| The Tyler Chronicle Winter, 2022 Worldwide Edition  My Struggle... an Autobiography...
The Life and Times of Bobby Dean Moore EDITOR'S NOTE: The chronology below represents the first notes of what is intended to be a repository of information, writings and philosophical notions absorbed during the long life of the author. A better title might have been "The Works of Bobby Moore" since its content goes well beyond the biographical. The author makes no pretense of being objective or impartial, nor is the book intended to be a heavily footnoted scholarly work. But the reader will come away from it with a better understanding of the author and his time and place than can be found anywhere else. There are no known descendants; none to keep his memory alive. This book is a statement made by the one most qualified to make it.
Entry I September, 2005
(Unedited and Incomplete)
A lot happened in 1940. Franklin Roosevelt was elected president of the United States. Adolph Hitler was named Chancellor of Germany. Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of Great Britain. Television was publicly demonstrated for the first time in America, and they tell me I was born.
My life in the womb was, for the most part, a pleasant one. It was warm, and dark and I floated comfortably. The most distinct memory I have of that period, however, was a time when the umbilical cord somehow wrapped around or perhaps pressed against my neck. I can remember it well; the distinct feel of it; I felt it with my tiny hands; turgid and slippery.
Occasionally during my childhood, the inner-womb memories presented themselves to me, but I could not identify them as being what they were... memories of life before birth. The umbilical cord memory is without a doubt the most profound; it's occurance usually being triggered by seeing a rubber hose filled with water, or something similar.
I cannot recall my birth or life immediately after. For an account of that period, my mother's recollections as related to me will serve.
The birth was not an easy one. A Texas "blue norther" had blown in on the night of September 28, 1940, freezing the wet wash hanging outside the bedroom where I was soon to make my entrance. The house where my mother had come to give me birth was not her own; but that of her half-sister, Allie Burns. The house was cold.
My mother, Mary Alma Moore was 42 when I was born. She had no other children before me, and as menopause approached, she prayed for a child; specifically a baby boy. She took my conception on January 20, 1940 as a literal answer to her prayers, and she did all within her power to assure a successful pregnancy. She dedicated me to God before I was even conceived. I have always considered this interesting and a bit unfair, since I wasn't consulted!
Her labor began almost 24 hours before the delivery. There were no doctors or nurses in attendance; no anesthetics; no pain-killers. She lay on a wet bed in a cold house alone. During the latter stages of the birth process, she became unconscious. In her delerium my mother experienced what she termed in later years, "a vision". In the "vision", as she gave birth, two powerful figures (one of darkness and one of light) fought for possession of the child being expelled from her womb; the archetypical battle between wickedness and virtue. The vision dimmed in the cold morning light as she was greeted by the sound of a healthy, crying newborn, and the comforting words of a kindly doctor who had finally been summoned in desperation by relatives.
And so began the life I could never call mine... on a cold Sunday morning, September 29, 1940.
(Insert Alma background leading to the birth.)
(Chicken memory in Louisiana... in diapers)
The earliest memory that comes to my mind is when I spoke (sang) my first words. I was standing up in the front seat of a Model "T" Ford. Mother was driving. And I began to sing "You Are My Sunshine". If I recall correctly, I sang the complete song. Another early memory was formed at the cottage of my maternal garandmother, Mattie Caroline (Grandma) Harrison. It was winter, and the little house smelled of kerosene from the kitchen stove, burning wood in the wood heater, and a certain unique, unidentifiable odor that I shall always associate with "Granny". It was a pleasant odor reminiscent of the lavender bushes that flowered in her back yard.
It was morning and I had awakened to the aroma of freshly baked muffins in the kitchen. Granny always made wonderful muffins! I was out from under the covers in a flash, and headed barefoot across the cold linoleum-covered floor toward the treasures that were nested on the kitchen table. But I was intercepted on the way by my mother and admonished not to walk on the cold floor without shoes or socks. "But I'm walking on my little heelies!" I said. It was a fact, I was indeed walking on my heels. Everyone laughed, and before long, I was stuffing myself with hot buttered muffins and fresh milk.
Entry II November, 2005
My maternal grandmother was a devout Christian; as lovely as she was faithful to her God. The most persistent memory I have of her is her lovely long, white hair which she usually kept in a "granny knot"... and her prayers. I can see her sitting in her rocking chair, right hand raised to heaven... calling upon the God she knew was listening. She told me Bible stories and she sang a little song sometimes before I went to sleep...
"Jesus may come tonight, Jesus may come. Jesus may come tonight, Jesus may come. When the sun goes down... And the moon comes 'round... Jesus may come."
She prayed before we left on our way to Louisiana. She had packed us a lunch of bacon, and muffins, and fruit, and milk in quart jars. Mother had apparently received word from my father, Edgar inviting us to join him in Louisiana, where he was working as a railroad engineer.
