The Texana Review

Dang near had a heart attack!!!

Dang near had a heart attack!!!
Late afternoon...
Was working on a cute story about scorpions, skunks and rattlesnakes when Sierra the Dog began complaining...low, guttural whimpers.
Usually an indicator that she had to do some business outside.
As I was about to arise from chair at the computer keyboard, phone rang.
"Hello?"
It was my long time friend, Gene.
We visited...caught up...told a joke or two to one another, all the while Sierra the Dog getting more and more antsy.
"Gene...gotta go!"
Don't like letting Sierra out, unsupervised, this time of year with the rattlers coming out to warm themselves and hungry hunt.
"Adios!"
Hung up the phone and ambled to the front door with Sierra, in high excitement, ears perked high and tail a-waggin' like a fan blade.
I stepped out on the front porch noting the soon-to-set sun in the west, turning right, northeast breeze on my face.
Sierra, at Mach 10, followed and went left, then, spun around and went right, almost knocking me down at the knees.
I was just turning the corner of the house as she went by.
Suddenly,
a bark
and in my face, not more than ten feet away, flushed about six, seven, eight...haven't a clue how many...but a bunch...turkeys!
Right there in my front yard!
Big feathers and all! A squawk...lots of heavy wing beats...Sierra chasing, until she hit the boxwire fence...barking.
Scared the living bejezzus outa me...I even ducked when they flushed!
Sierra found her hole in the fence and chased for about 300 yards.
I sat down on the edge of the porch and put my hand inside my shirt over my heart.
Yep, still pumping.
As the northeast wind bent the grass leaves between the toes of my miserable, worn out boots, I thought...as Sierra panted with lolling pink tongue at my boot tips...
"Good to see the turkey back...hadn't seen nary a one for three years."
She smiles.
Now she had something else to chase.

Just another slice of life….

Was on the way back from Sterling City, after a meeting with a land man who said he might be interested in an oil lease on my property.

Was I on time for the meeting?

Ten minutes early.

We talked and sized each other up over two hours of coffee, and played the “do you know so-and-so” game.

It was a good meeting and we shook a firm handshake as we departed one another.

But as I sped down the highway back to the ranch, I realized I was hungry, even for the skinny guy that I am.

“Ah, service station, just ahead.”

(I think they call ‘em “convenience stores” these days.)

Pulled off, eased into the driveway and parked between the yellow lines in front to the store.

Admonished Sierra the Dog to stay put in the back seat on her sheepskin comforter as I stepped out and then through the double entry doors of the store, the late afternoon sum casting shadows across the chip and peanut bags hanging on their display.

Yep! They had a little kitchen in back, which I was counting on. (common for West Texas)

The smell of fried foods wafted in the air. And there was a small glass case with sliding doors near the cashier’s stand with three metal shelves of…of, whatever, stuffed in small, open, cardboard containers under an intense warming light overhead.

I wandered over and glanced through the glass sliding doors while the young cashier with a butterfly tattoo just above the cleavage of her young breasts in her low slung, tightly clinging T-shirt (I don’t miss much) checked out the only other customer in the store.

“That’ll be $5.24,” she said.

He laid out the money… a $5.00 bill and a quarter, which he had to search for in his jean’s pocket.

“Keep the change,” he said and grabbed up whatever it was that he had bought and quickly stepped through the double glass doors.

“Thanks,” she said, as the door closed.

The young woman, 20-ish maybe, turned her attention to me.

“What can I get fer you?” she asked.

“Don’t see any chicken gizzards here,” I said.

“Chicken gizzards?!” she responded. “Whatzat?”

About then, I glanced up, through the sliding glass doors and through the nearby doorway behind, in a room bathed in fluorescent light (apparently the kitchen/office), to see a pair of skinny legs, bent at the knee, with soft shoes, in lime-yellow colored pants and a skinny hand and wrist, holding a walking cane.
All I could see were the skinny legs, shoes and cane.

Whoever it was sat behind the doorjamb and wall.

“Gizzards?” she said again.

“Sheila!” came the voice from the other room and I saw the walking cane tremble bit and heard the sounds of a body arising from, I guess a chair.

