General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna

Today we feature a picture of Mexican President and General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. It was on this day, April 22, in the year 1836, that Santa Anna was captured by the Texan General Sam Houston. Houston, after retreating all the way across Texas, had attacked and routed Santa Anna's army at San Jacinto the prior day. The Texans charged with the cry of "Remember the Alamo". The Mexican army was routed in about 20 minutes. Santa Anna realized that the last person on the face of the earth that you wanted to be on that day in Southwest Texas was Santa Anna. When he was found hiding in the woods, he was wearing the uniform of a common foot soldier. The Texans did not even suspect he was the general. As they brought him into the camp, the other Mexican prisoners started saluting, bowing, and pretty much blowing his cover. Realizing who he was, he was taken to Sam Houston. There were plenty who wanted to string him up on the spot, but Houston had something bigger in mind. He made a deal with Santa Anna, trading his life for Texas Independence.

My Friend Goya

This is a picture of my friend Goya. She lived on the ranch I grew up on, about a quarter mile from my house. I mentioned her in a post a few weeks ago . . . she was the woman that scooped me up trying to save me when the butane truck was about to explode. She was a real sweet lady, and we loved her dearly. Now, before you send me ugly email about why she had to live in such a run down house, understand the house we lived in was not much better.

I am convinced that Goya just might have been the greatest cook that ever lived. Her tiny little house had a tiny little kitchen . . . just room for a little two burner propane stove and a sink. That little kitchen turned out food worthy of the world's best restaurants. She did the best she could to grow most of her food. She had a garden, chickens, and always was raising a pig, feeding it the scraps left over from her table. She could turn these things she grew into the most wonderful food you ever tasted. I would wander by her house just about every day, and she would be making flour tortillas. She would always give me one right off the griddle. I have never had any bread that tasted that good. After eating those, I was never able to eat store bought ones, which taste like cardboard, after eating hers. Her most famous dish though was her Tamales. They were something like you have never had in your life (I made a WEB site about her Tamale Recipe, if you want to give it a try yourself some time. You will be happy if you do).

Goya always had chickens, and we had chickens sometimes. One day my dad wanted to try something different, so he decided to get some peacocks. Now you can not just go out and buy peacocks, but he was able to get peacock eggs. Well, we did not have an incubator or anything like that, so we were going to have to hatch them the old fashioned way, under a chicken. Someone told my dad that you could not hatch them under a normal chicken, because chickens can in fact count, and know that it takes 21 days to hatch a chicken egg. After sitting on eggs 21 days normal chickens will give up, and get on with their life. Peacock eggs take about 29 days to hatch. What they told him was that there was one type of chicken, a bannie, that will not give up, and will keep sitting on eggs, and that if he would get some bannies, they would hatch his peacock eggs. So he gets him some bannies. They are funny little chickens. They are like miniature chickens about half the size of a normal chicken. The funny thing was that the peacock eggs are huge, and the bannies are tiny, so he only set one egg under each bannie. Well, he got things set up out in the chicken house, and the bannies went to work sitting on the peacock eggs. Sure enough, day 21 comes and goes and the bannies dont give up. They stick with it, and on day 29 the peacocks hatch. The peacocks grew fast, and after about a week the peacocks were about twice as big as the bannies. The peacocks thought the bannies were there mamas, and the bannies thought the peacocks were their babies. It was funny to watch those little bannies strut around the barnyard with those huge gangly peacock babies following behind them. Those little bannies were sure proud of their huge babies, and they were gaining social status among the other chickens with each day that passed.

Well the peacocks grew up pretty fast and became interesting pets. Early in the morning, you could look out the window and see the peacocks strutting around. The male birds would fan their enormous feathers out creating an incredible display of colors. They also made this incredibly loud calling noise as they pranced around. I found it charming. Goya found it annoying. They would make these displays early in the morning, and the noise annoyed Goya, who would have prefered to have a little extra sleep in the morning, and did not appreciate this 5 AM wake up call each morning. This was really only the first area of tension between Goya and the peacocks. The peacocks are free ranging birds. They stay close to home, but wander around a lot. They developed the habit of getting up on her porch, and taking care of their business. Big birds leave a big mess behind, and Goya did not like finding all the peacock poop on her porch. They would also fly up and get on her roof, making a big noise as they ran across her tin roof, and leaving a big mess on her roof as well. Things continue to go down hill, and they start getting in her garden, and scratching around, and making a mess of that. Well, she starts complaining to my dad, but there was not much he could do, since peacocks sort of go where they want, and there was not much way to teach them to leave Goya alone.

So, there was a little bit of tension developing between us, Goya, and the peacocks.

Then, I remember this one day that Goya brought us a batch of her famous tamales. I can remember eating those tamales for supper, and we all commented that those were the best Tamales she had ever made. The meat was leaner than usual, and more firm. We all commented that they were the best Tamales we had ever had.