My father wasn't present during my birth, or for quite some time before. The very first haunting memory that I have of him is that we were leaving to be united as a family for the first time. Somewhere in Louisiana; Anahuac, DeQuinse, perhaps Baton Rouge. He had a job. A reconcilliation of some kind had taken place between my two parents, and we were leaving for Louisiana in Mother's "Model A" Ford.
The time of our departure is not recalled, nor is the exact time of year. My first and only memory of the trip is awakening inside the automobile on a cold, frosty morning somewhere in Louisiana. We were parked off the road in a pine forest. The limbs of recently cut pine trees resembled a scene from a Christmas Card outside the window. The early morning sun glistened on their frost covered needles and framed the window with glittering diamonds.
I was wrapped in blankets and cozy. Soon my mother had a small campfire going outside and we had our breakfast, including hot bacon strips cooked on long, pointed sticks over the fire. The scene was one of beauty, and love and warmth. I was infinitely blessed with a mother who loved me more than anything else on earth.
It is difficult to arrange my memories of life in Louisiana in chronological order. Perhaps I will be able to accomplish that later. For the moment, I shall relate them as they occur to me.
Mother and I are walking together... somewhere in the vicinity of a terpentine refinery. I can still smell the pungent aroma. We pass the ruins of a recently burned-out sawmill. One of us picks up a small cylindrical magnet. I still have it.
The very first memory of my father. He sits in the cab of a powerful steam locomotive pulling a passenger train. The railroad and highway run flat and parallel for miles, and mother drives along, keeping pace with the engine as it slowly pulls out of town. Now safely beyond the confines of the town and it's numerous crossings, Daddy pulls back on the throttle and in a blinding rush, whistle screaming, he leaves us in a cloud of steam and smoke. Waving, laughing, proud. For these brief moments, they both are happy. This is a memory I shall carry with me to the grave.
Christmas in Louisiana is approaching. This is, in fact, my very first memory of Christmas. We are living in what was once a small grocery store. Our landlady's name is Mrs. Bageron. My memories of her are sparse, but kind. For some reason, my mother and I visit her late one evening, near twilight. She is catholic and in her yard is a small grotto with a miniature manger scene. With great curiosity, I carefully examine each little icon.
ENTRY III November, 2005
While the time spent with my maternal grandmother could be measured in days; that with my father's mother would amount to hours. I recall having seen her only twice in my lifetime. The first time was while we were living in the little store building in De Quincy Louisiana ('43-'44).
She nad come from Houston for a brief visit. She brought a big sack of cookies and a Houston newspaper. This is my first memory of a newspaper; I can see it in my mind as plainly as if it were yesterday. On one page was a diagram of a German V-1 (buzz bomb). That's the page that stamped itself into my mind. The cookies were soon gone, and we ate the crumbs and broken pieces from the bottom of the sack.
"Grandma Moore" was a tall and skinney woman with enormous ears. Unfortunately those ears (though slightly diminished) were passed on to my father... and on to me. She was swarthy and wrinkled. Somehow I didn't feel comfortable with her.
Life in Louisiana was good for me; one of the few times we existed as a family. The time was one of adventure and learning. The value of my mother's love and wisdom during those formative years is priceless. Few things were forbidden. I learned valuable lessons through experience; lessons that I never forgot. I learned to use and respect fire. I "fried" mud pies on top of a kerosene fueled railroad lantern. I chopped "salads" from tender, green weeds which grew in the back yard. I have a scar on my left index finger as a result! But I learned. I learned! I seemed to derive satisfaction from creating order from disorder. One of my favorite things was to stack carrot slices in neat, uniform columns.
In an attempt to attach lighted birthday candles to a small, artificial Christmas tree, the little tree became ignited. I extinguished the fire without help.
Books came into my life and I began to read. There was a book about "Uncle Wiggley and Granddaddy Longlegs"; a picture book about kittens; a Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd comic book. Bugs was melting old tires to create a rubber automobile. The book of all books though, was "Vitology", a four inch thick hardcover tome with remedies for every concievable disease and ailment. The book contained an elaborate fold-out section of the internal organs in vivid color. It contained recipes for poultices and "before" and "after" photographs of a young man who had succumbed to the "evil" of masturbation.
Books, carrots, dreams. My first remembered dreams occurred during this period ('43-'44). I remember dreams of falling. My first nightmare was a dream in which my mother had disappeared. I ran through the house searching for her and screaming for her. I found her in a closet. She had changed into a human-sized carrot. This may sound comical as you read it now, but it was my first taste of horror in a dream. My first experience of waking horror was when I accidently opened "Vitology" to the fold-out of the internal organs!
I loved the green, green grass of Louisiana; the moss covered trees; giant, paper-shelled pecans, and wild strawberries. I captured huge shelled snails and attempted to attach them to penny match boxes like horses to a coach. During our stay in Louisiana, an old green metal, toy auto (large enough for me to ride in!) came into our possession. It's origin is uncertain, but my mother painted it green to cover the rust.