Around the doorjamb of the doorway shuttled an old man, very thin, dressed in soft shoes, ugly pants, blue shirt and green necktie. Leaning on his walking cane heavily.

He looked at me intently as he shambled toward the other side of the glass case.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“You like gizzards?” he asked, over the top of the glass case.

“Yes, sir; I do.”

Sheila had almost backed into a corner, wide-eyed.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable (did I say that already?).

“How old are you, boy?” asked the old man.

“bout 65-ish,” I said. “Why?”

“Well…you be the tail end of folk who go for gizzards. Southern, you are?”

“Texan.”

“Good enough. Sheila!”

“Yes sir?”

“Go look in the left-hand, back corner of the frig…get that little bag and throw it into the deep fryer…bring it out when it’s done.”

“Yes sir.” And she scampered away, leaving me and the old man alone.

“That’s my great granddaughter who’s helping me out at this store.”

“Oh!” I said, shoving both of my hands into my pockets. “You own this place?”

“Yep. Since 1950ish or something thereabouts. You got a name?”

“Ed, as in Edward.”

“That’s a good name.”

He fell silent.

“Yours?” I asked.

He looked up at me.

“Tony, as in Anthony’” and smiled.

I smiled back, taking my hands out of my pockets.

“That’s a good name.”

“How old are you, Tony?”

He teetered a second on his walking cane, using its soft rubber-tipped cap to catch his sway.

“I’m 97.”

“And still running this store?”

“Only with Sheila’s help. And her mother’s.”

I could hear Sheila in the little kitchen loading up a plate.

“Wanna talk?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I like talking to old people.”

“I’m not old!”

“Yes you are, and you damned well know it!”

He looked at the linoleum floor.

“Who do you think you are, boy!” he yelled.

“A wannabe historian…and you’re walking history.”

Sheila showed up in the doorway with a plateful of fried chicken gizzards, still wide-eyed, probably having heard her great grandfather’s outburst.

“Sheila, give that plate to…to…Ed. Ed? Right?”

“Then, Cutsie, lock the doors and turn off the front lights, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Ed…let’s go back here where there’s a table and chairs.. Bring the gizzards.”

“Yes, sir.”

So, Tony, Sheila and I munched on chicken gizzards on an old, near-dilapidated wooden table, sitting in squeaky old wooden chairs as the sun began to set…talking.

“Don’t know many folks these days, Ed, that go for gizzards…but obviously you were brung up right!”

I smiled, thinking of my upbringing.

“So, Tony, you were too young for World War 1, but you…..”

“Yes, I was at Pearl Harbor and……….”

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Characters and Critters by Skipper Duncan

Anyone who has spent any time in West Texas (and even those who haven’t) know that West Texans are famous for telling stories, some true, some not-so-true. Of those that tell the stories, some are good at it, others aren’t. Skipper Duncan, in his “Characters and Critters,” is one of the good ones. Mr. Duncan pulls from a lifetime of first-hand experience and observation to create a collection of short stories that not only brings a deep belly-laugh and snicker but also insights into some of West Texas history. Especially interesting is how he tells of his personal transition from struggling rancher to successful hunting outfitter and the cast of characters and events that tickled his fancy along the way, all of which he now shares with us in “Characters and Critters.” When I spoke with him the other day to set up an interview for The Texana Review, he said he was working on a follow-up collection of more stories. I anticipate it will be at least as entertaining as this one. As a storyteller myself, I highly recommend this book.

 

You can buy it at Amazon.com.  Click HERE

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Sad incident today

Sad incident today...this evening...

Traveling at 65ish on the two-lane to the ranch with a trailer in tow listening to Appleby's piece on Thomas Jefferson.

From the left, in a streak, a whitetail doe, stretching for all her worth, across the highway to gain "whatever" on the right side of the highway.

Hit the brake, lightly, remembering my training not to brake hard or swerve. I hit her square broadside.

After the RanchHand bumper, she went under the front tires, then the back tires and then the trailer tires.

I quickly pulled to the shoulder of the highway.

A following car pulled up behind me, having witnessed the incident. Children aboard; 10ish-12ish. Hispanics as it turned out.

Admonishing Sierra the Dog to stay put, I leapt out of my Ford with flashlight to check damage to the truck, trailer and the deer, as did the occupants of the the following car.