It is funny, I remember two things about that day. The first is, I had the best Tamales I had ever eaten. The second thing is that that was the day all of our peacocks mysteriousely disappeared, never to be seen again . . .

Old Timers

Today we show a picture of a real Old Timer. The photo was taken in about 1920. As this old man milks the cow, he takes a moment to give his cat a little treat . . . a sip of milk, fresh from the old factory. So many times we see old pictures like this, and really don't know anything about the person pictured. Today, we have a little more information.

The old country gentleman is Allen Palmer (Sometimes he went by the name Allen Parmer, or Allan Parmer). He was born on May 6 in the year 1848 in Liberty, Missouri. As a child, he became an excellent horseback rider, and good with a gun. He was always one to seek out adventure, even as a child. When he was 12 years old he joined up with William Clarke Quantrill and the Bushwhacker group known as Quantrill's Raiders. They caused quite a lot of commotion in the War Between the States, as they were not regular military, but were raiders. They would hit the enemy hard with lightning fast raids, and then evaporate into the countryside. They would ambush Union patrols, disrupt supply lines and sometimes attack towns on both sides of the Kansas-Missouri border. They were innovators in the art of guerrilla warfare using techniques such as coordinated attacks, and having carefully planned escape routes. They would have horses staged along their escape route, so they could travel great distances in a short amount of time. The Union Army did not take kindly to all this, and ordered that any members of this band that were captured were to be shot. They would not be afforded the normal courtesies extended to enemy soldiers.

Even though a youth, and likely the youngest member of this notorious band, he was respected by all the others as a fierce fighter and hard rider.

During his raiding days he met another Missouri boy named Jesse. At one point during the war he and Jesse stopped off at Jesse's house in Missouri, and Allen met Jesse's sister Susie. Well, she was like something he had never seen before, and he was quite impressed. He got on back to the war and the raiding, but he never forgot Susie.

After the war, career opportunities for the former members of the Quantrill Raiders were somewhat limited. I guess it was one of those things that did not look so good on a resume. In a job interview, that question about your former employment would no doubt lead to one of those awkward moments. So Allen hooked up with his old buddy Jesse, and Jesse's brother Frank, who also rode with Quantrill. As legitimate business was hard for them, they went to outlawing. They hooked up with the Youngers, and formed the James-Younger gang. Yep, that boy, Jesse, he met during the war was the notorious Jesse James.

In the midst of all this, Allen never forgot about Susie, the sister of Jesse James. In 1869 he looked her up again, and they were married.

After his outlawing, Allen and Susie ended up settling in West Texas. A number of the other Quantill Raiders ended up settling down in West Texas as well. I guess folks there could better appreciate their exploits than in some other parts of the country. Allen was never one to do anything halfway, and he and Susie had 9 children together.

Allen was never ashamed of his past. To the day he died, he wore a picture of William Clark Quantrill inside his coat, and he was always eager to share the stories of his life with friends and relatives. He died in 1927 in Wichita Falls at the home of a friend; the son of another of Quantrill's Raiders. At his funeral, one of the six surviving member of the Quantrill band served as a Pal Bearer.

I guess the lesson is that if you ever happen up on an old timer feeding a little milk to his cat you might ought to walk softly and show proper respect, cause you never know for sure where he has been, or what he has seen. The old Quantrill Raiders are all gone, but today, some of those old timers driving slow and getting in your way just might have stormed the beaches of Normandy, or stood firm on the hills of Okinawa, giving you the freedoms you enjoy today. So, instead of giving them one of those un-neighborly gestures for slowing you down, you might ought to just tip your hat real friendly like, give them a polite wave, and pass them when you can.

Something in the Water

This is an old picture of John H. Luedecke. John was one of the pioneers in the county where I grew up. I never knew him, because he died long before I came along. He was born in the 1880's.

As one of the first residents in the area, he started out on an un-improved, rented farm. It must have been a very hard life having to try and clear land, and scratch out a living in West Texas in the early 1900's.

Through hard work, and determination, John and Lizzie were able to buy their own ranch in 1923; 240 acres. (This ranch was right down the road from the one I grew up on). John guided the family through the great depression, years when hail destroyed the crops, and years when drought made life tough. In 1926 his daughter got her arm caught in an old washing machine. There was no doctor around, so John had to do surgery on the arm himself, removing the infection that had developed. Later when they found a doctor, the doctor commented that he could not have done a better job on the arm himself. They, and their children worked hard to improve the land. Their son, Alvin, built the windmill. Water was the lifeblood of any farm or ranch, so completing the windmill must have been a great day for this family. The family worked all day, but at night would lay out on a pallet together, and watch the stars. John's daughter remembered those times, and commented that the stars looked so close that you could almost reach out and touch them. She also remembered finding comfort in that windmill her brother built. The sound of the windmill was the sound of life to her. The windmill provided water for the stock and the family.

