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Well, it took me only a week to fail on my promise to get a new sketch up every friday.

Yep, I kinda suck.

Maybe this will make you feel a bit better.

I've recently decided to do something I've always wanted to do, but for whatever reason always backed out of - a webcomic.

I've loved comics as a medium since I was a kid and I've always thought doing a webcomic on a regular basis might be fun. That being said, I don't have a ton of extra time and I didn't want to get something started and never see it through.

I'm not saying there's no chance of that happening this time out, but I've chosen sort of an easy-breezy style of art and I'm going to give it my best.

I want to get a few pages ahead of the game before I start posting stuff, so I'm looking at getting up and running by the end of next month - hopefully. I'll have mo information as I get closer.

In the meantime, here's a little something to wet your whistle.

Steve

I absolutely HATE text language. Nothing in the world annoys me more than seeing someone type in text language. Okay, I do use the occasional text language phrase like ‘you’ becomes ‘u’ and ‘are’ becomes ‘r’. I do use the occasional acronym like ‘to be honest’ becomes ‘tbh’, ‘laughing out loud’ becomes ‘lol’ and ‘by the way’ becomes ‘btw’. I think a text language vocabulary of up to 20 words should be tolerated. (Mine only reaches like 5 which is better but…! ) But when situations worsen to a point where you see someone write ‘I am busy right now’ in text language and it looks like ‘i m bc ryt nw’, at that point, you really want to bang your head on the nearest wall until your eyes pop out and even Homer Simpson seems as attractive as Brad Pitt.

Here is my list of why text language spelling should officially be allowed to get a criminal record (or better still - imprisonment) if exceeded by 20 words in its vocabulary list:

1. It makes you sound like a 2 year old. 2 year olds can’t type and when you type text spelling, it looks like you can’t type, thus making you look like a 2 year old.
2. It makes you sound illiterate. It feels like your mum and dad denied you the basic education you should have deserved.
3. It makes you look like you are so poverty stricken that your keyboard has been bashed by a cow but you still won’t replace it.
4. Text spelling seems to worm its way to exam papers and other official pieces of papers and THAT is despicable.
5. It looks like jumbled letters. It really looks like you are trying to teach little Molly how to read and write.
6. Using text language is denying other people the right to read. When they look at random letters, no punctuation and no use of the teensiest bit of decent grammar, then their mind goes into delirium whether what they are reading is proper or not, thus corrupting their minds.
7. Children will become weird because of text language and will take over the world with signs and posters and literally everything sounding that way.
8. Teachers won’t be able to correct exam papers because if the students use text spelling and the teachers can’t (I’m pretty sure half the teachers think ‘lol’ means lolling about because we find something funny, which really, makes no sense at all) that’s illiteracy stepped up a notch and a waste of doing exams anyway. As it is, the British government education folk are worried exams are getting easier by the second.
9. On a much more realistic note, text spelling is going out of fashion. More and more people shun it and funnily enough shun those who still use it, so if you use it, stop. Or you’ll find yourself tied to a pole near the bus stop getting thrashed by a bunch of geekily cool teenagers.

I know that was a pretty angry rant but, let’s face the facts, text language spelling isn’t great! If anything at all, it is wasteful. People say it reduces the effort to type but it increases the effort to read. Let’s all type decently and read decently and not become slaves to ‘txt lngage splng’ (or for normal people, text language spelling).

I absolutely HATE text language. Nothing in the world annoys me more than seeing someone type in text language. Okay, I do use the occasional text language phrase like ‘you’ becomes ‘u’ and ‘are’ becomes ‘r’. I do use the occasional acronym like ‘to be honest’ becomes ‘tbh’, ‘laughing out loud’ becomes ‘lol’ and ‘by the way’ becomes ‘btw’. I think a text language vocabulary of up to 20 words should be tolerated. (Mine only reaches like 5 which is better but…! ) But when situations worsen to a point where you see someone write ‘I am busy right now’ in text language and it looks like ‘i m bc ryt nw’, at that point, you really want to bang your head on the nearest wall until your eyes pop out and even Homer Simpson seems as attractive as Brad Pitt.