"Hola, señor ... estás bien?" said the car's driver.

"Si, bien, gracias.' I said, looking over the truck and trailer for damage. None, at least under flashlight examination.

"Yo vi pasar," he said.

"Happend fas, no?"

"Sí, lo vi pasar"

"Pancho! los niños!?" hollered the woman, as the kids kind of ran around the car.

"Su nombre es Pancho?"

"El mío es Edward"

"Pancho, yo sugiero que los niños y su mujer en el coche. Si lo desea, puede venir conmigo."

"Maria, entra en el coche con los niños, y se quedan allí"

They did.

"Ven conmigo."

And the two of us strode to where the runover whitetail lay on the highway. It was still alive.

I looked at Pancho.

"Debe morir"

"Sí"

"Niños en el coche?"

"Si"

So, I pulled out the .22 Magnum I keep in my pocket for rattlesnakes, poked it in the whitetail's ear, and pulled the trigger.

She died with my hand on her neck on a roadside in Coke County, Texas.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, Pancho's.

"Nunca es fácil, verdad?" he said.

"No." I said.

"Vaya con Dios, Senor Edward," as he slipped into the driver's seat of his car, pulled around my Ford pickup and sped off toward Robert Lee.

"Qué pasó?" I heard Maria ask as Pancho rolledup the window

The buck stops, where?

As I continue my study of the history of our founding fathers, Jefferson at the moment, I was stricken by a comment made as an Editor's note by Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. in Joyce Appleby's offering on Thomas Jefferson, echoing a mantra I've been chanting for the better part of four years now...

"Truman's famous sign - 'The buck stops here' - tells only half the story. Citizens cannot escape the ultimate responsibility. It is in the voting booth, not on the presidential desk, that the buck finally stops."

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Kinda discouraged...no, closer to dismayed

(Again, Facebook friends asked that I post this to the Texana Review, so here ‘tis)

Kinda discouraged...no, closer to dismayed.

Spent much of the day running errands here in San Angelo - grocery, hardware, recycle store, water bottle store, cleaners, cafe, etc.

Decided to continue my "highly scientific survey" at each merchant with the question:  "Are you going to Vote?"

I have to admit, my technique is a little lopsided since I tend to put the question more to young people than I do to the middle-aged or the elderly.

Why?

Well...in the short time I've been running this little experiment, I've noticed a troubling trend and am wanting to delve into it a bit further.

So...here's how it went:

At the grocery -  "Are you going to Vote?"

Gretchen - "No." "Why not?" "Doesn't make any difference." "How old are you?" "22"

Aaron - "No." "Why not?" "Obama is going to win anyway." "How old are you?" "24"

Samantha - "No." "Why not?" "I dunno; don't care." "How old are you?" "29"

Monica - "Don't know...when are we supposed to vote?"  "November."  "Oh...I'll think about it."  "How old are you?"  "27"

Renaldo - "Yes." "Good! How old are you?" "29; wait... don't you want to know who I'm gonna vote for?" "No, not today."

John - "No." "Why not?" "I haven't voted in years."  "Why not?"  "My vote makes no difference."  "How old are you?"  "42"

At the hardware store -  "Are you going to Vote?"

Bruce - "No." "why not?"  "Doesn't make any difference."  "How old are you?"  "22"

Perry (who stood next to Bruce) - "No." "Why not?"  "Like he said (nodding at Bruce), it doesn't make any difference."  "How old are you?"  "27"

Tish - "Probably not."  "Why not?"  "I haven't voted since the 60s."  "May I ask how old you are?"  "Sure, I'm 65"

John & Dedra - "You betcha!"  "Good, how old are you?"  "I'm 55 and Dedra here is 54. Wait...don't you want to know WHO we're gonna vote for?"  "I think I know already."

Latisha - "No."  "Why not?" "Dunno really; doesn't make any difference."  "How old are you?"  "23"

At the cleaners -  "Are you going to Vote?"