John died on June 21, 1944 from a heart attack while working on his farm.

So whatever happened to little Alvin, who helped clear the land, and build the windmill? Well, he grew up to be Major General Alvin R. Luedecke. He had important positions in World War II, and after the war was the Chief of the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project. Did I mention that in his spare time he did a stint as President of Texas A&M University? There must have been something real special about the water coming out of that windmill, or maybe it was that time spent watching the stars with his family.

Sometimes I get tired of all the whining I hear. No one could have started with more humble beginnings, and less opportunity, yet no one could have accomplished more or contributed better than Alvin Luedecke. Our life, and our future is what we make of it. What we achieve is not about what other people allow us to accomplish, but what we decide to accomplish. Believing that others determine our success surrenders almost any hope of ever accomplishing anything.

Could John have ever dreamed that his son would accomplish all that he did? You betcha, and that is probably why he worked so hard. So today, we tip our Stetsons to John H. and his son Alvin R., two great Americans, and two real men. It would be hard to say who was the greater hero . . . the son who made such great contributions to his country, or the father who raised him.

Major General Alvin Luedecke died on August 9, 1998 in San Antonio.

General Alvin Luedecke with First Lady "Lady Bird" Johnson at White House Reception in 1963

Dinner Invitation from Chiang Kai Shek, president of China, to General A. R. Luedecke

The Worst Day of My Life

The worst day of my life started out normal. The year was 1968, the month was August, and I don't remember the day of the month, but for the sake of this story we are going to call it the 23rd. Yes, I am pretty sure it was August 23rd, 1968.

August 23rd, 1968 started out like any other day for me. My mom woke me up at 6:00 AM, like every other morning. School started at 8:00 AM, and I had to get up, get ready, have breakfast, and get my chores done before school started. I grew up on a ranch, but it was not like I had to go out and milk the cows or anything like that. I had to take the dog out and I had to feed the 16 cats that lived on the roof on top of our garage. Why did we have 16 cats living on the roof of our garage you ask? Well, that is the topic of a story for another day. I also had to take the trash out, and burn it. Living in the country we did not have trash service. So, we had a barrel about 50 feet behind our house. I had to take the trash out, sort through it and remove any spray cans, put the trash in the barrel, and then light it on fire. I had to take the spray cans out because if I burned trash with spray cans in it, the spray cans would heat up, explode, and then that would blow burning trash out of the barrel, starting a range fire. Yes, my care and diligence in this job was the one thing that stood between my family and a major grass fire. I took the responsibility seriously. On this particular day, I found two spray cans, removed them from the trash and started the remainder of the trash on fire in the barrel. I put the matches in my pocket, and ran and got in my dad's little green Volkswagen, as he was ready to drive us to school.

Now the school I went to was pretty small. There were about 11 kids in my grade. You knew everyone, and everyone was pretty much friends. Kids were not allowed to just hang out after school. You had to coordinate whatever you were going to do with your parents. Typically one kid would invite another kid to come over and play after school. So, on this day, I invited my friend David to come over after school. He got the OK from his parents, I got the OK from my parents, so things were all set.

My dad was there right on time to pick David and me up after school. When David and I got to our house, we played a few card games, and then decided to go out "exploring". To go exploring meant you started walking, and just let things unfold as they would. Living on a ranch, if you just started walking, you would eventually happen upon something interesting. On this day, we started walking down the caliche road in front of the house. After walking about a half mile, we got to the cattle guard at the edge of our property. At this point, we were at a larger caliche road called the Will Davis road. If we turned left, we would end up back at town, which was about a half mile away. If we turned right we would be walking away from town. We decided to turn right. David had a good walking stick, and was up for a longer walk.

After we had walked about a quarter mile down the Will Davis road, we suddenly froze as the quiet of our walk was shattered by the unmistakable buzz of a huge rattlesnake. Growing up in the country, we knew the first thing to do when confronted by a snake was to stand perfectly still. We froze in our tracks, and then about 4 foot away spotted a huge six foot diamond back rattlesnake. The snake was in the barrow ditch by the side of the road, and near some tall grass. We realized that the snake had to be killed, and that if the snake crawled into the tall grass, we would never be able to find him. We put together a quick plan. David would keep the snake occupied, while I found a suitable rock to dispatch the snake with. David began poking and prodding the snake with his walking stick, as I searched for a rock. Selection of the suitable rock was critical. If too small, It would not kill the snake. If too large, I would not be able to lift and properly throw it. I needed something about the size of a bowling ball. After a few moments, I spotted the perfect rock. I picked it up, and headed back towards the snake. Judging the snake to be about six foot long, and knowing that a snake can strike about half its length, I positioned myself about 3 and a half feet away from the snake. I elevated the rock above my head, and David stepped back out of the way. Now, just as I was about to the launch that huge bolder onto the snake, I heard a voice from behind me say, "Stop . . . . Stop, that is no way to kill a snake." I was somewhat startled, as I was not aware any one else was around. I paused, turned around, and I saw that in the excitement of looking for the rock, I had not noticed that a 5,000 gallon butane truck had pulled up. The butane truck driver had gotten out, and walked up behind me. He was the one telling me to not throw the rock onto the snake. I paused there by the snake, but left the rock elevated above my head. The butane truck driver then said, "You can smash that snake with that rock, or we can freeze him like a block of ice. Now you found the snake, so it is your call."