I developed "trench mouth" a fungal infection which my mother successfully treated with a solution of alum and boric acid. The condition was discovered one day at dinner as I ate salty, giant butterbeans. I remember the pain quite well.
Crabs were bought by the toesack full. Standing too close to a torn sack taught me a healthy respect for snapping pincers.The three of us gathered mayhaws in water waist-deep in flooded bar ditches. I was captain of a Number 3 galvanized wash tub, stabilized by my papa's strong arm. We salvaged a freshly killed young alligator which was soon transformed into several tasty dishes. Then there was the sheep. Mother had found it injured somewhere along the road and brought it home to recuperate. Things were going quite well until she sprayed it with flyspray to eliminate the blowflies which swarmed around it. The sheep died shortly after the spraying; I suspect from the effect of the spray.
The "star window" was on the second or third floor of an enormous wooden mansion, long abandoned. The paint had peeled from the outside walls and columns, and green creepers were slowly moving to enclose the veranda. The window had broken panes of stained glass and faced the back yard which was filled with giant pecan trees. Shreds of curtains sill hung in the windows. Everything had been abandoned suddenly. The story was that the house had been built by a wealthy politician for the beautiful young woman he loved. Unfaithfulness, either real or imagined, resulted in her being shot as she stood in front of the star window. Perhaps then, the lover in a fit of remorse ended his own life. We gathered pecans under the trees and the image of the house burned itself into my memory.
The Mississippi River, barges, steam engines and railroad cars. We sat in the automobile, watching my father's locomotive push loaded boxcars onto river barges. The whole thing seemed quite dangerous. I remember the enormous trestles which spanned the river.
Red Rainwater was the son of a widow lady who made her livlihood as a washer woman and who lived on the lot behind ours. Red was a little older than I, and sometimes he came to our front screen door asking if I could come out and play. Enormous dragonflies in a multitude of bright colors swarmed our yard in the evenings. Red would trade me these "mosquito hawks" for cookies. As a result, there were often two or three dragonflies zooming around inside our living room.
Trips to the "roundhouse" were always a treat when Mother would sometimes take Daddy to work. I loved the smell and the look and sound of the locomotives. I still love them to this day. My geatest thrill was to be taken inside the cab.
(Add bats, chickens, "excuse me", tall grass, boardwalks)
I suppose it would be possible to connect all the foregoing seemingly unrelated memories into some kind of logical order, but why? The unifying threads will become clearer as the long story unfolds. In summary,I was a happy child, bright and cheerful during the Louisiana days. I remember no family discord, physical pain only twice, and emotional distress on two occasions (the nightmare and the experience with the fold-outs). I don't remember being spanked or scolded by either parent.
The Louisiana period must have been a relatively happy one for my mother too, since during this time she sewed and embroidered lovely designs on just about every scrap of cloth she could find. Some of her work of that period survives today. But something was wrong. I have never understood the true basis of the discord which developed between my parents. Maybe I have simply refused to accept the facts. There are several theories which will be explored later.
ENTRY IV December 8, 2005
What happened to end our stay in Louisiana is unclear, but my mother and I once again found ourselves at Grannie's house near Tyler, Texas. The time of year is also uncertain, but I think it must have been spring or summer. I remember the sounds of satisfied hens, big and fat and black and white feathered; dusting in the sand, resting in the shade of the chinaberry trees, and each, in turn, announcing the arrival of her daily egg. The sweet song of mockingbirds filled the perfumed lavender bushes. Whatever had happened to cause the end of our stay in Louisiana, had left me unscarred, or at least, without any conscious memory of it. One thing is certain, Daddy was no longer with us.
Once again, Alma had returned to the only "safe" harbor she knew, penniless and virtually without resources. But now she was not alone.
The cottage where Grannie lived, had decades before, housed a small country store. It was a simple, well-made board structure with a wood shingle roof, rectangular in shape, facing the Troup Road. A shallow well near the back afforded abundant, clear, cold water. An outhouse, a small storage building, and a chicken house completed the setting. There were no utilities; no electricity, no plumbing, no telephone, no gas. Heat was provided by wood fires, and kerosene lamps with polished chimneys gave us light. The house was sparsely furnished; the most notable item being my grandmother's spinning wheel which had been hand-made by her father. A well-used Bible, an almanac, a Sears and Roebuck mailorder catalog and a hanging medicine calendar were always at hand. A "Number 3" galvanized washtub and a washboard hung on the wall outside the back door.
A sandy trail not more than a hundred yards long connected my grandmother's back yard with that of her daughter, Edna Roberts, sister of my mother. Aunt Edna was the wife of a local barber, John William Roberts. She had three children; my first cousins and closest relatives outside my immediate family. The oldest of the three, Helen, had already married and established her own home when we returned. She was the daughter of an earlier marriage. The twin boys; John William Jr. and Don William who were ten years older than I, were still attending the country school at Whitehouse, some ten miles south.