Maria (the clerk) - "No."  "Why not?"  "Both candidates suck!"  "How old are you?"  "29"

Un-named customer (now this was a piece of work) - "NO! a**hole! Who are you anyway...some kinda far-right, snaggle-tooth idiot that watches FOX News all day long!"  "No...but maybe.  I'm a writer and I ask questions."  "Well, you mother-f***ing, right-wing, a**wipe, Nazi writer, who gives a sh** about voting...don't make any difference anyway!"  "Really? Are you armed?" (I slipped my hand into my pant's pocket) I glanced at Maria who, in spite of being a dark complected Hispanic, was fully flushed in her face.  "F**k you!" he said, and headed for the glass doors. "Oh, by the way, are you always so articulate? And how old are you?"  "I'm 19, motherf***er...f*** off!"

(Maria and I chatted for a few moments before I headed to the cafe for lunch)

At the cafe -  "Are you going to Vote?"

Jessica - "No."  "Why not?" "My vote doesn't make any difference."  "How old are you?"  "25"

Cafe manager - "No." "Why not?" "Dunno." "How old are you?" "35"

Waitress - "Yes." "Good! How old are you?" "22"

At the general store -  "Are you going to Vote?"

Clerk (oldish, slight gray at the temples) - "No. Who's running anyway?" (he winked at me...he had lied)

"Why not?" I asked. "Not much to choose from, is there?" (first intelligent response I'd gotten all day, and a true comment it was)

"Your're not going to vote?" I asked again.

"No...maybe...perhaps...who's asking?"

"Me," I said.

"And so, who might you be?"

"A writer of sorts."

"Ahh... and a curious one at that, huh?"

"Yes...wait a minute...I was asking the questions."

"Never mind...that'll be $19.95, Edward, with tax."

"You know my name?" (astonished)

"Yes."

"And yours?" I asked.

"John",” he said...and extended his hand.  “John Galt. Pleased to know you."

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Well now...you be the judge

(this storytelling became fairly popular from a Facebook post I made, so I thought I’d add it to Texana Review)

Well now...you be the judge.

I travel the highway between San Angelo and Butterfield Canyon Ranch almost daily. I'm well-acquainted with the road, both day and night, racking up thousands of miles in a year's time. I tend to drive in a straight line which saves time and gas, though a modicum of savings it may be, nonetheless, a savings. That straight line means that I more than frequently drive on the shoulder in a right-hand curve, kind of like the race car drivers do; and in the slightly curvy straight-aways (right and left, no obstructions to vision) on the left side of the dividing line, ever vigilant of on-coming traffic. Done it for more years than I can remember.

So, today, this car (a BMW), catches up to me about five miles out of San Angelo as I return to the ranch. I'm running 65 mph, maybe 70. It pulls up to my bumper, maybe two BMW car lengths away. As a good West Texan, I had already pulled over to the shoulder to let it pass. We were in in a gentle curve in the road, so it backed off, apparently (and rightfully) daunted by the passing although the road would easily have accommodated the passing.

 

So, as I eased back into the main highway lane, the little car backing off about 100 yards, and stayed there.

Several miles passed with my periodic checking my rear view mirrors to see where the little car was.

It was apparently not interested in passing although we had ample straight aways for it to do so and my willingness to move to the shoulder to accommodate the procedure.

Okay...so be be it. I returned to my straight line trajectory, taking right inside curves as close to inside as I'd been accustomed to in the past and wandering across the centerline for left hand curves as I'd been accustomed to.

Understand that this is West Texas and one can see a long way down the road.

So, next, this little car speeds up to my rear bumper...

Ah, in my rear view mirror, I'm able to identify (in silhouette) a young male driver eagerly talking on his cell phone and making hand and finger-like gestures through his windshield...at me.

I pull over toward the shoulder for him to pass.

He backs off (we're in a gentle curve in the road) to fifty yards...

Well, screw this BS...I returned to my trajectory. This was most obviously an asshole.
As he hung back about fifty yards (we're doing 70), I was approaching my ranch gate, on the left, slight down slope as the highway went.

Touched my brake to disengage the autopilot and began to make my left turn into the entry driveway to the ranch.

Guess what? That's when he decided to spike it and pass, just as I was turning.

Amidst the screeching tires of his cute little BMW, he managed to not crash into my Ford pickup but ended up in the middle of the highway after a 360 or two...one left rear flat tire.