Now at 7 years old, I had never had an adult tell me that anything was my call, much less something as important as how to dispatch this snake. It was a very important matter, and I was feeling pretty good about myself to be in charge of such a lofty matter. Well, I wanted to learn more, so asked him how he would propose to freeze the snake. He told us that the butane in his truck was liquefied, and if he were to spray the snake with the butane, as the butane left the end of the hose, it would expand, become super-cooled, and would instantaneously freeze the snake like a block of ice. I was sold, and gave him the go ahead. I went ahead and put the rock down, and David started tending the snake with his stick again, making sure we did not lose the snake in the grass as the butane man turned his truck around and got it into position in the barrow ditch. Now, at this point I noticed that several additional cars were pulling up to see what was going on. Among those pulling up was Goya, a Mexican Lady that lived on our ranch. She was a sweet lady, and we loved her dearly. She was an extra large woman, weighing in at over 200 pounds. I was happy to see more people coming up, as I was in charge of this operation, and my biggest fear had become that some incredible things were going to happen, and I would not have any witnesses. I wanted to make sure when I told the story the next day at school, that I had lots of witnesses, in case any one challenged me. So, I welcomed the small crowd that was gathering at the scene.

Now, back to the snake. David had effectively kept the snake out of the grass with his walking stick. The butane man had his truck turned around, parked in the barrow ditch, and had the butane hose out and ready to go. Things were pretty much locked and loaded. The butane man was ready, and just waiting on the OK from me. I paused a second, wanting to make sure everyone understood that I was ramrodding this operation. I looked over at the gathering crowd, I looked down at the snake, and then I looked over at the butane man, who was standing in position, with his hose in hand, pointing it at the snake. I gave him the nod, and he blasted the snake with butane. Just as he opened the valve, the snake reared his ugly head up, preparing to strike. The butane hit the snake right in mid-strike. Sure enough, it froze that snake like a block of ice. The butane man then got an extra pair of gloves out of the truck, and went over and picked the snake up. He gave me a pair of gloves, and handed me the snake. I mean that snake was frozen solid, just like a rock. We held the snake a while, looking at the strange site of the snake, with head reared, mouth open, and frozen solid. Then the butane man said that if we were done looking at him, that we could shatter the snake. He said that if the snake was cold enough, if we were to drop him, he would shatter like a piece of glass. Now this sounded like something we had never heard before, and we wanted to try it. So, we decided to proceed with that plan. David had the snake, and he dropped it in the barrow ditch. Only thing is, the snake did not break. The butane man said that it was probably because the snake was not cold enough. It was decided to give the snake another blast of butane. The butane man gave him another blast . . . this time a long one. Again, we picked the snake up, dropped it, but it did not break. We tried again, this time throwing it down against a rock. The snake would simply not shatter. The butane man tried 4 or 5 more times, blasting the snake with butane, and then we would try to break the snake. The snake would not shatter, and would not even break into two pieces.

The butane man then told us that while we had not been successful in breaking the snake, that we could try burning him. With all the butane we had sprayed on him, he was most likely saturated with butane, and we could light the frozen snake on fire. The butane man then asked if anyone had any matches. Given that I had taken the trash out that morning, I still had the book of matches in my pocket. Things just kept getting better and better. Not only had I found the snake, not only had I been in charge of how to kill the snake, and not only did I have a growing crowd watching the operation, I now was the one with a book of matches. I would be the one to catch the snake on fire. Somewhere in all this excitement, the old rule of not playing with matches, and not playing with fire had been forgotten by me. The butane man decided to give the snake one last blast, before I threw a match on it. With this one, extra-long blast done, I was ready to strike the match. The 5,000 gallon butane truck was behind us in the barrow ditch; the snake, David, the butane man, and I were all in front of the truck in the barrow ditch. I had my book of matches. I struck the match, and I tossed it down on the snake.

Now a lot of things all sort of happened at the same time, so I will try and describe it as best as I can. As I tossed the match down onto the snake, I saw a blinding white flash. Out of a simple reflex, I turned my face, held my breath, and closed my eyes. I felt a blast of warmth against my face. As I turned back and opened my eyes, I saw a huge fire ball travelling down the barrow ditch away from us. I looked over my shoulder, and saw another fireball going down the barrow ditch in the opposite direction as well. I then looked down, and saw that the barrow ditch where I was standing was on fire, up to about my knees. I then saw one of the most alarming things of all. The 5,000 gallon butane truck was parked in the barrow ditch in the midst of this fire, about three feet from me.

