. Strange how a wild dream blocks out all sense of reason and reality.
Anyway, we managed after a few hours to roll the barrel up on the bank and clean it out. That’s when we discovered, to our horror, that it had a couple holes rusted in it.
Now Jerry was always brighter than me, and he suggested we patch it with tar. It so happened his Dad had some cylinders of tar, so we hacked off some with our Boy Scout hatchets, and back at the creek, built a fire and melted the tar in my Mom’s bean pot. We even rigged a jig to hold the melted tar in place until it cooled.
And it cooled pretty fast, but not as fast as it did in Mom’s pot.
Finally, we were ready to launch our flagship. Believe it or not, it floated.
By the way, did I mention we knew absolutely nothing about nautical physics?
Jerry proclaimed he was entitled to the first voyage across the lake since he was our leader.
There we stood, ankle deep in muck and knee deep in water. I held the boat steady so Jerry could climb in. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on my uncle’s paddle to steady himself, he climbed in and knelt.
We were both beaming. Christopher Columbus and Magellan combined. “Okay,” he said. “Push me off.”
I did as my leader ordered, and even before he could sweep his paddle once, our mighty flagship flipped over, dumping Jerry and immediately sinking once again.
Only later did we learn that a rounded bottom needs great weights in the keels to maintain stability.
And we also learned that melted tar even scraped off a bean pot still leaves a horrible taste.
And once again, we were both faced another session with the business end of our fathers’ belts.
But still, it was summertime—and despite the belts, life was good. In fact, our next project was a tree house for our dogs.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Recollections About a Country Girl
Both my parents have passed on into a better world, Dad around twenty-five years back and Mom a little over eleven. She was eighty-six. Not a day passes that I don’t think about them. You’re probably the same. You know, a few seconds here, a few seconds there.
One fact I can promise you, the older you grow, the more you think of your folks.
Mom was a country girl, born in Montague County in North Texas near the Red River in 1913. One of eight children, four boys and four girls, she lived through the dust bowl and the depression. What little cash they made came from farming, which back then was hardscrabble tedium and exhausting labor from can’t see to can’t see.
Then one day, Papa Holly loaded the whole family on a train and headed west to Childress, Texas. There, he bought a wagon, piled kids and possessions in it, and trekked seventy miles north, settling beside Highway 83 five miles north of the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River and five south of Wheeler, Texas.
Life wasn’t easy, but no longer were they forced to live the life so depressingly depicted in the classic movie, ‘Grapes of Wrath.’ The land was more fertile. That meant more crops to grow, and extra cash.
Back then, education wasn’t as important as getting the crops in, but Mom graduated, married Dad who lived in Wheeler, and set about making a life with each other.
Papa was always looking for a better farm, and one day he moved from Wheeler County to the South Plains north of Lubbock.
Once when I was about three, she wanted to visit her parents, but dad couldn’t take off work. We didn’t have a vehicle, so Mom and her younger sister, Mae, took me and hitched from Wheeler to Lubbock, over two hundred miles.
Years later when we moved to Fort Worth, Mom never hesitated to load us in the car and drive by herself three hundred miles back to Wheeler or out to Lubbock.
She was a doting mother, sometimes too much. Her sisters were the same way. I’ve often wondered if it were because they had four brothers. Luckily for them, I guess, most of their children were boys. I was twelve before my first, and only, female cousin came along.
Mom was independent and self-sufficient. When Dad went overseas in WWII, she took care of my brother and me, ran the house, planted the fields, harvested, and then marketed the crops.
As the years passed, she held down different jobs, but none that would not permit her to take off and see about her family. She took in dry cleaning, rented out part of the old house, and finally became a realtor, a job that fit her like a fine glove.
And she was superb at the job, mainly because she was honest, caring, and willing to work her tail off.
Always in the back of her head, she was doing it for her sons,
and as so many sons, we were never as appreciative as we should have been. Only years later after we’d grown up and got some sense, did we understand.
When I apologized to her for those years, she did what ninety-five percent of mothers do, what my wife would do with our daughters, she laughed and said she always knew how I felt. That’s how mothers are.
