Tales of a Texas Boy Page 3

  “I don’t see no chicken and I don’t see no Spot, neither.”

  I looked around at the table all cockeyed and the door opened, and she was right. Spot and the hen headed for other parts, leavin’ me with the blame. Even at the tender age of seven, I knew the next step was a trip to the woodshed and a switchin’.

  Ma took hold of my suspenders and walked me out the door.

  “But, Ma . . .” I thought maybe whinin’ might help, but it didn’t.

  I thought I was doomed for sure, but then I saw Spot standin’ by the chicken house barkin’ to beat all. Ma noticed too, and her hand eased up on my suspenders just a bit.

  “That red hen got outta the coop and went to the kitchen. I was just tryin’ to get her out an’ Spot come in and he made the table fall down.”

  Ma let go of my suspenders and stopped in the middle of the yard. She looked at Spot by the chicken coop and she spotted the red hen stuck between the coop and the pig pen.

  “All right, you’re let off this time, but don’t you go chasin’ the chickens into my kitchen no more,” she said. She turned about and went back to the house. I headed to the chicken coop and pulled Spot’s collar ‘til he backed off. I opened the coop gate and the little red hen, waitin’ for her chance, ran like a house afire back into the pen. I slammed the gate behind her. I guessed she’d had enough fun for one day.

  “You don’t be comin’ outta the pen no more,” I told her stern-like. It didn’t do no good, though. The next week she got out again. And the week after that. I don’t think there was any keepin’ that little hen in the coop once she’d been out. Finally, Ma just let her stay since it was just too much trouble tryin’ to keep her out.

  I guess that’s the way of any critter. They like to run around as they please. I could understand it, as that’s what I liked, too.

  Pa’s Story

  World War I took many young men away from their homes and sent them off to foreign shores. Eddie’s Pa was one of those young men. He has his own tale to tell.

  In 1916, I was still a young buck and not yet married, so I signed up with Black Jack Pershing to go after Pancho Villa. Ol’ Pancho and his banditos had come into US territory and killed a bunch of folks in Columbus, New Mexico.

  I was real good with horses, so soon I was the veterinarian. This was just as well, as I didn’t take well to using a gun. I’d never studied vetting in school, but I’d grown up on a farm in Nebraska and knew just about all there was to know about horses and mules. We chased Pancho and his gang just about all over Mexico, but never did catch up with him. A couple years later, I was still in the service, so I ended up goin’ to France with Black Jack when he got to be a General. I could have decided not to go as I’d done my time, but I knew Black Jack could put me to good use.

  We were on the troop ship for weeks. Everybody was seasick for the first few days. The horses seemed to fare fine in that regard, but I was worried we couldn’t exercise them enough. We brought them up from the hold, a few at a time, and let them stretch their legs. We’d lead them in a quick walk around the deck. With the metal decks, we didn’t want them to move very fast for fear they’d slip and fall. I’d hate to have to put down a horse with a broken leg, so we took it real easy. As a result, the horses were not in good fightin’ shape by the time we landed in France.

  It took some time, but me and Joe, who got assigned to be my assistant, got them in shape again. Mostly the horses were used to pack gear, but a few officers still rode them. Black Jack Pershing liked to ride on occasion, as did Captain Patton. I thought we should only have mules, since they make better pack animals than horses, but there were never enough mules to go around.

  We weren’t in too many battles directly as we were the supply line for the army, but in 1918 it turned pretty bad when we went into the Argonne Forest. They called this an ‘offensive.’ I can see why as it offended me a lot. The fighting went on for nearly two months and only ended in November when the big guys signed the Treaty at Versailles.

  In that short two months, it was hell on earth. Thousands of men died. One whole division, the 77th, was cut off for near a week and held out surrounded by the German forces. It was some battle, I can tell you. Almost all day long, I could hear the shells bursting and the sharp reports of rifle fire. And I heard the screams of dying men and horses.