Now at the time, my knowledge of thermodynamics, chemistry, and combustion was still in its infancy, so I could not understand exactly what happened. Apparently though, butane is heavier than air, even after it turns to a gas. All that butane that the driver had sprayed on that snake had not simply dispersed, but it had pooled up in the barrow ditch, forming an invisible, combustible river up and down the barrow ditch. When I threw the match on the snake, it ignited this river of butane gas. So lets get back to the scene of the crime. I am now standing knee high in the barrow ditch fire, and a few feet away is a 5,000 gallon butane truck. As I looked at the situation, I realized I had two options. I could stand there and be blown into oblivion as the butane truck exploded in a few seconds, or, I could run as fast as I could and be blown into oblivion 10 feet down the rode as the butane truck exploded. Given these two options, I decided to go ahead and run. Both David and I took off, running out of the barrow ditch, and down the Will Davis road. After running about 15 feet, I suddenly felt my feet leaving the ground, and being heaved up into the air. It was Goya. Now, there are people who will tell you that fat ladies can not run, but I am here to tell you that it is not true. She ran like the wind. On her way bye, she picked me up, threw me over her shoulder, and picked David up by the waste with her other arm, and she ran like something you have never seen. Now being perched up on her shoulder, I was able to look back down the road at what was unfolding about 15 feet away at the butane truck. I saw that the fire under the truck was growing in intensity. Then I saw the hose that was connected to the 5,000 gallon truck, and then I saw clearly how we would all die. The hose was down on the ground, the fire was burning through the hose, and flames were beginning to dance out of the hose, as its structural integrity was being lost. I realized that it would be just a matter of a few seconds until the hose was completely degraded, and the butane truck would explode. Strangely, my thoughts were then centered on the question of how they would figure out which set of charred remains to put in which casket. I remembered then that I had been to the dentist in the last few months, so they would likely be able to identify me from recent dental records. I assumed that they would figure out that the larger charred remains would be Goya, and the other small pile of ashes would be David. I took some comfort in knowing that they would at least be able to bury each of us in the right box.

So now my attention turned back to the truck, and I saw an amazing thing. While Goya, David and I had decided our only option was to run for our lives, I saw that the butane truck driver realized that there was a third option. Working in the industry, he probably realized more than anyone else the futility of running. As I looked back at the truck, I saw a most amazing thing. The butane man was running back into the fire, back to the truck. He was not exactly running, it was more of a strange dance. Sort of a combination of some sort of hillbilly high-step and the chicken dance. It was like he thought if he kept high stepping and flapping his arms he would avoid being burned, as he ran into the fire. Flapping his arms like a chicken appeared to be a critical part of his plan, as they were moving like nobody's business. There are people that will tell you that man can not fly by flapping his arms, but I am here to tell you that I think the butane man achieved an altitude of about a foot and a half from the lift created by those flapping arms. He danced to the back of the truck, and closed the valve connecting the big tank to the hose. This was a critical step that bought us a few more moments of life. It was that darn hose that was about to fall apart in the fire. Shutting the gas off to that hose was a critical thing. He then danced his way through the flames, back up to the front of the truck.

He jumped in the truck, and he fired that sucker up. Now there are people that will tell you that you can not pop a wheelie in a butane truck, but I am here to tell you that you can; I saw it happen on this day. The butane man gunned the engine, and popped that clutch, and the front of that truck came about three feet off the ground. He pulled that truck out of the fire in the barrow ditch, and my friend, he saved the day.

He got the truck out of danger, Goya eventually slowed, and put us down. It was at this point that I walked back to the scene of the crime. There was that snake, now in the middle of the road. His tail was charred to a crisp, no doubt burned in the blast, or subsequent fire. His mid section was somewhat normal in appearance, and his front third and head were still frozen solid. While I don't know anything about snake physiology in cases like this, what I can tell you is that the middle part of the snake was twitching. It was moving like nothing had happened, and was slinging his frozen front third around. This looked like something out of Dante's third level of hell. It was quite a site.

Now, the immediate danger of explosion was over, but the fire in the barrow ditch had turned into what might be called a raging grass fire. We were about 3/4 of a mile due west of the town of Eldorado, TX, population 1,275. There was a brisk eastwardly wind, and due to the very dry summer, there was nothing between us and the western outskirts of the town but very dry brush and grass. The fire was picking up speed, and was heading right for town. Now someone had called the fire department, and at this point, you could hear the main fire whistle going off in town, calling in the volunteer firemen, and you could hear the sirens on the first firetrucks as they left the station. Leading the effort to put the range fire out, and save the town that day was Schleicher County Volunteer Truck Number 1, pictured above. Some of the fire boys came out to battle the fire, while others went to the west end of town, to begin the evacuation of this part of town. They also tried to set up a fire line as a last line of defense to protect the town.

