reset 06/23/99
The summers of my youth were spent on my grandparents' farm in South Texas. Pawnee was a dying town, desperately trying to hold on to its identity. Pawnee still had a school, a post office, a convenience store, and a couple of churches. The Forty-Two parties kept the community glued together. Funerals gave folks a chance to visit, and people got the opportunity often. Pawnee was surely a town in transition after the closing of the local cotton gin, but Pawnee was a wonderful place.
For city folk, Pawnee represented an entirely different world. It was a world of values: a hard day's work, a good education, a hearty meal, a strong family, a big hug. Pawnee was the one place where a budding artist had no difficulty selling his paint-by-number masterpiece. For the curious, the day just wasn't long enough, but in Pawnee, that didn't matter because another one was right around the corner. The local attractions didn't keep drawing my brothers and me back to Pawnee, because there weren't any. It must have been those two notable residents of Pawnee, Doyle and Delma Hair, or as we knew them, Grandad and Mim, that kept us begging to go back time and time again.
A South Texas summer is unbearable as an adult, but for us, it was okay as long as we got to ride in back of Grandad's pickup truck. We also knew that at the end of every trip to the field was a tall cool glass of Coca Cola, or at least a Standpipe Julep. For the intellectually curious, a Standpipe Julep is a fancy name for a glass of water. Years passed before we figured that one out. No one cared to try the unknown when a Coke was a sure thing on a scorcher of a day. After it cooled off a bit in the evenings, we might sit on the porch for a while. If there were ever four of us under one roof, though, it was time for Canasta.
I don't know if other folks even play Canasta the same way as we did. I've never had the opportunity to trade notes with another Canasta player outside the family to check. The only way we knew to add a new player was to get someone married off or have a baby, in that order of preference to save time. Although we were family, there was no mercy shown around the kitchen table. Often we'd draw for initial partners, but the inevitable team challenge would set the pairings for days and sometimes weeks at a time. We'd play until one team had enough for the day, then bargain for a final hand-for-a-game to try and even the score. You had to have your "feet on the floor" to win.
Oh, we all settled into individual styles of play. Mim was a straightforward, conservative player. Grandad was often the gambler, taking calculated risks that would surprise and frustrate both the opposition and his partner. My older brother, Darren, was like Mim. My brothers, Kreg and Trace, were more like Grandad. I liked to keep everyone guessing by alternating between the practical and the revolutionary. Losing was painful, but there was always another game. The boasting was much more difficult to handle. Win or lose, every night ended the same way -- with a midnight snack. Usually a bowl of ice cream would do wonders for a bruised ego. It hit the spot, and God knows, we needed the nourishment for the grueling day of BB gun hunting and card playing to come.
I'm sure there must have been a first BB gun given to each of us as a birthday or Christmas present, but I can't recall it. Why, we had BB guns from the time we could walk. We'd make several hunting trips a day, up and down the dirt and caliche trails just looking for things to shoot. I hate to say it, but birds drew our attention above all else. After all, we were on a farm, and the fact that Grandad had placed a bounty on certain birds naturally drew our attention skyward. Not that we were blooming entrepreneurs, because we really didn't have any need for money, but the reward for bringing in the bad guy had a certain old west charm. I think you can mark the maturity point for each of us as we each individually turned our sights towards tin cans and away from living things.
There are some creatures, however, that were difficult for us to categorize as God's beautiful creations. Bullbats fell into that category. That's what we called them anyway. Right about dusk, they'd come swooping around the house, a half-dozen or so at a time. They were fast. I never do recall seeing one land. In fact, I don't really know what they looked like up close. Needless to say, we never did bag one. It was fun trying though. We'd shoot in the air at our rapidly moving targets. Every so often one of us would claim to have shot off a tail feather, but there's no evidence for that. Do bullbats even have feathers? We'll never know. When it grew too dark to see, we'd retire our weapons, go back inside, and claim victory over the bullbats nevertheless.
Ants were also critters we'd show no mercy. It's hard to love something that adults put poison out for anyway. I don't know how many ants were decapitated with our pocket knives. Did I mention pocket knives? Grandad gave us some fine specimens. Cutting up ants is about all we ever used them for though. Oh, when we were older, they'd come in handy around Christmas time when an enthusiastic gift giver would get a little bit carried away with the Scotch tape. Whenever there was a lull in the unwrapping action due to technical difficulties, there'd be the equivalent of a race to see who could pull out their pocket knife first to get the ball rolling again. Did I mention we always unwrapped presents in a sequential order, prescribed by the luck of the draw? Everyone was interested in seeing each gift, but none of us were willing to wait too long between presents -- kind of like watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. Anyway, roasting ants with a magnifying glass was a second local favorite. A South Texas summer has plenty of sunshine to fuel that activity. Why on some days, ants were about the only creatures willing to venture out into the dull heat. As soon as one of us would get bitten or stung (I still don't know which end of an ant is responsible), we'd move on to a safer activity. It was either that or we'd unleash the full force of our vengeance on all their relatives. It was important to end on a high note.