She was a dedicated Christian and churchgoer all of her life, and she did all she could to put her sons’ feet on that path.
Dad’s death staggered her, but like the hard-headed dirt farmer she had once been, she kept the house in Fort Worth, helped raise grandkids and great grandkids. In her later years, she once told me that looking after her great grandson had added years to her life. She was still driving in her mid-eighties.
It might sound hokey or corny, but when I think about her love for her boys and the love my wife has for our daughters, I can’t help believing it is so very much like the love God has for all of us. It’s as pure a love as a mortal can give.
To all you Moms out there, thanks for everything.
One fact I can promise you, the older you grow, the more you think of your folks.
Mom was a country girl, born in Montague County in North Texas near the Red River in 1913. One of eight children, four boys and four girls, she lived through the dust bowl and the depression. What little cash they made came from farming, which back then was hardscrabble tedium and exhausting labor from can’t see to can’t see.
Then one day, Papa Holly loaded the whole family on a train and headed west to Childress, Texas. There, he bought a wagon, piled kids and possessions in it, and trekked seventy miles north, settling beside Highway 83 five miles north of the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River and five south of Wheeler, Texas.
Life wasn’t easy, but no longer were they forced to live the life so depressingly depicted in the classic movie, ‘Grapes of Wrath.’ The land was more fertile. That meant more crops to grow, and extra cash.
Back then, education wasn’t as important as getting the crops in, but Mom graduated, married Dad who lived in Wheeler, and set about making a life with each other.
Papa was always looking for a better farm, and one day he moved from Wheeler County to the South Plains north of Lubbock.
Once when I was about three, she wanted to visit her parents, but dad couldn’t take off work. We didn’t have a vehicle, so Mom and her younger sister, Mae, took me and hitched from Wheeler to Lubbock, over two hundred miles.
Years later when we moved to Fort Worth, Mom never hesitated to load us in the car and drive by herself three hundred miles back to Wheeler or out to Lubbock.
She was a doting mother, sometimes too much. Her sisters were the same way. I’ve often wondered if it were because they had four brothers. Luckily for them, I guess, most of their children were boys. I was twelve before my first, and only, female cousin came along.
Mom was independent and self-sufficient. When Dad went overseas in WWII, she took care of my brother and me, ran the house, planted the fields, harvested, and then marketed the crops.
As the years passed, she held down different jobs, but none that would not permit her to take off and see about her family. She took in dry cleaning, rented out part of the old house, and finally became a realtor, a job that fit her like a fine glove.
And she was superb at the job, mainly because she was honest, caring, and willing to work her tail off.
Always in the back of her head, she was doing it for her sons,
and as so many sons, we were never as appreciative as we should have been. Only years later after we’d grown up and got some sense, did we understand.
When I apologized to her for those years, she did what ninety-five percent of mothers do, what my wife would do with our daughters, she laughed and said she always knew how I felt. That’s how mothers are.
She was a dedicated Christian and churchgoer all of her life, and she did all she could to put her sons’ feet on that path.
Dad’s death staggered her, but like the hard-headed dirt farmer she had once been, she kept the house in Fort Worth, helped raise grandkids and great grandkids. In her later years, she once told me that looking after her great grandson had added years to her life. She was still driving in her mid-eighties.
It might sound hokey or corny, but when I think about her love for her boys and the love my wife has for our daughters, I can’t help believing it is so very much like the love God has for all of us. It’s as pure a love as a mortal can give.
To all you Moms out there, thanks for everything.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
You Can Have the Cold Weather
You Can Have the Cold Weather
I don’t know about you folks, but I don’t care all that much for the cold weather we’ve been having. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get into this warming climate business. I’m so dadgummed tired of listening to first one liar claim it’s getting hot enough to loosen the bristles on a wild hog and then another swearing it’s getting colder than a witch’s kiss. Folks are either ignorant or lying.