I just stood there in front of the snake. I looked to my right and I saw a fire that would likely burn the city down that I had started. I looked at my feet, and I saw a six foot snake. Its tail burned to a crisp, its head still frozen, and its mid-section moving and twitching. I looked down the road, and about 15 feet away I saw Sheriff Orville Edmiston pulling up in his squad car. I looked down at my hand, and there still grasped in my little fingers was that book of matches. I can only wonder what officer Orville Edmiston thought as he drove up on this scene. Anyway, he pulled up in his squad car, and was sort of walking over in my direction. I had this uneasy feeling that he was perhaps drawing a connection between me, my book of matches, and the scene unfolding around us. I did not have much time, and did not have many options. I figured I could run for it, but since he knew me, and knew where I lived, that one would probably not work. I could lie, but that one would be hard, in that I could not come up with a reasonable story in the next six seconds. Officer Edmiston was known in these parts as being particlularly good at crime scene investigations, and those who had tried to lie to him in the past had been found out. The third option was to tell the truth. As officer Edmiston got to me, he looked at me and said, "What happened here?" Then a forth option came to mind. I could basically tell the truth, and then try and pass the buck. I decided to try this one. I told him that I had found a snake. I was going to smash it with a rock. The butane man told me we could freeze it. He then told me I could throw a match on it. I threw the match, and that started the fire. I was obeying the butane man. Officer Edmiston just sort of stood there and looked at me. After what must have been the longest three seconds of my life, he sort of nodded at me, and then looked over my shoulder at the butane man, who was about 15 feet behind me. He sort of started moseying over in the direction of the butane man. I had dodged lightening. He did not shoot me on the spot, which probably would have been the vote of the good citizens living on the western outskirts of Eldorado, Tx, population 1,275. He did not arrest me. He did not tell me to go sit in the squad car. He did not even tell me that I needed to hang around. I about decided that I had gotten away with things. I looked over to my right again, and the Eldorado Volunteer Fire department was making a desperate last stand to keep the houses in town from catching on fire, I looked down, and the snake was still moving around, I looked in my hand, and the matches were still there, and I looked up the road and I saw the most terrifying thing that I had seen all day. I saw a little green volkswagon pulling up behind officer Edmiston's squad car. It was my dad. He got out of the car, and walked over to me. The story that had worked so well with the Sheriff did not work so well with my dad. He just told me to get in the car. We went home, and I got a good old fashioned whipping. You see, there was a clear rule against playing with matches. I clearly understood it, and I chose to ignore it. The fact that I had ignored the rule almost killed me and other people, and had caused great chaos that day. It was a big whipping, and I deserved it.

Later than evening my dad made popcorn, and I sat in his lap as we enjoyed the big bowl of popcorn together. We talked about things like whether Jesse James had left any of the James Gang loot hidden somewhere for someone to find. We talked about Herman Lehmann, the boy who had been captured by the Apache in the late 1800's. We talked about the lost Dutchman's mine, and whether anyone would ever find that. We talked about J. Frank Dobie's book, Coronado's Children.

I learned a lot of things on August 23, 1968. I learned that there was a reason for rules. I learned that rules were there to protect us. I learned that when we ignore rules, we endanger ourselves and others. I learned that there were ramifications from ignoring the rules. I also learned that no matter what I did, my dad still loved me. I was able to see that my bad actions did not affect the love that my father had for me. I guess maybe it was not such a bad day after all.

Bonus Picture

This is a bonus picture for today. It is not an old picture, but I wanted to share it anyway. Spring has arrived in the Texas Hill Country. I saw this patch of bluebonnets outside my office today, and thought I would snap a picture and post it. If you have ever visited the Hill Country this time of year, there are rolling hills painted blue with these beautiful flowers. The flowers are native, and grow wild. They grow all winter, and then bloom at the first sign of spring.

Bathing Beauty

This photo was taken in about 1949. The girl in the old style bathing suit with the monkey is my mom. I had posted earlier about this little monkey, Junior, that worked at my grandfather's gas station. Each year my grandfather would take his wife and three daughters to Port Aransas, on the Texas Gulf Coast for a week of fun at the beach. Naturally, they had to take Junior the monkey along with them, as he could not run the gas station by himself.

I guess my mom was not satisfied with the amount of attention she would generate by showing up at the beach with a smart, cute little monkey, so she decided to wear this 1910's era swimsuit as well. I am not sure who the little blond girl is, but she seams amused by my mom, and her monkey.

If you look down at the end of the pier, you can see my grandfather, "Poachin' Jack", fishing from the pier. You can pick him out, as he was the only one wearing a hard hat to the beach that day. My grandfather was very proud of being a roughneck, and I never saw him that he was not wearing his hard hat. As always, he was fishing without the required Fishing License.

