Dust-covered Memories

Flour-fine dust floats in the air from my quiet footsteps into this space where the smell of horses and manure once dominated.  The glory days are gone and the stalls are empty.  Dried clumps scattered along the way indicate a bovine presence has recently partaken of the shade which once sheltered more stately beasts.

My mind drifts to sweat-soaked saddle blankets and creaking leather sliding off the slick back of a four-legged friend in need of a curry comb scratching to ease the itching hide after hours under a heavy load bent on searching out the cows who didn't want to be found.  The gentle nicker conveys impatience to be rolling in the dust instead of standing patiently while the necessary is accomplished.  It is the same dust.  The same smell.

Gnawed ancient pine, sagging hinges, the faint scent of mouse droppings and loose feathers from the sparrows and swallows and pigeons that nest in the rafters steal the image and turn it to regret for days past and unfilled dreams.  A yellow jacket, walking circles around some invisible attraction, draws my attention and remembered burning, swelling, reddened welts in times past bid caution against the gold and yellow winged demons of childhood nightmares.

Allergies -- to the dust and dander and pollen and yes, the venom of the yellow jacket were my nemesis, yet still I pursued.  Love and passion overcomes all enemies.

A cockle burr, ungerminated and half covered by the fine dust, brings memories of hoof knives cutting into the tangled mats while a stamping hoof signaled it was time to be done with this.  Slack reins, lowered head, thumps in time to my steps and the rattle of the chain against the rock-hard wood of the gate signals the day is done.

The stiffened skeleton of an old set of reins hangs from a nail -- spliced together with a couple of slits and end-through-end ran through each other -- a cowboy patch in a pinch. Dried and cracked.  No longer useful.  Age and white speckles of bird droppings turned Appaloosa instead of the supple, weak coffee and fresh smell of their working days.  More sadness.

I think of Grandpa and his horses.  Bugger Red.  Bonnie B.  Ginger.  Joe.  A dusty barn and a wall of tack.  I was a wanna be, he was the real deal.

Dragging Main

Dragging Main was "the thing" to do when I was growing up.  Sometime in the last (ahem) years it apparently went out of style.  I don't know why, I was too busy trying to make a living to notice.  I do know it wasn't something my kids did, but we were living elsewhere by then.

In a small town there isn't much to do that appeals to the majority of the teenage crowd -- or, at least that was the case many years ago.  I suppose today there are video games that fill the time.  When I was growing up though, a newly minted drivers license meant any and every excuse to spend time behind the wheel was important.  It even had me running errands for my mother -- like going to the grocery store.  Sometimes I took the long way.

I never was particularly "social" back then and that probably holds true today, so dragging Main wasn't a big deal to me.  I would rather spend my time hunting, or reading, or in some other solitary pursuit.  Besides, my parents weren't particularly open to my wasting fuel running up and down the street, or sitting on a tailgate on The Square and hanging out with others who might be a "bad influence" on me.

There were times though, when I participated.  It was always interesting to see who was riding with who and who was "missing" and possibly parked somewhere....

Those were the days of muscle cars.  There were quite a few of them in my hometown.  Most had glass packs for mufflers and the low "rrrmm rrrmm rrrmm" of the horsepower rolling through town echoed off the buildings.  Occasionally a couple of them would pull up beside each other at the single stoplight in town and the squeal of tires and echoes of high performance engines could be heard when the light turned green.  The local constabulary frowned upon such behavior, so most of the contests were conducted on some more remote stretch of highway such as the Cemetery Road.

I guess what led me down this chain of thought this morning is that it is now June.  That means summer which includes July 4th.  Fireworks come with the celebration of our Independence and I definitely recall bottle rocket wars conducted out of car windows and on the Square.  It's a wonder we survived.

Anyone care to share a few memories?

Remembering the Wind

I sit within a darkened room
And listen to the wind
As it howls across the window panes;
Rattling them.
The slight smell of dust
Permeates the air and causes me to sneeze.
The gusts bring sounds of grit
Plastering the house
As if someone had thrown small gravel
Against the wall.
I should be sleeping
But, my mind is alert and my ears
Hear the moaning currents
Scouring,
Cleansing.
Something sounding like a wet mop
Hits the siding.
It is only a tumbleweed
Temporarily thwarted
In its mad dash across the plains.
I lay down
And cover my head with the sheet
To block the sighing,
Roaring,
Incessant noise of the wind.
By morning it will be replaced
By clean bright skies.

[A memory of childhood.]