I can remember the distinctly different personalities of the two brothers; Don and John. In spite of the considerable age difference, we played together and seemed to enjoy each others' company. We played store, with John always being the store-keeper. We dug caves in the sand with gusto. In all my years of knowing them, there was never an argument or harsh word between us. Throughout their lives, they showed me only love and generosity.
Our stay in the cottage with my grandmother was brief; amounting to a few months at most. The time was pleasant for me; still a babe in the nest. I watched the hens and listened to their conversations; I came to know and love the resident birds; I experienced my first sexual stirrings. Little did anyone know then that soon an event would take place which would set the course of my future. To call it meaningful would be an understatement. It was probably the single most important happening in my entire life.
Entry V December 9, 2005
Our next location was a small, board shack. There's no other word for it. The tiny house was roofed with tin and coated with peeling whitewash. The location was a scant two miles from my grandmother's house, off the main road. It was situated in a creek bottom a few hundred feet west of the I&GN Railroad branch line which extended from Troup to Mineola. The red dirt road which passed in front dead-ended at an old community cemetery a quarter of a mile east. Probably because of past "bootlegging" enterprises which may have flourished in the area, that flat stretch of road had become known as "Whiskey Flat".
Our stay there was brief and not an entirely pleasant one. A few stray chickens and a clump of daffodils are the only life forms I remember at that location. We made a small bouquet of the flowers and considered eating one of the chickens, but either because of moral scruples (or because the chicken was a fast one) it never made it into the dinner pot.
It is probable that our stay at "Whiskey Flat" was intended to be a short one, as indeed it was. At most, the time we spent there could be counted in weeks. A larger house in a much more desirable location became available, and we moved into it. It was normally occupied by tenant farmers and was owned by Roy L. Lilly, a local landowner and the proprietor of a nearby "country store". The Lilly house was four or five times the size of the little shack, sported a real front porch, and a well-built outhouse. Water was drawn from a well adjacent to the back porch, and was covered by a sheet metal roof. Of course, there was no plumbing or any utilities. There were no neighbors. Past the few acres of cultivated fields near the house was a vast climax hardwood forest which I came to know intimately.
Some of my first unhappy memories were made during the months we spent in the "Lilly" house. In retrospect, it is clear that my mother was at that time under considerable financial and emotional stress. My father had returned.(Maybe that was our reason for leaving Grannie's.) He now had no permanent job, and worked intermittently as a "roughneck" in the nearby oil fields. He seemed to be with us infrequently. Money was in short supply.
Summer became autumn and then winter. The warm days had passed, and a sudden, unexpected snowstorm during the night left a blanket of white over the whole of our universe. There was no wood to burn in the cheap sheet-metal stove which served as our heat source, nor was there an axe to cut any. Nor was there a father in sight to care for his wife and child.
The morning was cold and bright. Bundling me in the warmest clothes we had, Mother instructed me to wait in the yard for her while she made her way to the edge of the woods. Her object was to keep me in sight while she foraged for fallen limbs in the snow. I watched patiently and with interest as she gathered fuel, but I soon realized that glare from the snow was affecting my vision. By the time she returned, I had become totally snow-blind, and had to be led into the house. My mother cried and prayed. There was no money for doctors.
One cold day of the same winter, I learned to tie my shoes, but not before receiving some harsh words from the mother who loved me. This is my first memory of her raising her voice to me in anger; perhaps in frustration. She was facing the reality of survival without the stability of a reliable family structure.
One of our nearer "neighbors" was a black family. Ernest Seaton worked in the rose fields as did his two good-natured sons, Ernest Jr. and Bennie Troy. His wife Clara, was rotund and jolly,with the whitest teeth and an ever-present smile. She was without a doubt one of the best cooks in the county. They were our friends.
Bennie Troy, the younger of the two brothers rode a black horse... bareback. He would periodically come galloping down the gravel road to our house, a cloud of red dust behind him. Mother and I affectionately called him the "black rider". One morning "Black Rider" showed up in our front yard only minutes after I had backed into the hot wood-burning heater mentioned earlier. A severe burn the size of a silver dollar was visible on the left side of my rump. 'Rider offered to treat the injury, and within minutes had made the mile long round trip to his house and back. He brought with him two fresh eggs in a cloth flour sack. He removed the thin membrane inside the egg shell and carefully and completely covered the burn with it. The treatment was a complete success.
Our stay at the "Lilly" house would soon come to an end. The "important event" mentioned at the end of Entry IV was about to take place.
Entry VI January 14, 2006
The female nesting instinct is strong. My mother was now searching for a nesting place to rear her child. The early years of the marriage between my parents had been spent traveling to the far western states, living in the most primitive conditions imaginable. At that time there was no child; the hardships and deprivation were endured. But now Alma prayed for a home to raise her baby. The move from the shack in "Whiskey Flat" to the rented tenent farm house was definitely a move "up", but there is a great difference between sleeping in a bed under a rented roof, and in "owning" the place where you live.