We'd also go to the softer ground in search of doodle bugs. Some people call them ant lions, but doodle bug is as good a name as any for these guys. Doodle bugs make cone-shaped indentions in the loose soil to catch their prey. A small insect, such as an ant, which falls into the pit, cannot easily get out. The doodle bug keeps a captive audience by throwing more dirt. In doing so, he removes the debris which falls to the bottom, maintains the steep angle, and waits for the prey to tire, get buried alive, fall to the bottom, or escape. If the insect is big or strong enough to free itself from the pit, the doodle bug probably didn't want to meet up with it anyway. There might be some question as to which one was the food.
Somewhere under the dirt lies the doodle bug, just waiting. The fun in this activity was in the hunting style. We'd carefully imitate a poor, small unsuspecting bug, hoping that the doodle bug would reveal his position. It was important not to create too large of a disturbance, just a slight cascading of grains, or the doodle bug would not dare move. Should this rule be violated, the only hope was an offensive attack. You'd have to poke the dirt with a small twig trying to locate a doodle bug in retreat.
Unlike the ants, we never harmed the doodle bugs. We'd catch them, let them tickle the palm of our hand, and place them in a Dixie cup partially filled with dirt. We had a competition to see who could collect the most, the largest, or the smallest, then we'd set them free. It was important never to set the ground rules ahead of time so that each of us could claim some kind of victory based upon our final inventory.
Rattlesnakes were fairly commonplace also, so much so that we always traveled with a hoe, just in case we'd happen onto one crossing the road. When Grandad would sight one, he'd stop the pickup in the middle of the road and tell us to stay in the back. Parking in the road was never a problem around Pawnee. Why, meeting up with an oncoming car was proper reason to pull over and chat a while. Anyway, after a sighting, Grandad would grab the hoe, quickly but cautiously approach the snake, and whack off his head. The big ones might take a couple whacks. Then, he'd pull out his pocket knife and cut off the rattlers for us. These were trophies for us. They made great show-and-tell items when we'd return to school.
Mim and Grandad had a number of cats and dogs over the years, but the pair of animals with the most longevity was a couple of Heinz 57 dogs named Ginger & Twiggy. Ginger was a male dog with medium length hair of the same color. Twiggy was a small, long-haired, attention-seeking female dog of gentle nature. Ginger enjoyed going hunting with the guys, but Ginger usually had a different agenda. He'd go on a rabbit chase, unaware that he didn't stand a chance. Ginger had much better luck with mice and rats. He had a peculiar hunting style when it came to rodents. He'd literally hop through the tall grass. If he got lucky, he'd land on some poor unsuspecting critter. I guess he figured surprise was his greatest weapon. It was hard to keep good pets around. Sometimes the dogs would run off with strays. Sometimes the coyotes would claim the cats. You'd think that with the traffic of Pawnee that roadkills would not be a problem, but I suppose the lack of road traffic heightened the curiosity when a car or truck would happen by. I guess that's what made Ginger and Twiggy special. They were around for the long haul. Good dogs were needed to protect the property from encroaching wild animals, e.g. coyotes, skunks, and snakes. Even if he weren't alert enough to intercept an intruder, a dog which would bark to warn his master was worth his/her weight in gold.
I recall the evening when the dogs began barking persistently. We took notice when the distinctive call of a rattler chimed in. The dogs had discovered a large one, directly under the front porch. Mim and Grandad's old home was of pier and beam construction. It was situated between two fields which were often planted in maize, cotton, or flax. Our unwelcome guest must have wandered in from that immense sanctuary. The first chore was to locate the snake more precisely. As it turns out, this was not a hoe job. Access was a problem, and this would have definitely been a multiple chop task. Grandad said it was time for the shot gun. It was difficult to even get a good line of sight, but I recall later that Grandad was surprised the snake didn't strike, because he was unknowingly within reach. Well, a couple of shots did in that snake. When we drug him out, we found the snake to be as big around as my leg and over six feet long. Those were surely some prize rattlers. Grandad was a great white hunter and number one in our eyes.