A Golfing Memory

Years ago, Dad made a golf club out of scraps found in Grandpa's junk pile.  He used a piece of steel rod for the shaft and a piece of flat iron for the head.  It had a slightly larger piece of iron pipe on the end of the shaft to act as the grip so it would be easier to hold.  The head was probably at about the correct angle for a 2-iron.

I couldn't have been very old when he did that, but I remember him building it just outside the door on Grandpa's old barn.  The welder sat in the corner of the shop and had long leads which would reach outside the barn where it was unlikely that a spark could get back to the hay which was stored in the back of the barn.  The acetylene torch was also inside the shop, right beside the welder, and the hoses on it would also reach outside.  It wasn't the ideal workspace, but it was workable.

Dad had a handful of golf balls which were probably someone's "driving range" balls which he had acquired somewhere.  He took that club and golf balls and went out in the backyard of Grandma and Grandpa's house there on the hill and proceeded to hit golf balls across the dirt road and off down the hill into the Wylie pasture.  He was a natural at it.

A couple of my uncles who were still at home also tried hitting balls with the club.  It was probably their incentive to go off into the pasture and "shag" the balls Dad had hit.  I was hardly big enough to pick up the club, let alone to swing it.

That was the first time I recall "golfing."  It was primitive, but it was a start.  It wasn't long after that Dad took up the game in earnest and became an excellent golfer.  He loved the game and it was one of the few things he would "splurge" on over the years.

I tried taking up the game while in High School.  I could "knock the snot" out of the ball, but just like with a baseball, I had little control.  I seemed to always be playing from the wrong fairway, trying to find my way to the correct green.  It's pretty sad when you have to hit over another green to get to the correct one.

It was probably a good thing that I at least learned the fundamentals of the game while young, because as I became older, there were times it was useful in a business setting.  One company that I worked for would frequently have "customer appreciation" golf tournaments in which I was expected to participate.

It has been a lot of years since I attempted to golf.  I have a set of clubs out in the garage that are probably antiques by now.  I noticed them standing against a wall the other day, collecting dust.  I probably should sell them.

One thing is for certain; any time I think of golf, I will think of Dad and his love for the game.  He loved to play it and he loved to watch it on television.  If they golf in heaven, I suspect he has a foursome together, headed down the fairway....

Boxes and Treasures

For some strange reason, I seem to collect small boxes.  I have old cigar boxes, Altoid's boxes, small wooden boxes, boxes that checks came in -- tucked away in drawers with various things inside.  I use them to store smaller items that I wish to keep for some reason.

One of them that comes to mind contains pocket knives.  Some of the knives were given to me, some were purchased by me, some belonged to a relative and they are reminders of that person.  I have a box which contains several old belt buckles.  Most of them have no value -- either sentimental or monetary -- but, I have kept them nonetheless for some reason.  I have boxes that contain things like old driver's licenses, old hunting licenses, and other documents that are no longer valid, but have made it into a box.  I also have a few small puzzles in a box -- the type of puzzles made from metal or, wood, cut into strange shapes that you either take apart or reassemble depending on its current state.  I always enjoyed puzzles.  I have boxes of old business cards.  Many of those cards are no longer valid, but for some reason they have found their way into a box.  Perhaps they construct a history of my career in some small way.

I think most people have a tendency to store away treasures -- either real, or perceived -- in boxes.  As a child I always enjoyed reading books that included buried, or hidden treasure.  It isn't so much about the desired wealth they might contain as it is about the mystery of their contents.  Of course, discovering a buried box in the backyard which contained old belt buckles would be quite a disappointment if one is expecting gold coins or precious jewels!

Grandpa used to have a box or two with various items secreted within.  I remember that he had old silver dollars in one which was stolen many years ago.  One of my uncles in Oklahoma used to have a box full of old pocket knives which he collected.  Perhaps that is what gave me the idea to do the same.  I suspect most people have small boxes of some sort tucked away in their homes that contain small treasures and keepsakes stored there for memory and for posterity.

If my discourse on boxes causes you to think that I have lost my marbles, take heart, they are probably in a box somewhere, tucked away on a bookshelf or a bedside table drawer.  I suppose I should list the contents of the various boxes, but first I must find a pen.  Now, I wonder which box contains the pens....

Grandpa's Old Barn

Yesterday as I wrote about Grandpa going hunting each Thanksgiving, I had a strong mental image of his barn.  I spent lots of time in and around that old barn.

