Steeped in Tradition

Anyone who has read any of my articles or books knows that I am all about legacy, tradition, history, and antiquity. I gaze upon old things with reverence, touch them with awe. I feel a connection when I wander through an old graveyard and find the grave of a long-gone ancestor that died a century before I was born. 

When I attended my first event in the new Sam Rayburn Student Center on the campus of my alma mater shortly after it was built, I didn’t see any of the old presidents’ pictures and some of the history that had been displayed in the former student center. When I asked about them, I was referred to a kiosk where I could key in information and see university history. 

Soon after, I casually mentioned (okay, maybe it was a sarcastic comment) to Randy VanDeven, Vice President for University Advancement, that if one were blindfolded and brought into the building, especially to the second floor, a first-time visitor would not be able to name the campus or the building they were in when the mask was removed. I might have even offered a small wager. 

Four years later, Randy invited me back to that same spot during Homecoming weekend and the celebration of the 125^th anniversary of the university where I earned my degree. He proudly pointed to the photographic display of the history of what is now Texas A&M University-Commerce from the days when it was East Texas Normal to today. It changed from East Texas State College to East Texas State University during my time as a student.

The display is impressive and well, it did bring feelings of nostalgia, even on a day when my mind was on other things. As Randy and I discussed and examined each of the displays, I watched students and campus visitors take them in as they arrived. The display widened eyes and brought smiles.

Some would say that we are being too sentimental, that students, especially young ones, don’t care about such things. I beg to differ. I was about as unsentimental as they come during my college tenure, remarking often that I just wanted that sheepskin. I vowed to never return to campus after I earned my degree. But as the sheepskin started to become less a dream and more a reality, I began to appreciate the traditions, the legacy of those who had gone before. 

I stared at paintings of former presidents that hung on the walls (they seemed to stare at me—challenge me). I perused old yearbooks, looking at the faces of former students who had distinguished themselves in some fashion, wondering if I would ever be worthy enough to follow in their footsteps. I am fairly certain, however, that I would never have approached a kiosk to learn my university’s history. It I had, I doubt that it would have brought the same feeling of respect.

  

In addition to Randy, we owe gratitude to Paul Bryan, Terry Goen, Wendy Morgan, Robyn Price, Shanna Strunk, and Andrea Weddle for this impressive nod to tradition. They put a lot of work into this display and it shows. 

Now, students can step into their student center and know that others have blazed a trail for them, that the university they chose is steeped in tradition—that they are part of something bigger than themselves. This university may have had several names, but always the same trunk, the same root system, and they can take pride in becoming a branch of that honorable tree.

Searching for a boyhood hero

Searching for a boyhood hero

I left my great-grandfather’s grave and headed north through the Kiamichi Mountains and across the Kiamichi River to find another relative I thought was still alive. A cousin who was famous in his own right.

I was surprised by the number of law offices in downtown McAlester, Oklahoma. After many stops, I found the Chamber of Commerce. They loaned me a phone directory, but my cousin was not listed.  I did have a last known address, and the chamber manager was kind enough to show me the location on a map. 

She seemed hesitant when she saw where the address was. “You sure you want to go out there? It’s rough country.”

“Rough in terms of terrain or people?”

She laughed. “Could be both.”

I wondered if I looked that vulnerable.

Peet Garnett was married to Mary Evelyn Hammock, my first cousin. As a boy, I thought she and her sister Patsy were beautiful West Texas girls—and they were. Peet and Mary Evelyn had two sons, John Bill and Rocky. John Bill was close to my age and I knew he still lived in the Texas Panhandle, but I had not seen Rocky since he was a small boy. I had, however, kept up with his career as a ranch and rodeo cowboy.  

Peet had been a boyhood hero of mine because of the stories I heard my uncles tell about his prowess as a cowboy. He wore the first truly western suit I had ever seen to a funeral and I could not keep from staring at his boots. They were not fancy, but I thought they were beautiful.

Cowboy, pretend vet and prolific writer Ben K. Green said Peet had mounted more horses than any man alive because he mounted everything that came though the sale barn in Clovis, New Mexico for many years. I knew that to be true because I had visited the sale as a boy. 

My sister claims to have looked through our aunt’s bedroom window as a child and watched Peet break the ice in a water trough so he could take a bath. This was before this rough but gentle cowboy became our aunt’s son-in-law.