Grandad had skill and wisdom, although he had only the equivalent of an eighth grade education. I guess that's why he always bragged on us for doing well in school. Grandad never passed up an opportunity to tell the neighbors in our presence that his grandsons got straight A's in school. To Grandad, anyone we happened across was a neighbor -- farm hands, bank tellers, check-out clerks .... We'd ride in back of the truck over to Sefferina's or DeGoya's place and wait for what seemed like hours for Grandad to finish his conversation, much of it about how smart his grandkids were. Given a choice, I'd always rather go to DeGoya's because he had lots of kids, girls mostly. After bragging on us, Grandad would ask us very loudly which of DeGoya's daughters would we like for him to give us. Of course, this was all in jest and embarrassed us greatly, but I always had my eye out for one of the older ones. Mim and Grandad were interested in our education, and we never needed any financial incentives to do well in school. Not that pressure was ever placed on us to excel, but we thrived on the kind of positive feedback we got from both parents and grandparents. Embarrassing or not, nothing is a better motivator than to hear praise in public for a job well done. Grandad could do that better than anyone.
We'd outgrown the bedtime story ritual, but Grandad sure could tell some captivating stories. Some nights he'd escape from wild Indians by catching a ride on a crocodile. Other nights it would be a bear. We all had nicknames at story time too. I was Possum Holler. My older brother became Cooter Brown only after my mother refused to allow her dad to use his originally assigned name, Boliver Cagnasty. We may have outgrown the story time, but we never outgrew the stories.
We did grow older, but not as fast as my Grandad. He had a persistent cough. He'd given up cigarettes long before, but he never could relinquish his chewing tobacco. The regular spitting drove my grandmother up the wall. Oh, he'd cut down inside the house. Periodically, he would incur the depth of my grandmother's wrath when a fairly full Dixie cup would topple over. Inside the pickup truck, though, it didn't matter. It was a man's truck. I never entertained the idea of ever trying chewing tobacco myself. It was a disgusting habit.
I think the first time I realized that Grandad wouldn't be around forever was the time we all went to Austin to see the high school girls state basketball tournament. One of my distant cousins was playing for Conroe. We parked about a block and a half away and had to walk. I had to double back a couple of times to check on Grandad and offer him a shoulder. We made it. We were in no real hurry -- just like Pawnee.
As I and my three brothers grew older, things changed. It became rare that we'd all be in Pawnee at the same time. Too many other things crept into our lives. I probably was least willing of all to give up my time on the farm. Grandad went into farming after 19 years working with Magnolia Oil Company. I use the term farming loosely. It wasn't a traditional farm -- not the kind with cows, chickens, pigs, and the sort. Around this part of South Texas, people grew crops that most folks wouldn't recognize. Cotton farming had moved out of the area, although I still remember picking a little when I was younger. Farmers around Pawnee grew mostly things like maize and broomcorn.
Broomcorn is the plant that brooms used to be made of before the advent of polyester fiber and imports from China. Grandad became known as The Broomcorn King. I don't know if Grandad was a good farmer or just lucky. I think a farmer has to be lucky to make it bigtime. Anyway, I recall working with my older brother in the broomcorn harvest season a few times. Once we got paid to "stir" the broomcorn. Oh, we didn't do anything like stirring. We just moved tied bunches of broomcorn from one wagon trailer to another. It had some relationship to moisture build-up -- I think. I remember wondering if and when Grandad would come back to get us. You see, he just dropped us off in the field and said he'd come back to take us home when we were done. I don't know how he was to know when we would be done, but we were just kids and didn't think to ask. The Texas heat was unbelievable, but the broomcorn made us itch beyond belief. Hot, tired, sweaty, and ready to peel off our skin if we could, we waited for Grandad. Maybe he was off talking to whoever would listen. He liked to talk. It got to the point that we'd choose to stay home with my grandmother rather than make the rounds with Grandad because you never knew how long you'd be gone with him. He'd drive over to gab with roughnecks on nearby drilling sites. He liked to visit a few families in the area -- people that often worked in the fields for him. I've mentioned a couple of them already. Well, we were thankful when Grandad did show up. I've never been so ready for a bath in all my life.
One summer, I happened to be visiting Pawnee for a stretch of time by myself. I don't remember too much detail about how I passed the time, but I spent my share outdoors. In the evening, Grandad would have me put out some hay or cotton seed for the cows. One cow was penned up. She was getting ready to have her first calf. I recall Grandad saying that cows often have trouble delivering their first calf. After that, it's a piece of cake. When the time was near, Grandad asked me to watch and alert him when it looked like something was about to happen. I really didn't know what I was looking for in the first place. When I thought I could see something sticking out, I went indoors to warn Grandad. It turned out to be a false alarm that time. Oh something was sticking out alright, but I guess not out far enough. After a while, I became convinced again that delivery was eminent. This time Grandad agreed. When not much was happening, Grandad decided that the cow needed help. He got out something he called a "come-along" which looked to me more like an automotive tool than anything else. The cow was uncooperative and decided to get up. Grandad worked hard to constrain her movements in the pen. This delivery was apparently going to happen in a standing position. Grandad reached in with the come-along tool to help pull the calf out. He became worried about the calf's orientation. The come-along tool wasn't working. When the calf finally came out, it was not breathing. I recall my grandmother crying and rubbing the calf to induce breathing. It didn't work. Grandad said something about the calf represented a loss of at least $300. Grandad asked me to drag the calf out into the field, away from the barn so the coyotes could dispose of the remains. We tied the calf's feet together. I dragged the dead baby until Grandad motioned from a distance that it was far enough. I left the calf there in the field that day, but I've been dragging the memory of that calf with me ever since. I never cease to be amazed at the wonder of new life. Life is fragile. Every baby born is a miracle. I learned that in Pawnee.