It was a Quonset barn which sat about 100 yards almost due west of the house which sat on a hill overlooking Running Water Draw north of Olton, Texas.  The soil was poor and thin and was underlain by caliche which could be a problem at times, such as digging a cellar, or a post hole.

The doors to the barn slid to either side along a steel rail which had been damaged at some point prior to my becoming acquainted with the old barn which must have been built some time in the early 50's.  Because of that damage and subsequent repair, the doors didn't move smoothly and because of their very nature of hanging from rollers that ran along the rail, tended to move in and out rather than stay in the sparse guides along the bottom.  They didn't run in a track on the bottom, but Grandpa had welded a couple of metal guides, the middle one having been reinforced with a small amount of hand-mixed concrete which kept it steady and I suspect was designed to make it difficult for a thief to get in by prying out the doors.

In the middle, an old chain ran through two holes, one on each side, which had been punched through the tin with some tool that left the holes with jagged edges.  They had been worn smooth by the chain which had the patina of continual use running through them.  When closed, the doors were secured by a Master padlock through the chains.  I recall Grandpa's keychain having many Master padlock keys upon it but, he knew which one was correct for the barn by the number.  As I grew older I was proud to be entrusted with a duplicate of that key so that I could access the barn any time I needed.

To the left of the sliding doors as you faced the barn, was a normal entry door which would have gone directly into the shop had it not been secured on the inside in a manner that was semi-permanent in nature.  It ended up behind the sliding door on that side when the main doors were open.  The only other thing of interest on the front of the barn were the electrical wires leading in from the utility pole which sat near the corner and the insulated wire coming out below them that ran to the electric fence which ran over the old gate to the corrals which was at the corner of the barn on the left.  It was the only opening into the corrals between the barn and the old loafing shed which provided shelter for the livestock housed therein.

As you entered the barn, the smell of dust and hay filled the air.  There was the hint of rodent smells and oil as well.  To the left sat the shop which was a wooden sided structure built into the corner of the barn.  To the right of the door leading into the shop was a wooden ladder which led up top where sat an air compressor.  There was also old junk stored there.  That junk varied through the years, but my earliest memories were of an old propane stove and a few pieces of old harness.

To the right of the ladder, tacked to the wooden side of the shop were the deer antlers and turkey beards and at one time a full turkey tail and a deer skin.  Suspended from the antlers were bridles and bits and hackamores and spare reins and other pieces of tack.

Behind the shop on the left side of the barn ran a slab of concrete.  The rest of the barn had a dirt floor which was permanently powdered from the lack of moisture and the continual traffic which pounded it to a consistency much finer than flour.  On that slab at one time had been a couple of grain bins.  Through the years they had fallen into disrepair and eventually were torn out.  My earliest memories include a time when the first of the bins contained shelled corn which was used for the cattle.  Sometimes the chickens laid eggs inside those old bins.

Prior to my coming along, Grandpa had a number of milk cows.  He no longer had any except an old Jersey cow which he kept for the milk or as a nurse cow for orphaned babies from his beef herd -- at least within my span of memory.  I have herd many stories from my mother of having to milk those cows when she was growing up.  I had the experience of helping my uncle milk the Jersey a few times.  She was kept up in the lots and we milked her under the shed.

Continuing beyond the grain bins on the slab, there were a few pieces of old equipment stored.  They were covered by a fine coating of dust and many were from a time before automation.  There were quite a few pieces of chicken related equipment.  I don't know what you call them but, they were for the chickens to build their nests in which made it convenient to gather eggs.

The barn also had double sliding doors at the back which were permanently chained and very difficult to open due to the accumulation of dirt and weeds behind the barn which required clearing if they were to be opened.  The back of the barn was to the west from which prevailing winds continually added to the stockpile of dirt and weeds.

In front of those doors sat an old silage cutter.  I recall it being used when I was very young.  Grandpa used to always cut silage which was put into a pit out behind the corrals.  It was quite an event when during silage harvest everyone helped either running the cutter, the wagons which caught it, or the tractors which packed it into the pit.  I also recall riding on the old ford tractor with one of my uncles feeding silage.  The tractor had a large scoop on the back which was used to move the silage to the feed troughs for the cattle.  It was very heavy when full and he would have me sit on the front of the tractor as added weight to help hold it down where he could see where he was going.  The front of the tractor would come completely off the ground and he would have to steer by using the brakes on the tractor.  I always thought it was a lot of fun.

In the back right corner (northwest part of the barn) there was almost always a large stack of hay.  I helped stack that hay a few times and helped feed it many times.  It was almost always alfalfa hay in small square bales.  Grandpa kept top quality hay.