The exact circumstances surrounding my parents purchase of the tract of land adjacent to the Lilly rent house are unclear. The property was owned by Roy L. Lilly, the same man who owned the rent house where we lived. What is clear is that when the chance to buy the 60 acres to the south came along, mother grabbed it... not in greed, but in desperation. The acquisition of that land... where I grew from infancy to adulthood, was the single most significant event of my entire life. Although I have always been a strong believer in the importance of heredity (versus environment) the extremely powerful influence of the land on my life is undeniable.
Man's devotion to the soil of his origin can be one of the most powerful human motivators. That has certainly been true in my life.
Entry VII February 28, 2006
So, how was it that my parents, virtually penniless, were able to move from the status of "whitetrash" renters to property owners? They had access to very little money, and dim prospects for obtaining any. How can this be explained?
First of all, it must be remembered that the seller saw value in property only for agricultural purposes, and in his view, the 60 acres had limited agricultural use. Much of it was hilly, and heavily wooded with a climax hardwood forest, and the remainder had been for decades a source of red, iron-ore gravel for paving county roads... a gravel pit. There were no buildings, and fencing on one side only. It was accessible only by means of the dirt road which passed through "whiskey flat" which was periodically flooded during periods of heavy rain. It had no creeks, or ponds, or wells. There was no dependable water supply.
The closest thing to a pond was "the craters". We called them the "water holes". In wet weather, they would accumulate water which rather quickly seeped back into the porus gravel. These depressions very closely resembled bomb craters, and had in fact been created by large explosive charges set off near the surface. The fifty-foot diameter depressions were spaced very close together; there was very little partition between two of them, and probably less than twenty feet separating the third. The exact date and circumstances of their creation was unknown although it was generally assumed that they were the result of early seismic exploration. A futile attempt had been made to create a small water retaining dam slightly uphill from the water holes, but as a water source, it was even less effective than the craters.
There had been at least one attempt to dig a well. It was located atop a hill at what was once an old houseplace. All vestiges of the house had long since disappeared, and the depths of the 80 foot deep well were shunned by well-diggers since it was rumored that more than one man had lost his life in it because of "gas". A similar well some few hundred yards north had been an instrument of murder. A negro woman had been robbed, blindfolded, and "walked off" into the well, according to legend. Her screams were silenced by rocks thrown in by the murderer.
The surface which had been mined for gravel was almost absolutely flat. The gravel layers had been scraped into rows with a blade and then shoveled by hand into wagons and trucks for distribution. All topsoil had long since been removed, and the bright orange-red limonite remaining glowed in the hot sun like the surface of Mars. This area contained very little grass and no trees with the exception of a few persimmon bushes. "That place ain't worth a damn' fer nuthin' but growin' 'simmon sprouts", a neighboring cattleman was heard to say.
Not only was the land viewed as almost worthless by the previous owner, but it must be remembered that both my parents were charismatic, and in this case, bursting with enthusiasm at the prospect of "having their own place". My father had spent his youth as a street-wise city boy in Houston, and then his years as a dashing, womanizing locomotive engineer. But deep inside, he had always yearned to be a farmer... to plow his own land. As a child, he had paid visits to an uncle who had a farm, and the young man was imprinted with the desire for life.
My mother was born and raised in the deep piney woods of East Texas, and although she had spent some years in Detroit, Michigan during the time of her first marriage, she longed to return to the land. Now, with a child, the urge became almost uncontrollable.
My mother was a beautiful woman, even at this stage of her life. That fact must not be disregarded. But good looks, and charisma and enthusiasm can take you only so far. There had to be a down payment. She had only one possession that had sufficient value; the one thing she had carried with her from her life in Detroit... a diamond wedding ring. Only she would have known the sacrifices she endured to keep it over the years... when money was absent and times were hard. But now the ring served it's higher purpose. It was pledged and the deal was closed.
I do not wish to cast any shadow on the integrity of the seller. But it is very likely that he did not believe that people of such mean circumstances would be able to pay the note installments as they came due. In fact, he admonished them not to "cut any timber" until the balance was paid. He, like many others over the years, underestimated my mother.
My parents were fired with enthusiasm. The limited income provided by intermittent work was immediately put to use. A neighboring two-room shack formerly used by black share-croppers was bought, and somehow, the money was obtained to pay a trucker to move it onto the property. One of the earliest memories I have of the homeplace was the day that little house was moved into place and set on blocks. It was surrounded by magnificent oak trees, and several smaller ones had to be cut to make room for the tiny cabin that was to be my home through young adulthood.
The little house was less than you can imagine. The walls were made from rough-cut boards produced at a local sawmill; single walls, not double. The few windows could not be raised or lowered. There were front and back door openings (no doors) and a single partition wall inside. The ceiling was low; the roof was rusted, corrugated sheet iron. The house was quite old when my parents bought it; how old is uncertain. I would not be surprised if it had housed slaves in it's prime.