I had finished my bachelors degree and was attending graduate school when the news came that Grandad was in the hospital in nearby Kennedy. He had suffered a heart attack, and although we were told everything would be alright, we quickly put together a family trip to visit him in the hospital. Grandad was in intensive care, but we were given the opportunity to go see him one at a time for only a minute or so each. First of all, hospitals instill in me a queasy feeling at best. That might seem strange for someone who ended up marrying a nurse. I don't recall the exact order we were given, but I'm sure that I did not go first. The moment I saw Grandad, I knew his situation was worse than we'd been led to believe. Strangely enough, I was oblivious to all the lab equipment and IV bags this time. As I held Grandad's hand, we talked -- about superficial things mostly. He said he really didn't feel that bad with the exception of difficulty breathing. I was reminded of the time Grandad and I had gone to Corsicana, Texas to visit one of his brothers who suffered from chronic emphysema, following a lifetime of heavy cigarette smoking. The pain in each breath that I recall in my uncle's face was now evident on my grandfather's. My minute was ticking away, and I was encroaching on someone else's turn. When our visitation period had ended, we took Mim to a nearby park to eat a barbecue sandwich picnic lunch. After another hour or so, we began the couple hour ride back to Austin. A few days later, Grandad died of massive heart failure.
For the longest time, I looked back in anger that I only had a minute or two with Grandad -- not enough time to tell him how much he meant to me. Today I'm appreciative that I was able to just go in and hold his hand, because I didn't just have a minute with him, I had one more minute added to a lifetime of experiences and memories.
Two years ago, we began a new tradition. My daughter and her cousin, who is just a few years older, now spend a week of their summer vacation in Pawnee with Mim. Oh, it's not the same old Pawnee -- a lot more television and much less physical activity. It's no longer a working farm. The land is leased to other farmers and ranchers, but at least there are cattle around and about to maintain that certain feel. I'm happy to report that Mim is still able to handle a couple of young kids. She has longevity in her corner. Mim's mother was recognized by Willard Scott a couple of times, and she lived in her own home, built in the 1890's, until she was 99. I'm glad to report that the Pawnee tradition continues. Pawnee is a wonderful place.
Part of the attractiveness of Pawnee was the complete shift in environment: from urban to rural, from rapid-paced to relaxed, from self-centered to people-oriented. Many don't have that made-to-order retreat location, especially as populations continue to swell in our nation's urban and suburban communities. People used to flee to the suburbs to get a taste of the Pawnee lifestyle without giving up completely all the conveniences the nearby metropolitan area has to offer. In response to this, I say that your Pawnee need not be a physically remote place. Rather, Pawnee is a shelter, a haven, an ideal, wherever unconditional love can replace anxiety. The exciting news is that I'm sure there are thousands of other Pawnees out there eagerly waiting to be discovered by America's urban youth.
Who were the people you looked up to in childhood? Was there anyone there to heap on the praise? Was there anyone there to declare you a success, regardless of the outcome? How about today? People, especially kids, can outperform all expectations for those that believe in them. Unfortunately, the converse is true as well. People who are told they're losers and will never amount to anything, can fulfill that prophesy will little or no effort. If you had a parent, grandparent, teacher, or friend that brought the best out of you, you should praise God for granting you that jewel in your life. They have shaped you into you perhaps more than you realize.
For those who never had that unconditional encouragement while growing up, you can fill that role for someone else. But you ask, "What about me?" If it is not in your character to give this kind of praise, I urge you to try it. You may find that the one who will regard you as the apple of their eye will not be the only one being reshaped. If that were not enough to keep your juices flowing, the Bible is crammed full of encouragement from our Heavenly Father. Most of that is reserved for the Christian, but non-Christian, if I haven't lost you yet, there is hope for you. Of all the Bible excepts to choose from, the following passages are amongst the most encouraging, in my opinion:
Isaiah 40: 28-31
Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Romans 8: 28
And we know that in all things god works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Romans 8: 37-39
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
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reset 06/23/99