Along the north side of the barn was other equipment including old irrigation motors and various small implements.  There was more old harness suspended from baling wire along the inside of the wall and even an old cotton scale and a balance scale and other items from days past.  Near the front, just inside the door was a huge pile of re-bar electric fence posts and in front of that were many oil cans.  The oil cans were generally Amalie oil in 5 gallon cans used for the irrigation motors.  There were also a couple of 55 gallon drums of oil for the gearheads on the irrigation pumps.

Also on the north side sat a couple of racks with saddles on them.  The straps were always neatly placed up over the seats and the blankets laid on top.  A couple of curry combs and brushes were tucked into the boards on the wall which were attached to the frame of the barn.

There are lots of good memories tied to that old barn....

Buckets of Catfish

Many, many years ago,
I can't remember when,
It rained for days and days on end.

All the playa lakes were filled
And the draws ran wide and full
Until there was no way in or out of town.

My grandparents lived out north
On the Running Water Draw
And kept their cows on pasture there.

The water was swift and wide
And took out all the fences and
Cows were stuck in spots above the flood.

As the waters started down
It became necessary to patch
All the fences that had washed away.

Grandpa seemed to have no fear
Of the rushing water so
He mounted Bugger Red, his favorite horse,

And swam across the draw while
Carrying a roll of barbed wire
Held out away from the horse in one hand.

He fixed what he could
Then swam back across to where
We waited and watched as he worked.

For the next several days,
As the waters receded, he would
Work on the fence until the gap had been sealed.

Weeks later when there was
Nothing left of the flood but a few
Muddy water holes, my uncles and I

Took buckets and rakes
Down to the draw and raked catfish
Out of those holes by the dozens.

Threads in Common

Is there something as we age
That causes us to reach
Way deep inside to things from the past?

It seems our memories
Oft improve with passing time
Into images throughout our life to last.

It takes only a few words
To invoke a vivid scene
When the picture in our mind is strong and pure

And the common thread between
The way we each have lived our lives
Brings connections that through many years endure.

The North Side of the Square

I have only fuzzy memories of the Square in my hometown
When the old Courthouse stood empty and alone.
It's second life as a hospital had come to an end
And it was being torn down to make way for something new.

A long metal building soon stood on the north side of the Square
And stands there to this day, though somewhat changed.
Three new businesses soon occupied the space
And each of them was special in some way.

If memory serves correct, the one to farthest west was
Bill Kelly's Men's Clothier full of suits and ties and
Dress shirts to outfit the gentlemen there in town in
The finest sort of clothes that could be found.

Dad sometimes shopped in there because way back in that day
A suit and tie were appropriate attire for teaching school.
My link to that store wasn't for the clothes I wore but for
The help Bill gave me much later in my years

When he recruited me to replace him at the Savings & Loan.

In the middle stood Duncan's 5 & 10 Cent Store which
Brings cheerful memories of standing at the counter
With a quarter in my hand trying to choose a piece of candy
From the rack in front of me as Bob sat there

Behind the register waiting on my Mother with her purchases
Who was trying to hurry me to make up my mind what I would choose
But, I also remember the toy bins over on the east wall
Where I would spend every chance I got looking over

The selections for something special like a set of
Roy Roger pistols and caps to go with them and
A holster to hold them so I could be the champion
Of the cowboys & Indians wars which were inevitable.

I can still hear Bob's voice there at the register....

Major James had the White's Auto store which occupied
The east end of the building and it was where I first remember
Eyeing the BB Gun that I would save my money to buy someday
But, more importantly, Major gave me my first job

Working in the public eye and I would wash the store windows
Every morning and dust the shelves and make sure everything
Was in its place and he would send me to the back where
I would spend many hours assembling bicycles and other items

That he had ordered in preparation for the Christmas season.
Major had me learn every county in the Panhandle and South Plains
And be able to locate it on a map because to him it was important
That I know my geography, but also so I would know

How far it was to the storms which brewed and know the danger
When we listened to the announcement from the National Weather Service
That a tornado had been spotted in Hockley county and how
It might become a threat to us as it moved northeast.

I can still smell Major's pipe in my mind....

The occupants have changed through the years, but
The building is still there.  Leon's Grocery was probably
The longest enduring of all those who passed through that building
That is filled with many good memories.

Some Childhood Memories

Way back in the day when I was just a kid
We lived on the east side of our town.
The house, it wasn't large, but
I didn't know it then
'Cause I had everything that I could need.