Here is my list of why text language spelling should officially be allowed to get a criminal record (or better still - imprisonment) if exceeded by 20 words in its vocabulary list:

1. It makes you sound like a 2 year old. 2 year olds can’t type and when you type text spelling, it looks like you can’t type, thus making you look like a 2 year old.
2. It makes you sound illiterate. It feels like your mum and dad denied you the basic education you should have deserved.
3. It makes you look like you are so poverty stricken that your keyboard has been bashed by a cow but you still won’t replace it.
4. Text spelling seems to worm its way to exam papers and other official pieces of papers and THAT is despicable.
5. It looks like jumbled letters. It really looks like you are trying to teach little Molly how to read and write.
6. Using text language is denying other people the right to read. When they look at random letters, no punctuation and no use of the teensiest bit of decent grammar, then their mind goes into delirium whether what they are reading is proper or not, thus corrupting their minds.
7. Children will become weird because of text language and will take over the world with signs and posters and literally everything sounding that way.
8. Teachers won’t be able to correct exam papers because if the students use text spelling and the teachers can’t (I’m pretty sure half the teachers think ‘lol’ means lolling about because we find something funny, which really, makes no sense at all) that’s illiteracy stepped up a notch and a waste of doing exams anyway. As it is, the British government education folk are worried exams are getting easier by the second.
9. On a much more realistic note, text spelling is going out of fashion. More and more people shun it and funnily enough shun those who still use it, so if you use it, stop. Or you’ll find yourself tied to a pole near the bus stop getting thrashed by a bunch of geekily cool teenagers.

I know that was a pretty angry rant but, let’s face the facts, text language spelling isn’t great! If anything at all, it is wasteful. People say it reduces the effort to type but it increases the effort to read. Let’s all type decently and read decently and not become slaves to ‘txt lngage splng’ (or for normal people, text language spelling).

I was told by witnesses present (including Momma) that I was born during a storm and heavy rain during the late evening of May 25, 1936 in rural Central Texas on the rich soil of the Blackland Prairie. Daddy had taken the old Model A Ford to Eddy, a small town about eight miles away, to fetch the only medical doctor closer than Troy. The roads were mud excepting for a short bit of gravel, and they had a terrible time getting there in time to greet me. They were a bit late, but never mind, “Ma” (Grandma Johnson) and several other ladies knew exactly what to do. After the doctor arrived, he checked us out and said all was well. He then had Daddy make the grinding trip again to take him home (he forgot to do a birth certificate, however).

The tiny shotgun house in which I was born was still around when I became older and I can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in nearby Waco, Texas). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance which lead to conflict and wars.

can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in Waco). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance prevalent in politics and society which often lead to conflict and wars.

I was told by witnesses present (including Momma) that I was born during a storm and heavy rain during the late evening of May 25, 1936 in rural Central Texas on the rich soil of the Blackland Prairie. Daddy had taken the old Model A Ford to Eddy, a small town about eight miles away, to fetch the only medical doctor closer than Troy. The roads were mud excepting for a short bit of gravel, and they had a terrible time getting there in time to greet me. They were a bit late, but never mind, “Ma” (Grandma Johnson) and several other ladies knew exactly what to do. After the doctor arrived, he checked us out and said all was well. He then had Daddy make the grinding trip again to take him home (he forgot to do a birth certificate, however).

The tiny shotgun house in which I was born was still around when I became older and I can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in nearby Waco, Texas). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance which lead to conflict and wars.

can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in Waco). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance prevalent in politics and society which often lead to conflict and wars.

Last night, after becoming bored with paying work (which is something my wife says REALLY needs to stop happening) I took a little break and sketched some of the characters from the children's novel I'm currently writing.

I would say that I'm about halfway though the story, which I think I may have to extend out to a second book in order to tell properly. Thus far, I like what I've written - which is weird because I'm usually my toughest critic.

This is either a good thing, or a very, very bad thing. Only time will tell I suppose.

Steve

Today I received my rejection letter from zuda comics regarding my webcomic submission. It was your basic "thanks for submitting" sort of thing. If I hadn't already received about ten million of them in my somewhat short illustration career I would be upset, luckily at this point in my career rejection letters are about as "fresh and new" as the high top fade.

Because I am completely incapable of simply leaving the story hanging I've decided to go ahead and update it and continue the story when I get the time.

Click the link above if you're interested or possibly just bored and give it a read.

Steve!