From Rivers Ebb . . . A movement caught his attention and he wiped away the fog on the ice-covered window.  Sunlight reflecting off the snow and ice gave Jake a prismatic, uncertain view, but he thought he saw a man standing beside the windmill stock tank.  Still disoriented in this new environment, he rubbed his eyes and looked again.  The man was naked from the waist up and was breaking the ice on the water tank with a sledgehammer.  Jake watched as the man pulled off his boots, pants and underwear.  He hung them on a post with his shirt and stepped into the ice water.  Jake rubbed the window again, not believing his eyes.  The man dropped underwater and came up, shaking water from his dark hair.  Droplets sparkled in the morning sun as they flew from his hair and skidded across the ice.  He stepped out of the tank, shook himself like a wet dog, and put his clothes back on. 

Peet Garnett managed ranches all over Texas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico as well as the famous J. W. Marriott (Founder of Marriott Hotel chain) Ranch in Virginia at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains sixty miles west of Washington, D.C. In a 1989 article for Farm and Ranch Living, Barbara Sullivan said this: "That cowboy hasn't worn a store bought shirt in years. Before coming (to the Marriott Ranch), he and the missus have lived on spreads where there weren't any stores for miles."

Peet inspired the character called String in Rivers Ebb. String’s actions were so effortless, it seemed the big sorrel dressed himself in blanket, saddle, breast harness, and bridle.

  

As I followed the map and turned off the main road, I realized the chamber lady had been right—this was rough country. I had expected rolling ranchland befitting a lifelong man of cattle and horses, but this was heavily wooded with rolling hills and lots of rock. An unpracticed eye like mine would not have selected this area as ideal for cattle, horses or an old cowboy. Shows how much I know. 

I passed battered mailboxes until I found a place that looked like Peet. Lots of corrals full of cattle and horses, working pens, a small stone house. But the address was wrong. I figured out the sequence of numbers, retraced my path, and found the right number on a mailbox. The driveway ended at a mobile home under a covered metal shed. A handicap ramp led to the front door.

On second thought, I could see Peet spending his final days here, sitting on the covered porch and watching cowboys work cattle in the pens below. I figured the place it looked down on belonged to his son Rocky. But it was still a long way from Texas ranches in Big Bend Country, the Panhandle or the Marlboro Ranch. Little glamour here.

I knocked on the front door and a friendly face appeared behind the screen door. I blurted my name and mission. “I’m looking for Peet or Rocky Garnett. They’re my relatives.” Up to this point, I really expected another blind alley. I had not found any information about my great-grandfather’s death (other than his tombstone) and I knew finding Peet or Rocky was a long shot at best.

The man laughed. “My kinfolks, too.  Sorry, but Peet’s dead. Lasted less than three months after Mary Evelyn died.” He pushed back the screen door and stuck out his hand. “I’m Rocky’s brother-in-law. You probably passed right by his place. Want me to take you over there?”

I was shocked and a little ashamed to learn that Peet had left this earthly plain without my knowing it. 

“Any chance of Rocky being home?’

“I happen to know he is. Get back in your truck and follow me.”

Next time: Rocky’s place.

True Story or Family Legend

Sometimes when I find myself wrestling with a difficult decision or when I get stuck in a rut, a change in routine or environment helps. Routine works for me, but sometimes the same tracks  get a little deep and I hit high center. I have become a homebody, a routine person. Packing and planning trips were never my favorite chores and I just couldn’t seem to crawl out of the ruts. 

I planned a visit to one of my favorite (and oldest living) cousins to get more details on a fascinating story he told me about my great-grandparents. My mother had told me her father’s father was buried in his yard when he died because “the creeks were out” and there was no way to carry the body to town. When I related that story to a friend, he did not understand “creeks were out”. 

Before automobiles, roads were dirt trails and many rivers and creeks did not have bridges. With no way to preserve my grandfather’s body, they buried him in the yard. I have heard that from enough family members to believe it. He died in Texas, was buried in Texas, but one of his sons removed his body and buried him in Oklahoma years later.  My research said he was in Antlers.

I had never heard the story of how he died until the cousin I planned to visit told me my great grandfather had been killed and my great grandmother took vengeance on his killers. The story sounded sort of far-fetched because I couldn’t imagine the very small woman in a picture I have taking vengeance on anyone. 

But, then again, I had tried to prove or disprove a similar story from the other side of my family without success for thirty years before I found a bonanza of information in an unexpected place from an unexpected source. Turns out the unlikely story was true. The story I uncovered resulted in a novel. That was enough incentive to follow up on this one. But before I could visit my cousin for more details, he succumbed to old age at 93.

Irritated with myself for delaying my trip until it was too late and for missing the chance for one last visit with a remarkable relative, I packed enough clothes to last a couple of days and left for Oklahoma a few days later. I was reasonably certain my great grandfather was buried in the Choctaw Nation in what I assumed was a Choctaw cemetery. That would prove his heritage as a Choctaw and would authenticate (somewhat) the story that his son had removed him from his Texas grave. I hoped for another fluke that might lead me to the details of his death.