I stopped in the driveway by the mailbox, got out (Sierra the Dog is going bonkers in the back seat), left the engine running and walked around the pickup bed and over to the highway where the BMW lay. It was probably 100 plus degrees.

Out of the driver's seat popped a little fart, still chattering on his mobile phone, a little dazed but completely involved in his mobile phone conversation.

Last thing I heard him say before he tucked his iPhone in his short-long or long-short pants (whatever) was: "Oh, no, here comes that drunken sob. Call 911"

"Got a problem?" I said.

"No." he responded.

Just then, a tanker truck came over the rise headed north, at about 70 mph, hit its horn, swerved to the shoulder kicking up dust and gravel, showering us both with little rocks.

"Yes..." he said.

There he stood. On concrete West Texas highway pavement; short cut but greased back black hair and a whisper of a mustache. Short-long pants, flip-flops and a tattered pea-green t-shirt.

"Yes," he said again.

Then, from northward, with blinking lights, arrived the County Constable.

Another truck sped by, blowing its horns.

"What's up?" the Constable said, looking at me.

"I suggest we get this twerp’s car off the highway".

"Good idea! Twerp get behind and push!"

So, we took twerp’s BMW and shoved it onto the shoulder of the highway.

So, amongst the three of us, in 100 plus degree temperature, the twerp, Constable and I, push the flat-tired BMW to the shoulder of the highway, out of the way of speeding traffic, truck and car.

Once there, Twerp points at me and says, ""Sheriff, this guy (pointing at me) is drunk…or, or stoned! He can't drive between the lines...he's all over the place on the highway...I watched him for 10 miles or so. He's why we're here today, right here and now; he can't, or won't obey the law and drive between the lines on the highway."

Constable and I glanced at one another, then back at twerp, who, apparently had no idea that he had a flat tire in the middle of nowhere.

‎"I’m not a Sheriff, twerp. Where you from?" Constable asked.

"California" he said proudly. Constable and I exchanged another glance.

‎"You always, always... drive between the lines?" Constable asked.

"Yessir," he said.

So...the Constable asked again, "Always?"

"Well, mostly! But this guy is a hazard to public safety (pointing at me again). He was ALL over the road!"

"Is that true, Mr. Blackburn?" Constable asked me.

"Depends on how you look at it, Marshall." I responded.

"Marshal? Marshal? You're a Marshal?!" exclaimed the twerp.

"No, that's my first name, with two 'Ls'."

"You...you…you know each other?"

"Yep," Constable and I said, almost in unison.

There came, upon a sudden, a baleful look upon the twerp's face.

It was really hot, standing there on the highway concrete and sweat had begun to roll down the sides of our cheeks.

I glanced back to my pickup and saw Sierra the Dog watching our proceedings through the back seat window, ears perked, panting. I was glad I had left the truck running with the AC on.

Constable had stepped over to his car and turned off his emergency lights and walked back to our little gathering on the side of the highway.

Twerp seemed to have, at least partially, regained some composure and said, "I guess I'd better call for road service," glancing at his flat tire.

Constable and I looked at one another, again.

"Have a spare tire?" Constable asked.

"Yes, in the trunk."

"Well, why don't you get it out, change the tire and be on your way," I said.

Twerp looked down at his flip flops.

"Don't know how...never changed a tire," he said to his flip flops.

A sidelong glance at Constable revealed a man rolling his eyes toward heaven. He took off his Stetson and wiped his sweating brow with his shirt sleeve.

"Okaaaay," Constable said. "We can help. Let's get your tire and tools out of your trunk and swap 'em out...won't take but a few minutes. Mr. Blackburn here can help, and you might learn something."

Twerp suddenly became agitated.

"Not necessary...I'll just call for road service on my cell phone." He began to fidget.

"C'mon," I said. "Won't take but a few minutes."

"I'll just call road service," said the twerp insistently.

Constable said, "Mister (Twerp), pop open that trunk and let's get after it! Time for you to leave the county."

"But...but," chirped the twerp. I noticed he was sweating more profusely.

"Do it!" commanded Constable.

Constable and I followed the twerp to the BMW who, slowly opened the trunk.

Aligned in the trunk were eight black handbags.