Why, even the weather scientists lied about warming conditions. Their explanation was that they suspected it was coming, but they wanted the world ‘powers-that-be’ to do something about what they thought was going to happen. (hey, I’m just as confused as you by their logic)
All that being said, I just don’t care for cold weather. I had my fill when I lived up in the Texas Panhandle where the only thing between me and the North Pole was a barbed wire fence, and it was falling apart with rust.
Now, in our little town, the only paved roads were the state highways coming in and going out and those around the town square. Half a block beyond the square, the dirt roads commenced, and from October to March, all we had was mud and ruts.
In the late forties, we moved to Fort Worth, which to me was a semi-tropical paradise. In fact, the weather was so balmy-opposed to that in the Panhandle- my Dad bought a 1948 Kaiser without a heater. Big mistake. Big, big mistake. Not the Kaiser, the heater.
Now, you had to know Dad. The fine old guy was like all who came up through the depression. He was going to save where he could, and in that paradise in which we had found ourselves, where the weather was balmy, who needed a heater?
Let me stray a tad here. Going with him to buy a new car was what turned me off about car buying. He’d haggle and quibble and wrangle about every single item on the vehicle. I can remember more than once going to sleep on the couch in the salesman’s office while he and Dad negotiated. And often with Dad, the negotiations became heated.
Now, Mama Conwell lived up in the Panhandle. After Papa died, she paid us a visit one year. We’d spent Thanksgiving up there, and she came back for a two or three week visit.
All of a sudden one morning, she wanted to go back home.
My Dad was a good son. A lot better than I believe I was. Mom once told me that when Papa Conwell was in the hospital in Pampa some forty miles east of Wheeler just after Mom and Dad married, that Dad drove the forty miles every day after work to see after Papa. Back then, that was a one hour or longer drive one way.(provided nothing went wrong with his old Model A)
But back to Mama Conwell and the unheated Kaiser.
As I said, Mama spent some time with us, and then she wanted to go home. That Friday afternoon when Dad came in from work, we took off. Mom and my brother stayed home for the ‘semi-tropical’ weather that day was right at freezing.
And the Panhandle, some three hundred miles north, was so cold—well, let me tell you how cold it was. When I was in the third, fourth, and fifth grades, we got our milk from my uncle’s cow there in Wheeler. I milked that bovine, and I saw it so cold one winter that one time, believe or not, the milk came out as icicles. It’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.
And that’s how cold it was driving up there in that 1948 Kaiser without a heater. I lay in the back seat under two blankets; Dad and Mama sat in the front, topcoats wrapped about them.
Dad refused to admit he was cold, and when Mama jumped him for not having a car heater, he vociferously defended himself. But guess what, the next month he bought a brand spanking new 1951 Chevrolet coupe, with a heater.
Talk about heaven on earth. That’s when I fell in love with General Motors cars and been with them ever since.
Now, I know there’s a bunch of folks who enjoy cold weather. All I can say is ‘live it up. You’re a hardier soul than I.”
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
I don’t know about you folks, but I don’t care all that much for the cold weather we’ve been having. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get into this warming climate business. I’m so dadgummed tired of listening to first one liar claim it’s getting hot enough to loosen the bristles on a wild hog and then another swearing it’s getting colder than a witch’s kiss. Folks are either ignorant or lying.
Why, even the weather scientists lied about warming conditions. Their explanation was that they suspected it was coming, but they wanted the world ‘powers-that-be’ to do something about what they thought was going to happen. (hey, I’m just as confused as you by their logic)
All that being said, I just don’t care for cold weather. I had my fill when I lived up in the Texas Panhandle where the only thing between me and the North Pole was a barbed wire fence, and it was falling apart with rust.
Now, in our little town, the only paved roads were the state highways coming in and going out and those around the town square. Half a block beyond the square, the dirt roads commenced, and from October to March, all we had was mud and ruts.
In the late forties, we moved to Fort Worth, which to me was a semi-tropical paradise. In fact, the weather was so balmy-opposed to that in the Panhandle- my Dad bought a 1948 Kaiser without a heater. Big mistake. Big, big mistake. Not the Kaiser, the heater.