I left without GPS or even an Oklahoma map, but I knew where the Red River was and I figured I could stop and ask for directions when I crossed the state line. I didn’t have any plans after that. I stopped in Hugo and spent a couple of fruitless hours looking for information in the Choctaw Heritage Center. 

At Antlers, I was directed to the city cemetery, which was not exclusively Choctaw. I found an Alexander (my mother’s maiden name) stone within minutes. Memorial Day flags were still on veterans’ graves, so I thought my search would be easy if he was truly there. He was a Civil War vet.

I parked and walked between graves for two hours paying special attention to flags. Nothing.  

Then, just as I was about to give up and leave, I saw a stone leaning against a cedar tree in shade so dark it was almost hidden.  It was my great grandfather’s stone, complete with the Southern Cross of  Honor and his rank as a sergeant in the Texas 9^th Cavalry of the Confederate States of America. Folks putting out flags had apparently missed it.  It was only twenty feet from where I parked. 

It told me he had died in 1895 at age 51. Death at such a young age might lend some credence to his being killed, but not proof. I will have to do more research to know for sure. His wife spent the rest of her life in Texas and is buried in Klondike. Had she really killed the two men who had killed her husband? 

He was buried in the Choctaw Nation, in Pushmataha County, but that did not prove he was Choctaw. The rest of my research for the day ran into brick walls, so I headed north through the Kiamichi Mountains and across the Kiamichi River to find another cousin I thought was still alive.

Steps That Lead Nowhere

I stood on the steps to the old First Baptist Church in Klondike for a few minutes before the celebration of a friend’s life began. The steps were the only thing left of the old country church. I tried to remember if I had attended a funeral there since my daddy’s was held forty three years ago. I couldn’t remember setting foot in the church since that day. I looked east through the trees and tried to recall details of the Methodist Church that used to be there.

My childhood memories of the church were bittersweet.  I could see the inside of the church in my mind, the pews and pulpit, the picture of Jesus with bleeding hands, and I think there were stained glass windows. I remember being uncomfortable, as if I didn’t fit in, but always felt better after attending on Sunday. 

As more cars arrived, I felt a little conspicuous standing on steps that led nowhere, so I walked over to the new metal building that now served as the church. We were there to honor and celebrate the life of Jerry Biggs, a Klondike resident and a character actor with a long resume. 

I thought of the irony of attending a memorial service in tiny Klondike, the closest thing to a town where I grew up, for an actor who had starred in major films. If someone had told me that as a kid, I would have laughed. 

The new metal building is nice, but it just doesn’t have the ambience of the old wooden church. I perused the gallery of photos of Jerry posing with famous Hollywood actors and regretted not sitting down with him more often when I had the chance to hear more stories about his interesting life.

True, in a small town and county where you are considered new until you have lived here for at least three decades, Biggs was still considered new. Even though he had lived here a very long time, he was not a native. He lived less than a mile from where I grew up and almost directly across from West Delta, the school I attended for eight years.

And he lived in a house I used as inspiration for one of the pivotal scenes in Rivers Flow, my first novel. As I listened to his life story told by friends and family, I was struck by the things I did not know about the man I called a friend.

Jerry and I had almost nothing in common, except a strong affinity for Lonesome Dove, the excellent made-for-tv movie where Jerry starred as reprobate Roy Suggs.  He also had roles in many other notable films such as Silverado, Tender Mercies and Bernie, to name a few. 

 

I loaned him my horse Rowdy to make a documentary film for the local university. Jerry had to ride down a hill into a small valley in the opening scene. By his own admission, Jerry was a much better actor than rider. When I cautioned him not to squeeze his legs and to push forward on the stirrups, lean back slightly, and pick up the reins if Rowdy quickened his pace. 

I held my breath when Rowdy started to trot down the hill, then lope, then all out run as Jerry couldn’t keep from squeezing. I feared calamity, but Jerry managed to stay aboard and in one piece. He stepped down and began his speaking role in the film unperturbed, like the pro he was.

Some sixteen years ago, Jerry showed up at the site of a barn and arena we were building in my back pasture. He wore his tool belt and volunteered for work that day. Jerald and I were grateful, but looking back, I wonder if we had made him welcome enough and showed our gratitude properly. He brought us copies of his famous photo in character and costume as Roy Suggs. 

As the service came to a close, I resolved to benefit from Jerry’s life. He had reached out to become friends. I did not reject him, of course, but I did not enthusiastically seek a closer friendship. I don’t know why, exactly. I think it was because it was a very busy time in my life, but that may be an excuse. Maybe it was because of our different lifestyles and backgrounds, but I am usually fascinated by people different than myself. Most of my best friends are different personality types than I am. 