  The worst part for me was the horses being swept up in the middle of the battle. It broke my heart to go out on the fields after the fighting passed by and after the dead and wounded men were collected. Sometimes the ground was so soaked with blood that my boots were covered before I got back. A horse with an artery torn open bleeds gallons of blood; men only a few pints. It angered me when I thought how much the horses gave. They didn’t even have a say in goin’ to war. Men, at least, had a choice.

  I carried a sidearm and had to shoot more horses than I can count. Those we could save, we’d bring back to the line and see if we could treat their wounds. It was a second heartbreak when they wouldn’t heal proper and we’d take them out behind the tents to put them down. We dug a deep trench to bury them for health reasons and we kept digging every day to hold them all.

  While we treated the horses, close by we could see the wounded men being brought back from the battlefield. Legs and arms were already gone or had to be cut off by the doctors right there in the field. From the history I’d read about the Civil War, this was just about as bad. If the choice was amputate or die, then they had to do what was necessary. We dug another trench to hold the arms and legs the doctors cut off; the dead soldiers we wrapped in oilcloth to be sent back behind the lines, where we hoped to send their bodies back home to their families.

  All told I spent twenty months in France. It was the worst part of my life and I hoped and prayed we’d never see another war like this again.

  * * *

  Pa’s story made me sad in a way, though I was proud of him for what he did in the war. It seemed like people would learn to get along. I never was sure why Pa had to go to France. Later in my own life, I’d learn what it was to go to war. I was lucky to not go overseas, but somethin’ in me wished I had.

  The Corn Patch Incident

  Barn raising is a community affair that takes place in almost all rural societies across the country. In Texas, nearly every community event also includes a barbecue, although it’s sometimes by default. It all depends on why the barn needs raising.

  A little tornado came through last week and Nate Simmons’ barn got flattened. Specially bad for Mr. Simmons, two cows were in the barn at the time and didn’t make it out alive. All it meant was there was plenty of meat for a barbecue when all the neighbors came around to rebuild the barn.

  The cows got butchered right away and Mr. Simmons managed to sell quite a bit, but there was still a good half left over for the barbecue. My Pa and me went to help set up a pit. It takes a couple of days to roast a proper half, so Mr. Simmons got it fired up on Thursday. By Saturday it was pretty much ready to go.

  All the neighbors gathered up their tools and their families. We packed up and headed over to Mr. Simmons along with everybody else. Mr. Simmons brought in a load of lumber so everybody just brought their tools. We got there in the mornin’ and the men made good progress on clearin’ the scrap from the old barn and startin’ to frame up the new one. They salvaged what they could, stackin’ the good lumber to one side. They built some rough tables from a few pieces that wouldn’t be any good for the barn. Of course, people brought along chairs and such as they knew folks would need some place to sit come meal time.

  The ladies, bein’ warned, already baked up biscuits and pies. More’n one family brought a kettle full of beans or potatoes ready to serve. They set those around the fire pit to keep warm while the work of barn raisin’ was in progress. I helped by carryin’ tools and boards to the men as they worked. It got pretty noisy what with all the poundin’ and sawin’ goin’ on.

  Along about noon, we could smell the beef pretty good and it made my mou
th water. Ma called me over and handed me a gunny sack.

  “You go fetch corn, Eddie. We’ll need mebbe fifty ears so don’t come back without that many.”

  “Yes’m, Ma. Can I take along Sister? She can pick the low ears while I get the high ones.”

  “Sure enough. She’s gettin’ big enough to carry her weight,” Ma said then she went back to stirrin’ the kettles sittin’ next to the pit.

  I grabbed Sister, who’s really Dorothy, but we called her Sister. Anyways, we took off to the corn field and proceeded to pull the ripe ears off the stalks. It takes the right eye to get the ripe ones. Some folks have to peel back the silk from the ear and take a look. Me and Sister had done this so many times, we could tell just by how fat the ear looked. So, we were movin’ along pretty good and had about half the ears Ma said to get.