I remember our first night on the land as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was dark and warm, and the sound of insects was loud in the trees. We sat under the arms of the big oaks at a rough board table illuminated by kerosene lanterns. We ate our first supper together on the place and for another brief moment in my life, we were a family.
 Entry VIII March 31, 2006
From Whiskey Flat tenant to a possessor of lands! The nest, fragile though it was, was in place. My mother now had a suitable place to rear her child. And she held on tenaceously until her death... and perhaps beyond. A board shack and land, true; but what else?
There was no stable income. There was no nearby well or other water supply for the house. No plumbing. No bathroom; no toilet. There was no telephone. There was no gas or electrical service. Barns or other outbuildings were non-existent. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away. There was no mail delivery, and the school bus didn't turn down the road to Whiskey Flat.
Of all the things desirable that were missing, most acutely missed was a stable family structure. It is impossible for me to accurately weigh the causes of this situation. I am inclined to place the great majority of this burden upon the shoulders of my father. I loved him, and I know that he loved me, but he was absent as a provider and father. But my purpose is not to condemn; rather to relate, as honestly as I can, the truth. And the truth can be a very elusive thing.
Yes, there was a lot that we didn't have, but the positive side of the ledger was far better than anyone realized at the time.
Entry IX April 14, 2006
First and foremost, I was blessed with a mother who was the product of a genetically healthy and gifted ancestry. Not only that (quite probably as a result of it) she was a woman of great intellect, spirit and integrity. She possessed all the qualities that any person of greatness should possess, and she loved me beyond measure.
And we still had freedom. The United States, coming out of the crucible of World War II was the most powerful nation on earth, militarily and industrially, and still afforded it's citizens a large measure of that fragile and elusive property, so long ago paid for by the blood of our forebearers. Freedom! How sweet. I held it to my breast like a mother holds a child. And I loved it so. Freedom was mine in so, so many ways. Mine was the freedom to speak my mind, to think my own thoughts, to exercise countless initiatives. Mine was the freedom to invent, to engage in trade and industrial enterprise with a minimum of governmental interference. I was an American! I was a Texan! My limits were set only by my abilities and my willingness to work.
We had a our own land! Precious living space. Room to grow. And what a wonderful space it was... part of it covered by a towering climax hardwood forest, and rich with berries and blossoms and sweet persimmons, and brown nuts in the fall! It became a part of me and I a part of it; the red cardnals, the nesting oreoles; chameleons, green and brown; the countless furry creatures; flying squirrels who made their home in the attic, and the mysterious bats which darted to and fro in the darkening skies. And with the coming of darkness, the dance of fireflies filled the air. And the land itself, millions of pounds of rich iron-ore gravel was solid, stable and dependable... and it was always there... under my feet. We were one.
We were blessed by the good reputation of my mother's sister and her family and that of my maternal grandmother. They were respectable folks, well thought of in the community... and well-deserving. The good relationship that this family enjoyed with the nearby country school would prove to be of great benefit to me when I reached school age. The school itself and it's faculty were priceless assets. There is no doubt that other institutions could have offered more academically, but none... I say NONE could have provided a more wholesome environment. The school faculty eventually became my surrogate family.
Yes, there was a lot we didn't have; refrigerators, electricity, toilets and telephones... But we were wealthy beyond measure. And ironically, most of this treasure we took for granted.
Entry X May 24, 2006
I grew up as a child of nature. The change of the seasons was a delight for me; the chill and changing leaves of autumn, winter's snow and long icicles hanging from the roof, the tiny forget-me-nots of spring, and long walks in the warm summer rain. Bubbling wet-weather springs, and rivulets that became rivers for my tiny boats. Blackbirds in the snow. Trees covered in ice. A frozen lake. The sudden sound of rain and sleet on a tin roof. Ear-splitting thunder; lightning bolts exploding treetops. The nightime symphony of frogs in the shallows.
I came to intimately know the buckeye, the cottonmouth, the copperhead, scorpions, poison ivy, sweet wild dewberies, pecans and wild plums, red and yellow and purple. "Wild" animals were always our pets. Cardnals and bluejays were handfed as hatchlings and flew freely about the house. Baby 'possums rode my shoulders, hanging to my shirt collar with prehensile tails. I had a penchant for turtles and terrapins and collected them by the dozen. We even raised a baby mink, who grew up to follow me about the place like a pup. We would walk to the spillway of the lake behind our house where he would dive like an otter for minnows and crawfish in the clear water. My early life was one of constant joy and discovery, and those most precious of all qualities... freedom and innocence. But freedom can be fleeting, and the cost of innocence is high.
Even so, these memories are priceless. I would not be willing to trade the experiences of my childhood for all the material wealth of this earth. For they made me what I am... and I am exactly what I was destined to be.