A photographer for a San Antonio newspaper was at the beach that day, and took this photograph of my mom, and Junior the Monkey. It appeared in the San Antonio newspaper, and then got picked up by a news service, and appeared in many newspapers across the country. So, my mom pulled off a pretty good little publicity stunt at the age of 17.

So whatever happened to my mom, you ask? She grew up to be a well known Texas artist. She was known for her wonderful bluebonnet landscapes of the Texas Hill Country. She had paintings that hung in the US capitol building, and President Johnson had one of her paintings hanging in his home. She does not paint any more, but is happy, healthy, and living in her country home on the western edge of the Texas Hill Country. She is a wonderful cook. In fact, I will go visit her this afternoon.

The Alamo

Today we feature an old photograph of the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas. It was on this day, March 6, in the year 1836 that the Alamo fell to the Mexican Army. Davie Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis, and another 184 Texans had held off the more than 3,000 strong Mexican Army for 13 days. During the siege, seeing that the Texans were outnumbered 20 to 1, commander William Travis sent out this impassioned plea:

FELLOW-CITIZENS AND COMPATRIOTS : I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained a continued bombardment for twenty-four hours, and have not lost a man. The enemy have demanded a surrender at discretion ; otherwise the garrison is to be put to the sword, if the place is taken. I have answered the summons with a cannon-shot, and our flag still waves proudly from the walls. I shall never surrender or retreat. Then I call on you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all despatch. The enemy are receiving reinforcements daily, and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. Though this call may be neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible, and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his country. Victory or death!
"W. BARRET TRAVIS, Lieutenant-Colonel commanding.
" P. S.—The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found, in deserted houses, eighty or ninety bushels, and got into the walls twenty or thirty head of beeves. "T"

I think this letter helps to explain why Texans have such pride in their state. The spirit of the Alamo still runs strong in the Sons and Daughters of Texas.

A Boy and His Pony

It is about time I came clean with all my faithful readers. When I was a kid, I had a pony (pictured above). We were not rich or anything like that, but we lived on a ranch, and one day my Uncle showed up pulling a stock trailer. I ran out to greet him, but instead of receiving the normal greeting from him, he just smiled, walked around and opened the door on the stock trailer. There inside was the most beautiful pony you ever saw. He gave it to my bother and me. Now I don't want to make to big of a deal about it, but I must say that as a kid, having a pony is just about as good as it gets. The horse was a Shetland pony, and was about the size of a big dog. We named her Wendy. She was such a nice little horse, and a very sociable creature. We did not have a saddle, but we did have a bridle and a small horse blanket, so we would ride her bareback, Indian style. She loved to be rode, and I can remember trotting around the yard on her back. Every day she would come to our yard and make little horse noises, wanting us to come out and play with her. She loved sugar cubes and carrots. We would always bring her a treat, and then she would rub her head on us. She loved to be combed, and loved to take us for a ride.

Now I remember one day our parents went to town, and left my brother and I at home. I was about 7 years old, and he was about 11. Back then, you did not bother with baby sitters, you just assumed that the kids would just take care of themselves. Well, my brother and I were sitting on the front porch, and up comes Wendy. She walked right up on the front porch, and gave us a little nudge, like she always did. We petted her a while, and then we noticed that she kept looking in the front window into the house. My brother and I started talking about it, and we decided that she wanted to go into the house. Well, you don't do something like let a horse in the house without giving it some serious thought. We talked about it a while, and we came to the conclusion that neither of us had ever been told not to let the horse in the house. She was a pet, and the dog was a pet, and the dog was allowed in the house, so it must be OK to let the horse in the house. So after some more discussion, we decided we would let her in the house, but only if she really wanted to go in. My brother walked over to the front door and opened it. Sure enough she walked right in.