Now, you had to know Dad. The fine old guy was like all who came up through the depression. He was going to save where he could, and in that paradise in which we had found ourselves, where the weather was balmy, who needed a heater?
Let me stray a tad here. Going with him to buy a new car was what turned me off about car buying. He’d haggle and quibble and wrangle about every single item on the vehicle. I can remember more than once going to sleep on the couch in the salesman’s office while he and Dad negotiated. And often with Dad, the negotiations became heated.
Now, Mama Conwell lived up in the Panhandle. After Papa died, she paid us a visit one year. We’d spent Thanksgiving up there, and she came back for a two or three week visit.
All of a sudden one morning, she wanted to go back home.
My Dad was a good son. A lot better than I believe I was. Mom once told me that when Papa Conwell was in the hospital in Pampa some forty miles east of Wheeler just after Mom and Dad married, that Dad drove the forty miles every day after work to see after Papa. Back then, that was a one hour or longer drive one way.(provided nothing went wrong with his old Model A)
But back to Mama Conwell and the unheated Kaiser.
As I said, Mama spent some time with us, and then she wanted to go home. That Friday afternoon when Dad came in from work, we took off. Mom and my brother stayed home for the ‘semi-tropical’ weather that day was right at freezing.
And the Panhandle, some three hundred miles north, was so cold—well, let me tell you how cold it was. When I was in the third, fourth, and fifth grades, we got our milk from my uncle’s cow there in Wheeler. I milked that bovine, and I saw it so cold one winter that one time, believe or not, the milk came out as icicles. It’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.
And that’s how cold it was driving up there in that 1948 Kaiser without a heater. I lay in the back seat under two blankets; Dad and Mama sat in the front, topcoats wrapped about them.
Dad refused to admit he was cold, and when Mama jumped him for not having a car heater, he vociferously defended himself. But guess what, the next month he bought a brand spanking new 1951 Chevrolet coupe, with a heater.
Talk about heaven on earth. That’s when I fell in love with General Motors cars and been with them ever since.
Now, I know there’s a bunch of folks who enjoy cold weather. All I can say is ‘live it up. You’re a hardier soul than I.”
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Thursday, November 5, 2009
fun halloween
A Halloween to Remember
I’ve been lucky over the years for I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
But it just wasn’t kids who were out. Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, I spent Halloween on my grandmother’s farm. With only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards three times around the old hanging tree by the cow tank. According to my uncles, if we did that, the rustler who had been hanged would reappear that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost. They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty scary shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put your clothes on backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Never did find who cut him down and chopped him up.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
I’ve been lucky over the years for I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
But it just wasn’t kids who were out. Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, I spent Halloween on my grandmother’s farm. With only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards three times around the old hanging tree by the cow tank. According to my uncles, if we did that, the rustler who had been hanged would reappear that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost. They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty scary shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put your clothes on backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Never did find who cut him down and chopped him up.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
halloween tales
A Halloween to Remember
I’ve been lucky over the years for I suppose I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
Our little town was small enough that within two hours, a youngster could cover all the streets and stagger home with a load of treats.
And it just wasn’t kids who were out.
Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, to my dismay, I had to spend Halloween on my grandmother’s farm out around Lubbock. There was only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards around the old hanging tree three times. Now, the hanging tree was an ancient cottonwood by the cow tank that according to my uncles had once had a rustler strung from it. According to my uncle, the dead man would reappear sometime that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost.
They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty grotesque shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put on your clothes backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Just about. Never did find who did it.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
I’ve been lucky over the years for I suppose I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
Our little town was small enough that within two hours, a youngster could cover all the streets and stagger home with a load of treats.
And it just wasn’t kids who were out.
Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, to my dismay, I had to spend Halloween on my grandmother’s farm out around Lubbock. There was only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards around the old hanging tree three times. Now, the hanging tree was an ancient cottonwood by the cow tank that according to my uncles had once had a rustler strung from it. According to my uncle, the dead man would reappear sometime that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost.
They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty grotesque shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put on your clothes backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Just about. Never did find who did it.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)