Entry XI June 24, 2006
Was it all really this idyllic? For me, yes. But there were realities that were harsh. The property had been bought with a "ring and a promise" so to speak. Small amounts had been paid as agreed, but a large note balance loomed menacingly in the distance. Where would the money come from to make the final payment?
There were no sources in sight: no wealthy relatives, no generous friends... Where was help to be found? As the day of reckoning drew closer, there was an unspoken tension that pervaded the house and all that surrounded it. Was it possible that the unthinkable might happen? The kerosene lamps burned late into the night. My mother prayed, as she always did, but there were no angels in white robes descending from heaven with cash in hand to bail us out! There was no knight in shining armor charging down our red dusty road on a great white steed with a pocket full of greenbacks!
Instead there was the white Ford pickup truck of the leinholder pulling into the yard to remind my mother of the impending doom. Yes, cruel reality was on our doorstep, reminding us that we were, in reality, still poor white trash, who would soon again be flushed into the hole from which we had tried so hard to escape.
I shall never forget the moment. I was standing in the front yard, barefoot, in short pants. The white Ford truck approached in the usual cloud of red dust and came to an abrupt halt scant yards from me. My little heart quickened. Tears welled in my eyes, and I stood there, helpless... yet defiant. Defiant, yet not knowing what to do or say. The truck door opened and the tall, imposing figure of a man stepped out into the dust cloud. He carried a handful of important-looking legal-sized papers. He stepped closer.
By this time, my mother had come out the front door. She stood there in her apron, her hands clasping the fabric of it. The look on her face will follow me to the grave. But the look of desperation quickly changed, as I watched, to one of somewhat bewildered curiosity. When I turned to again face the man in the dust cloud, I understood why.
The tall man with the papers was not the leinholder at all, but rather a complete stranger, who by now was joined by another stranger from the other side of the truck... who carried even more papers... and a huge map rolled up and wedged under his arm.
Incredibly, what my mother and I had both first perceived to be our damnation, was in fact, salvation. The two men were engineers employed by Lone Star Gas Company, and as they politely introduced themselves and made their purpose known, it became clear that the company needed a right-of-way easement to construct an large natural gas pipeline across the property. It also became clear that the company was prepared to pay for the easement... a sum, which to us was enormous; a sum large enough to pay off the property note with a surplus!
Within what seemed like a very short time, and with a bare minimum of preliminaries, a company draft was issued, the note balance was paid in full (to everyone's astonishment) and a survey crew was making it's way directly across the center of the property, leaving a trail of wooden stakes and flags to mark the location of the enormous ditch which was soon to follow. The digging of that pipeline ditch was one of the most significant events of my early life. The "nest" was secure. The environment which was to nourish the remainder of my childhood and approaching youth was assured.
Entry XII July, 2006
The pipeline crew was efficient. Following the surveyors came the hulking dozers, clanking relentlessly over the orange/red limonite and leaving a long, red scar in their wake. I was fascinated by the power and size of these machines. I stood barefooted and charmed by the drama being played out before me. Every single day, I watched them from daybreak until quitting time, and when the work day was over, I explored the site. I became friends with the workers. They shared lunches with me. They had my respect and admiration.
Then an enormous ditching machine appeared in the distance, moving slowly down the center of the right-of-way; a giant, iron wheel with clawed "buckets" around it's perimeter; rolling along endless tracks and cutting an eight foot deep ditch in the virgin earth. Trucks followed with their many loads of long, steel pipe; then weldors, who joined the sections into one seamless, pressure-tight artery nearly two feet in diameter, and designed to carry Texas natural gas at a pressure well in excess of a thousand pounds per square inch. A curious "wrapping machine" coated the outside of the pipe with hot, molten tar and an endless spiral of heavy paper. The pipe was laid in the ditch by still another fleet of crawling, smoke belching machines. Finally, a lone 'dozer followed behind the procession, and like a benediction, covered the pipe in the ditch. And in the days that followed, as the earth-shaking rumble of the mechanical parade faded into the distance, the song of the field lark replaced the sound of "progress".
Income from the pipeline easement coupled with more from an oil and gas lease for a time relieved the financial stress which had been our everyday companion. I was a happy child approaching school age, loved by my parents, and joyously exploring every aspect of the wonderful world around me. In retrospect, I can see most of the major features of my proclivities, character and personality already developed at that age.
Entry XIII August 14, 2006
By the age of five, my abilities, interests, and psychological characteristics were clearly defined. I was possessed by insatiable curiosity, a desire to understand anything and everything around me, and a powerful creative urge. I never lacked self-confidence, and was an effective communicator.
The creative urge first manifested itself in art. My first drawings were with crayons and pencil and often were of the same subjects... in many variations. The events of World War Two impressed me indelibly: army tanks, submarines, ships, aircraft of various kinds; the wreckage and destruction of war. But steam locomotives, chemical plants with their towers and stacks, and construction cranes were drawn with equal, or greater frequency. Fanciful castles and mansions and trees were sources of inspiration (as they still are today).