  I looked down the row to see how far we’d got when I saw a skunk traipsin’ up toward me. First off, I wondered what the little polecat was doin’ out in the middle of the day. Most often, they hunt at night. I stopped quick and looked around to see where Sister was. I couldn’t see her, so I decided just to let her know.

  “Hey, Sister. There’s a skunk up here, so don’t go up the row no more,” I yelled.

  “What row, Eddie?” she hollered back.

  “The row I’m on,” I answered and wondered why she couldn’t have figured that out herself.

  “Which row, I say-ed?” she asked again, soundin’ a little disgusted now.

  “This darn row!” Why didn’t the fool girl know which row I was on? Then it occurred to me I didn’t know where she was neither.

  “Say somethin’ again and I’ll find you.”

  “I’m heeere!” she sang out.

  I could tell she was in front of me and a row or two south. I looked back to where the skunk was, but he’d disappeared. It came to me she might be close to where the skunk was by this time.

  “Look out for the skunk,” I called out.

  “What skunk?” Sometimes I wondered if she thought anything out.

  “The skunk I said was up in front of me,” I said a bit on the mad side now.

  Then I heard the scream from Sister and I figured she’d found the skunk. I dropped the sack of corn and ducked through the corn row. Sister ran smack into me. I saw the skunk no more’n five feet up the row. He was stampin’ his feet and hissin’ to beat the band. They do that afore they spray. Then, he raised up on its front legs, rear-end pointin’ right at us. He was fixin’ to shoot!

  I grabbed Sister by the arm and jumped through the row back the way I’d come. I pulled her through just in time as I could smell the skunk had let loose. I grabbed up the sack and we both hightailed it up the row in the opposite direction as the skunk.

  We ain’t gone more than a couple of steps when we see another skunk in front of us. Then another! We was bein’ overrun with skunks. I dropped the bag of corn as it was slowin’ me down. Sister and me jumped through to the next row and looked both ways to see if any more skunks were headed our way. We didn’t see none, so we skedaddled back out of the cornfield. When we got to the end, we stopped to think over our situation some.

  “Ma won’t be none too happy we didn’t bring back the corn,” Sister pointed out the obvious.

  “Well, I don’t want to go back in there,” I answered, thinkin’ fast as I knew Sister was right. Skunk smell or a lickin’? Not much of a choice, so I decided we’d go back in for the corn.

  “C’mon, then. We gotta go back and get the corn.”

  “Nooo, I’m not goin’,” Sister got her stubborn voice and I knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with her.

  “All right, but I’m goin’ tell Ma you didn’t help,” I answered knowin’ it was the only thing that might change her mind.

  “She didn’t say I had to go, she just said I could go. Eddie, you’re not goin’ to put this off on me.” With that, she swung herself around to march off. I grabbed her shoulder and her braids whipped around and hit me in the face. It didn’t bother me, though. I was gettin’ desperate, after all.

  “Ow!” she yelled and kicked me in the shins. I was glad I wore my boots so it didn’t hurt much.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just need your help,” I whined some so she’d feel sorry for me.

  We both stood there for awhile lookin’ at the corn patch, tryin’ to decide how we’d go about gettin’ in and out.

  “What if we just pick the corn on the edge here?” Sister asked.

  “No good. The stalks out here don’t have much good corn. We’d never get fifty ears.”

  We continued to stand there starin’ at the patch, hopin’ something would come to mind.

  “We’ll just have to go in,” I finally decided and squared myself up to the task.

  Once we’d decided–although Sister still looked like she’d bolt–we headed back into the corn. Our best move was to get the sack as it already had half the corn we needed. So, we started down the row where I’d dropped it.

  I didn’t see any sign of the skunk, so I was hopin’ she was gone. I figured the others to be her pups, since skunks are usually loners. It was no wonder she was in a fightin’ mood as I was between her and her children. Any mother would be het up.

  We got the sack with no further trouble, filled it up, and headed back to the barbecue pit. Ma saw us comin’ and waved us to put the sack by some big kettles with water heatin’ up. As soon as the water started to boil, then we’d drop the ears in. But, I knew our job wasn’t finished as we also had to husk the corn.