The driveway was of dirt and there was no garage
But, beyond it was a big old empty lot
Where we had dug a hole that
Was the perfect place to spend
Hours and hours just digging in the dirt.

We had a great big garden that Dad kept oh, so neat
With not a single weed there to be found
And Mom planted flowers
In a bed around the house
With the prettiest blooms there were around.

In the back were willow trees grown from cuttings
Off of trees that were to be found
North of town out on the Draw
And in the front were two Pecans
That were dug up near a well

Off the Curry place where they were grown from seed.
We had a cellar too, there in that big back yard
That Dad and Grandpa and my uncles
Had hand dug and lined with cinder blocks
Because Dad didn't like the storms.

He was raised in Oklahoma and he knew what they could do
'Cause he'd seen so much damage they had done
Since he was raised in the heart
Of Tornado Alley where they saw so many
Dancing across the Plains.

I remember in the mornings on every Saturday
I would wake up early in the winter time
And lie upon the floor in front
Of the old propane wall heater
And watch Roy Rogers on the black and white T.V.

Yep, we had everything that we could need.

A Remembered Opening Day

Hunting season comes around
In Fall of every year;
Through much of this great country
The quest is for the deer.

But, I grew up upon the Plains
Where deer were scarce to see;
It was hunting for the birds
That held excitement for me.

First came dove, how swift they flew
Across the bright blue skies;
To get the hang of hunting them
Took many, many tries.

I think of when the first I shot,
I was well short of ten,
But, I felt that I was mighty tall
To go hunting with the men.

I don't recall who all was there
But, it was at the ranch;
Dad was far the better shot
Upon the family branch.

But, Grandpa was the one who set me
In the pumphouse door
To watch out toward the water tank
For one, or maybe more

Of those swift creature who might
Light upon the fence.
That gave me an advantage
When my shot occurred and hence

I didn't try to take them
As they darted through the air;
No one then had told me
That it wasn't really fair.

So, I set there on a bucket
With Mom's .410 in my hand
And waited for the dull gray birds
Upon the fence to land.

And when one finally did
I carefully lined my shot
And pulled the small black trigger
While pointing at the spot.

And the blast sent me a flying
Off the bucket to the ground
And dazed, I went to looking
If the target I had found.

And sure enough I got him
Though I was somewhat bruised.
Then I dusted off my britches
And ejected the shell that I had used.

I leaned my mighty weapon
Up against the pumphouse wall
And proceeded to the place
Where my quarry had to fall.

As I showed it to my Grandpa
Who was grinning ear to ear
I had to say I wasn't expecting
To get knocked upon my rear.

Around and Around

Long summers past and after school
There was a never ending rule
That I must have a way some funds to earn.

I "chopped" some cotton, stacked some hay
And lots of other things for pay
And even useful skills were there to learn.

But, one I hated way back when
Is even now like it was then,
That's driving a tractor around and around the field.

It was a thing I grew to hate
From early dawn to evening, late
It never to my drifting thoughts appealed.

I just got bored and had a lack
Of staying on the narrow track
Defined by rows laid out so carefully.

My mind would drift 'long other ways,
A tangled and unending maze,
And my mistakes were there for all to see.

So mostly I was sent to plow
The fallow ground as needs allow
In endless circles cutting weeds right down.

And if by chance my mind would drift
The next time 'round my track would shift
To fix mistakes before they caused a frown.

Those years thought long since in the past
Came back just like a sudden blast
Today as I commenced to cut some weeds.

I hooked the shredder on three points
And greased up all the moving joints
Then filled the diesel tank to meet its needs.

The goat weeds and the nettles grew
In many places old and new
Where pasture grasses were what I should see.

And there I started around and around
As they succumbed to the chopping sound
And my mind drifted to this memory.

Hunting Arrowheads

Out the back door,

Out through the lot,

I'd head for the pasture

At a slow trot.

Visions of redskins

Danced in my head

As out to the draw

My footsteps had led.

I knew where to hunt;

I'd been there before.

I had one in my pocket

And was looking for more.

Arrowheads!

Arrowheads!

That's all I could think

And fast as a wink

I found one!

I rubbed off the dirt

And then with some spit

I polished it up

And my eyes were all lit

With the sight of this treasure,

This thing I had found,

Just laying right there

On the dry dusty ground.

My mind's eye then saw him

Right there on his horse;

The warrior that lost it

On that water course

So many long years ago.