I will never forget the look on her face as she went into the house. It was a look of wonder and amazement. She had never seen anything like it before. She walked around the living room, being so careful not to bump or disturb anything. It is not every day that a horse gets to go into the house. She appeared to fully grasp the magnitude of the honor. She walked around and looked at every piece of furniture. My brother and I were feeling pretty good . . . we had done a really good thing, giving her a tour of the house. Well, she pretty much looked at everything in the living room, and things had gone so well, we decided to take her into the kitchen. Now being 7 and 11 years old, my brother and I did not have a good grasp of things like the coefficient of static friction, and traction control and all of that, so we had no way of anticipating what would happen next. As Wendy stepped into the kitchen, her hoofs had no traction on the freshly waxed linoleum floor. As she stepped into the kitchen, she lost all traction, and her four legs went out in four different directions, and she landed on her belly. This was something like she had never had happen before, and well, she panicked. She tried to get up, but lost her footing again, worse than the first time. At this point she went totally wild. She just started kicking and flailing around the kitchen. Well, as much as I respect the designers at Frigidaire, GE, and all the furniture companies, apparently in designing their products, they did not consider the possibility of a horse going crazy in the kitchen, and did not design their products to withstand the stresses introduced by such an event. I mean the horse was kicking, bucking, jumping, falling, and in the process totally wrecking the kitchen. The furniture was destroyed, the major appliances were damaged, and I wont even talk about the smaller appliances. Now I am going to have to apologize for telling the next part of the story. I am not trying to be vulgar or anything, but I just have to tell it to you like it happened. I guess the trauma of the situation caused some type of intestinal distress for the poor horse, and she started pooping and peeing. Now I am not talking about the normal thing you would expect of a horse taking care of a little business. I am talking about full scale projectile pooping. I mean she was firing poop across the kitchen like something I had never seen before. Also, the pee made the floor even slicker, and she lost any small amount of traction she might have had as she tried desperately to regain her footing. My brother and I just stood there pretty much in shock, as the horse destroyed the kitchen. Anything she did not wreck, she pooped on. Some items were both wrecked and pooped on. While we considered ourselves pretty proficient horse people, we had never been trained on how to deal with a horse gone crazy in the kitchen. Well, she finally was able to flail her way over to the more firm footing of the living room. My brother and I both panicked, as we could see she was still in a state of high anxiety and we imagined the same thing happening to the living room that had just happened to the kitchen. Now my brother was thinking pretty good, so he ran to the front door, and held it wide open. Wendy saw the sky and ran for it, and ran straight through the living room and out the front door, doing relatively little damage on her way through. The living room came out relatively unscathed, compared to the kitchen.

My brother and I then just sort of stood there and stared at the kitchen. We then both began to get a sinking feeling as we heard my parent's little green Volkswagen driving up. We had no time to even attempt to improve the disaster area formerly known as our kitchen. We had no time to even prepare an adequate defense, or seek professional councel. My Dad walked in and said, "What happened Here!". I don't know if he was asking because he really did not know what had happened, or if he was asking more of a rhetorical question. Given the amount of horse poop on the walls, and the hoof prints on the refrigerator, I think he probably knew what had happened, and it was in fact a rhetorical question . . . but I digress. Anyway, I tried to go into damage control mode and describe it as benignly as possible . . . "Wendy slipped and fell in the kitchen, and then got scared." My dad preferred to focus on the aspect of the situation that we had let a horse in the house. Try as I might, I could not get him to consider the broader complexity and subtleties of the situation. To him, it was simply a matter that we had let a horse in the house and the horse had destroyed the kitchen. I should say at this point that my parents were not well versed in some of the more modern theories of rearing children. Things like the importance of taking opportunities like this to try and build up your children's self esteem, or the fragile nature of a child's self image, or the importance of never raising your voice at a child . . . none of these things were understood by my parents, or at least, they did not appear to be manifesting themselves in this particular circumstance. No, it was pretty clear how they would handle the situation, we were going to get a whipping. Not what you might call a spanking today, like a little swat on the bottom or anything like that. No, we got a good old-fashioned, whipping with a belt. Now, as an adult, I really can not say that the whipping damaged my self esteem, or led me to be a criminal, or that I am harboring any deep seated problems because of that day. I can say one thing for sure though: from that day forward I never brought a horse, or for that matter any other farm animal, into the house. I should also say that I remember that evening my dad made us popcorn in what was left of the kitchen, we sat in his lap and he read a book to us. He never brought up the subject again. We were punished, the issue was put behind us, and we moved on as a happy family, and the horse stayed outside.

Street Vendor

This picture was taken in 1939, and shows a street vendor selling combs and candy from a small cigar box. One has to wonder how hard it must have been scratching out a living from such a small box. The picture was taken in Waco, Texas.

Gusher at Spindletop

This is a photograph of the discovery of oil at Spindletop, Texas. This was the first major find of oil in the United States, and this well tripled the entire oil production capability of the United States overnight. The discovery was made on this day, January 10, in the year 1901. This cheap oil helped to fuel the incredible industrial expansion of the United Sates over the last 100 years. Texas oil production has been declining over the last several decades, and with increasing demand, the country has become dependent of foreign oil, which in many cases, comes from very unstable parts of the world. The time has really come to find better alternatives.

Hamburger Stand

Today's picture is from 1939 and shows a man eating a hamburger in Alpine Texas.

General Sam Houston

Today we feature a portrait of Texas Patriot Sam Houston. Following the Alamo, everyone wanted the Texas army to attack Santa Ana. Houston realized that his army was no match for Santa Anna. With a small and poorly equipped army, Houston began a long series of withdrawal movements. He continued to retreat, and stay one step away from Santa Ana's Army. Houston realized that his small army had one battle in them, and he was determined to pick the spot for the Battle. Houston got his chance as he found the Mexican Army napping in an open field near San Jacinto. Houston realized that this was his opportunity, and he attacked. He routed the Mexican Army in 18 minutes, and secured Texas Independence.

It was on this day, September 5, in the year 1836, that Sam Houston was elected to be the first President of the Republic of Texas.