  I saw my friend Red watchin’ the men work, so I called him over to help. We got the ears shucked in no time at all. He did notice one small problem.

  “This corn stinks, Eddie. Where didja get it?” he asked whilst holdin’ his nose with one hand and tryin’ to shuck with the other.

  “We ran into a skunk,” I answered a mite testily as he didn’t have to go in the corn patch and didn’t have no right to complain.

  Sister didn’t answer him, but she did punch him in the arm. That’s generally her way of dealin’ with a complainer.

  The water was startin’ to boil, so we threw the ears in, dividin’ them between the two big kettles. Ma saw we were puttin’ the corn in, so she came over to check our work. She’s particular about shuckin’ and doesn’t like if we leave too much silk on the cobs.

  As she got near us, she started wrinklin’ her nose and I knew she was smellin’ the skunk, too.

  “What in tarnation happened to this corn?” she asked, glarin’ at me and Sister.

  “Ma, it ain’t our fault. There was a skunk in the corn. Matter of fact, there were five skunks in the corn. We jus’ didn’t get away in time. We were lucky it didn’t hit us, too.” I ran out the excuses, so just shut my mouth.

  Ma stood there lookin’ down her nose at us with her arms crossed. Her glasses were glintin’ in the sun so I couldn’t see her eyes, but I figured what they looked like. I’d seen that look often enough to know.

  “You two, and you Red, go back to the corn field and get up another fifty ears,” she pronounced our sentence.

  Glumly, I grabbed the bag, but Ma took it away and tossed it in the pit where it lit up and was gone in a flash. She grabbed up another bag and handed it over.

  The skunks seemed to have left the territory, so we had no more problems. We got up another bag of corn, shucked it, and threw it in the fresh pots of water Ma put to boilin’. Our previous bunch o’ corn went in the pit. The ears burned slower than the bag since the corn was fresh, so to speak.

  After it was all said and done, though, it was a good barbecue and we finished up the barn by dusk. Everybody headed home weary, but glad they could help out a neighbor in need. That’s just the way it worked around these parts. Sister and me were just glad we escaped the skunks in the corn patch.

  Moonlight Ride

  Death is always a part of life and that was never more true than during the Depression. People lived, and died, out on the Texas prairies some
times with nobody around to watch them pass.

  Dorothy and me grew up on a farm with six hundred forty acres, which is the size most farms were in that part of the country. To tell the truth, I’d rather we owned a ranch with longhorn steers, but six-hundred-forty acres was only room enough for crops, not cattle. Still, Sister and me had our horses. We rode to school, we rode to town, we rode all over the prairie. Naturally, we got to be pretty good riders.

  We had neighbors to visit. Mrs. Garner was one. She was the widow lady one farm east of us. At night, we could look across and see the lights in her farmhouse. She was by herself since her husband took the flu in 1918 and died. I wasn’t born yet, but I’d heard it was pretty bad in the big cities where people live right next to each other. It wasn’t so bad out in the west where there’s a little space between neighbors, but some folk still got the flu and died.

  Mrs. Garner didn’t actually do the work on her place. For a share of the crop, some Mexicans offered to do the work durin’ planting and harvesting time. In between, she was by herself. But, she wasn’t always alone as there was church to go to and socials and such going on. Lots of the town ladies came out to visit her and she did the same with them.

  In December, the crops were already in so there wasn’t much to do. One night, we were just sitting around in front of the fire doing our homework. It was getting late, so Pa went out on the porch to smoke his cigar before bedtime. Ma didn’t like the smell, so she didn’t let him smoke inside. He came back in and whispered sumpin to Ma. She went out on the porch for a bit, then she come back herself. They whispered some more.

  “Eddie,” Pa said to me, “I want you to go saddle up Brownie and take a ride over to Mrs. Garner’s place.”

  “Why’s that, Pa?” I asked him.