Whatever the reason, I knew I had missed an excellent opportunity to know a unique, talented, and fascinating character better. I will try not to let that happen again.

After the services, I stopped again on the old church steps and reminisced, recalling this scene from my second novel. Molly Beth squealed as the Mustang shot away from the Chevy. The little motorcycle was a drag racer’s dream, and Gray had it tuned to fly. He charged down Klondike’s main street, the Chevy following closely behind, unable to pass or gain. Just past Dad Flanagan’s, Gray turned off his light, cut across the Methodist Church parking lot through a field he had played in as a boy, then back through the Baptist Church parking lot. He passed between trees too narrow for a car to follow. The Chevy’s lights were not in sight. 

And this scene from Go Down Looking . . . At the church in Klondike, a preacher nobody in the family knew droned on endlessly in a combination fire-and-brimstone and invitation-to-be-saved sermon. Mattie shook with sobs, ready to shatter like porcelain glass. Jake was on the verge of standing and telling the preacher to stop when he mercifully ended. An octogenarian male quartet sang “The Old Rugged Cross” out of sync with the nonagenarian piano player. Jake ached with grief and shame as the family left the church and watched the pallbearers load his father into the black hearse again. 

Memories. The steps reminded me that many, if not most, of my old childhood haunts are gone now. Looking over the graves of my ancestors down Klondike’s main street at the old post office that my daddy built and Dad Moore’s store reminded me that other landmarks (and people) suffer the ravages of time and are not long for this world. Makes me pleased I captured at least some of them on the printed page.

An Instruction Manual for Grandparents

I’ve often wondered why there are not more books about the relationships between grandparents and grandchildren. There are plenty of books about parenting, but not so many about grandparenting. Guess folks don’t think it’s as important and they’re probably right.

I recall having separation anxiety when my children entered their teens. Back in those days, we lived in town and I saved up to buy a small place in the country to keep our horses and a few cows. When my son and daughter were little, they begged to go with me to the country. In fact, I could hardly sneak off anywhere without one or both in the seat beside me. 

Then, suddenly it seemed, they didn’t want to go anymore. That was about the time when they stopped hanging on my every word and started ignoring me. They never stopped watching me, just stopped listening. 

I used to say half-seriously that the little girl who used to sit on my knee and bring me iced tea after work went into her room one day and never came out. The son who begged me to play catch or to drive a tractor suddenly seemed more interested in girls and cars.

For the last few years, I have experienced almost the same thing with grandchildren. Lovely, lively babies who laughed at all my antics, loved hugs and kisses, and were easily entertained with the simplest things like a wiener roast or a simple campfire, became easily bored and hard to entertain. With the arrival of smart phones and I-pads, it got worse. 

Then, they started to slur their words and fail to articulate what they are trying to say. In other words, they mumbled a lot and talked too fast (and it’s not because of hearing loss). I couldn’t get them to take their eyes off their phones and gadgets long enough to find out anything about their lives. I sort of gave up. 

Jan chastised me. Said she was enjoying their teen years. She loves making pillows and quilts for them and teaching them her craft. I couldn’t relate, especially with the girls. I did not want those sweet little girls to turn into young women. Of course, it was a train that should not be stopped.

Before they got as big as us, we used to keep all seven overnight for a night or two. Those visits were filled with laughter and joy. Tiring, yes, but memorable. But the teen years brought a few arguments (with us and with each other) and they became a little harder work. The bigger kids seemed to take up the whole house plus some. I felt them slipping away.

But this past year has been a good one. Just when you think they have outgrown you for good, one calls to say she wants to drop by and bring her boyfriend before she returns to college in the fall. She doesn’t need our approval, but we are happy she sought it.

Then another called just back from being a camp counselor and wanted to renew old memories by riding my horse. Gave us a warm feeling. She also wrote us a letter at Christmas recounting her fond memories of the fun things we used to do at our place. Good to know she remembers.

Then another one called the other day to ask advice before a job interview. I don’t know if I helped her, but it warmed my heart that she asked. 

Getting news that a grandson had begun to heal a rift with his father was also heartwarming. I like to think he was inspired by the great relationship between his father and me.

We still have two in high school and one in middle school. The soon-to-be senior came over the other day and welded some fence for me and washed Jan’s car. The soon-to-be freshman made her first real quilt this year and had some adventures in cooking with GranJan. Our twelve-year-old boy had to have surgery that messed up his summer. But his courage and good humor inspired us all. 

Maybe we don’t need an instruction manual or book after all. As my old friend and farrier-philosopher Max Moody said about his grandchildren, “You just gotta pick ‘em up and hug ‘em once in a while.”