"Spare's under these?" Constable asked the twerp.

"Yeah," he said. "Here...let me get 'em out of the way."

I said, "I'll help."

"No need...I'll get them out."

I grabbed two of them anyway, one of which was unzipped.

"Here...I'll take those," the twerp said, and grabbed for the bag handles.

In the blink of an eye, as I released my grip on the bag handles, the unzipped bag fell open and spilled onto the concrete highway shoulder two Ziploc bags packed with white......."flour?"

"Oh no!" exclaimed the twerp.

Constable and I looked at one another, again, the twerp between us.

"Mister (Twerp)," Constable said in a low voice, "if you move a muscle, yer gonna get hurt. Now, drop to your knees, lie face down and spread yer arms out so I can see yer hands!" Constable had his hand on the grip of his holstered handgun. Sweat dripped off his cheeks.

I had my hand on a smallish handgun in my pocket I keep for rattlesnakes on the ranch.

Well, you can imagine what happened next...

Handcuffs, Miranda, Constable's call to the county Sheriff ("Watch him Mr. Blackburn, I need to make a call." I said, "sure.")

As I watched, I wondered how hot it was on that concrete.

"Comfortable?" I asked the twerp.

"Screw you!" was the response.

"Want me to move you over to the grass?" I asked.

"Yeah."

So I grabbed him by the neck of his pea-green t-shirt and skittered him over to the near-side of the bar ditch where I deposited him in a dense patch of grass burrs.

"Ouch! Damn you!" was his response to my effort to relieve his cooking on the concrete skillet highway.

Sheriff arrived amidst flashing lights and a few gawking passers-by, mostly in pickup trucks, and he and Constable strode to where the twerp lay amongst the grass burrs.

As they eased the twerp into the back seat of the Sheriff's car, I think I heard Constable say: " ‘MOSTLY' between the lines, huh?"

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Leasel Bobo Harris

It has been told that Leasel Bobo Harris stood on the rough wood planking of a buckboard wagon amidst all his family’s worldly belongings as Sam Houston’s army attacked Santa Anna’s Mexican army at San Jacinto, Texas that pivotal, sunny but sultry day, April 21, 1836. He was nine years old.

For weeks, he, his family and hundreds of others had endured a grueling eastward journey across Texas that has come to be called the Runaway Scrape.

Sam Houston, as the general of the army of the newly declared independent State of Texas, calculatedly retreated before a greatly superior Mexican army led by the ruthless and dictatorial Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

And there, that day, my great-, great-grandfather witnessed a battle that lasted less than 20 minutes and resulted in the creation of a new nation and eventually the proud State of Texas.

Later, L.B Harris, as he was to be known, carved out a life in Texas as a freighter, Texas Ranger, real estate speculator, and eventually, respected cattleman.

L.B Harris was but one of many who shaped Texas in the 19^th century but his character, innovations and legacy are still alive.

If you’d like to know more about L.B. Harris and his accomplishments, click “Like.” I’ll spin you a tale, or two, and maybe a bit of Texas history.

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Ring a ling Ring a ling

Yesterday I decided to perform my own highly scientific and detailed survey...

I had to run into town for a bit of business and for some groceries.

I assigned myself the task of counting 100 vehicles on the highway and in town as I traveled to note how many drivers were using mobile phones as they drove (Yes, there ARE at least 100 over here where I live in West Texas).

Starting at the ranch gate, I began counting.

First vehicle was a pickup; no...but he waved as he passed with his index finger like friendly folks do out here. Next, a Ford Taurus. Yep, the gal was on her phone. Next vehicle, no. Next vehicle, no. Next vehicle, yes. And so on, and so on.

I passed 16 vehicles on the highway. When I got into town, there was a pronounced increase in the number of drivers on their phones.

When I got to 100, I quit counting.

Results? 46 using mobile phones; 54 not. The most common characteristic demonstrated by folks on the phone was that they would drive well below the speed limit. I guess that's safer, right?

Anyway, did my business, bought some groceries and headed back out to the ranch deciding to count another 100 vehicles.

One, no. Two, no. Three, yes.

I had counted about 40 vehicles as I neared the city limits when...

Yep...my mobile phone rang...

and I answered.

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.

Young Vic Collett and L.B. Harris Job Interview

This story was told to me by my mother… a story that had apparently been told to her by her grandfather, Ralph Harris.

I’ve wrangled it a bit for the storytelling…

Ralph Harris and his brother, Frank, helped operate the sizable Harris Ranch in Coke County, Texas put together by their father, L.B. Harris.

L.B. Harris, a former Texas Ranger and now a cattleman, lived in a substantial brick and rock home just south of the newly formed town of Robert Lee, Texas.

One spring day afternoon, somewhere around 1900 or 1901, after a noonday lunch (they call it “dinner” out here in West Texas; “supper” is the evening meal), L.B. was snoozing when he heard a knock at his back door.

He roused himself, went through the kitchen, and swung open the screen door having to hold it firmly because of the gusting West Texas winds.

There stood a shortish lad with his short-brimmed hat in his hand and his near-worn-out chaps hanging around his hips.

“Yes?” said L.B.

“Mr. Harris, sir,” said the lad. “My name is Vic Collett, and I’m lookin’ fer a job.”

“Yes?” said L.B., noting the cow pony standing about 20 yards away.

“Well sir, I’ve just got into this part of the country and they say you’re a top cattleman. I’m lookin’ fer work.”

“You know cows, boy?”

A woman’s voice echoed from the other room. “Leasel, who is it?”

“A boy, Martha,” he hollered back over his shoulder and tugging at the bottom of his black waistcoat.

Seconds later Martha showed up at L.B.’s shoulder, in a black, ankle-high dress, her gray hair pulled up in a bun, and gazed at the young visitor.

Vic shifted uncomfortably at the base of the steps to the door, glanced down, then quickly back up to the aged couple in the doorway.

“Ma’am,” he said, and nodded.

She nodded back, moving closer to L.B.

“Cattle?…yes sir, I know more’n some, not as much as some others,” Vic responded.

“Where you from?” L.B. asked.

“Several miles over yonder,” he said, sweeping his arm vaguely in air toward the southeast.

“Got a horse?”

“Yes sir. Almost had to sell him yesterday though.”

“Why?”

“Needed some money for eatin’,” said Vic.

“Still got your spurs on I see.”

“Couldn’t bring myself to sell my pony or my spurs, sir,” Vic said plainly. “Both are kinda cemented to my boots.”

A strong gust of west wind blew dust across the sunny, springtime afternoon interview and Vic grasped his hat a little more tightly and he ducked his head into it a bit.

“How old are you, boy?” L.B. asked.

“Don’t rightly know, sir. But I’m guessin’ I’m about 17.”

L.B. glanced at his wife, then back at Vic.

“Your parents?”

“Don’t recollect.”

Vic looked at the ground.

L.B. shifted in the doorway.

“Okay, Vic…you said, ‘Vic,’ right?”

“Yes sir.”

“You can go and bed down overnight in that shed over there,” L.B. said, pointing at a small barn about 50 yards away.

“Tomorrow morning you are to meet with one of my two sons at daylight. They will question you and decide whether or not you can hire on. Okay?”

“Yes sir!” said Vic, unable to suppress a toothy smile. “Yes sir!”

He slapped on his hat holding onto it to keep the winds from blowing it off, eased over to his pony, gathered up the reins and started to walk over to the small barn.

“Vic?” L.B.’s wife called out. “When was it you last ate?”

“Day ‘fore yesterday, Ma’am…got some tortillas and pork from some Mexicans.”

She looked at L.B., who nodded.

“Then you come over here just after dark. I’ll have a plate full for you; you can take it back to the shed with you before you sleep.”

Vic nodded and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Harris.”

Short of the long of it, Vic Collett got hired.

So… at least according to the story I was told, that’s how Vic Collett got started at the Harris Ranch in Coke County, Texas and came to be its foreman for many, many years.

And…some 50 years or so later, he taught the great- great-, city-born grandson of the man who hired him how to ride a horse,

…and, for a few more years, to teach me much, much more.

 

“And that’s the way it happened, give or take a lie or two”

 

Photo by Mitch Alcala

 

© Copyright 2012 Edward Blackburn. All rights reserved.