These images continued to manifest themselves well into my middle years in high school. Interestingly, I never drew people. Never. Animals occasionally, but never people. It's not that I didn't like people; I found other subjects more interesting.
I never considered myself "gifted" as an artist. Drawing and painting became an enjoyable activity for me, and I perfected to some degree, at least, those skills. Some of my teachers seemed to think I had artistic talent, but I never gave it much thought.
From a very early age, I seem to have been "driven" to build and create. At the age of three, I drilled imaginary oil wells with derricks made of wire and sticks. During that same period, I constructed my first "factory" which was a makeshift "petroleum refinery" from discarded pieces of pipe, and cans and hose.
How can I explain this kind of "imprinting"? Perhaps I can't. But one thing is certain; this is the pattern that has repeated itself in my life countless times over a period of more than half a century. Why? The extremely powerful creative urge has dominated my entire life... quite frankly, to my material disadvantage.
To my material disadvantage, yes. But I have never regretted being what I am. I couldn't change with any less difficulty than a fish could exchange scales for feathers.
Entry XIV August 16, 2006
By September 15, 1945, World War II had ended, and Whitehouse Public School resumed classes for the fall term. Summer vacations in those days were long; a carryover from the time when children helped with crop cultivation and harvest. I found myself enrolled in the first grade class of Mozel Brown... but not for long. Since my birthdate was on September 29, and school started on the 15th, technically, I was not of school age (6 years) when I was enrolled. About two weeks after the start of school, the teacher realized this and wrote a note to my mother, suggesting that a talk with the principal would probably result in my staying in school.
Mother thought it wise not to ask for "special privileges" and so my first experience with formal education was cut short.
Well that it was, for reasons which I shall elaborate at some later time. It is probable that a new infusion of capital was needed to keep Mary and Edgar's plans in motion; so a trip was planned to the "greener pastures" of the west; Tucumcari, New Mexico, to be exact. "There's oil in them thar hills..."
"Oil in the hills" doesn't necessarily mean money in the pocket, but the whole thing turned out to be an exciting adventure for me. The trip to Tucumcari was extended to Rangely, Colorado. We lived at both places for a short while, but we were back home before school resumed the following autumn.
Entry XV August 27, 2006
Our means of conveyance west was not a chuck wagon as might have been the case a few generations earlier, but our green '39 Chevrolet sedan and the wagon of the old west had a few things in common. The back seat was loaded with the basic necessities of housekeeping, with barely room for one little passenger. The front was occupied by my mother and my father who took turns at the wheel. A big, heavy, tent / tarpaulin was carefully rolled and lashed to the top of the old car. My mother constructed a portable table which extended out of the trunk and rested on two legs when the lid was raised. Iron skillets, a food supply, plates, knives, forks, cups, saucers, clothing.... We were well supplied for the trip.
I remember our pulling out of Tyler but not the time of day. I suspect that I slept during much of the early part of the trip. The first clear memory after we left Texas is that of a large, cinder cone volcano in New Mexico. We passed very close to it, and I was able to see a recently constructed road spiraling around it toward the top. I recall that I desperately wanted to stop and explore it. Of course, circumstances prevented that, but from that moment forward, I was fascinated by things geological.
We arrived at Tucumcari, New Mexico, (insert Tucumcari legend) and rented a low-cost motel room at the base of steep hills of fine volcanic ash. An abandoned gasoline tank from an old tanker truck immediately became my fortress and private retreat. At least, it was private for a while, until a swarm of Mexican kids invaded my little domain and one of them decided to use the tank as a toilet. I retreated immediately, not so much because of the superior number of the invaders, but because of the stench.
The powdery ash slopes offered an excellent opportunity for "sledding" on makeshift cardboard sleds, but our stay in Tucumcari was short-lived. We were again on the road. Destination: Rangely, Colorado.
We climbed the winding mountain roads into Colorado through Monarch Pass, Ratoon Pass and over the Continental Divide. Mines, rocky cliffs, fir trees, rushing mountain streams and waterfalls, clear mountain air, and snow (in summer). I was utterly fascinated by the beauty unfolding before my eyes. We sopped periodically to camp and eat the food mother prepared over campfires. The stops afforded me the opportunity to explore. Quaking Aspen, cold, clear water over polished stones, flat-tailed beavers and ravens kept my attention.
The number of nights spent "camping out" is uncertain, but one in particular made an indelible impression. Darkness was upon us as we finished dinner, and big, heavy raindrops began to fall as we scurried under the shelter of the heavy tarp. I can never forget the wonderful sound of those raindrops on the tarp. I don't recall our bedding arrangement, but I felt warm and secure with my parents. The tarp was new and had a distinctive odor; not entirely unpleasant. That night was one of the most memorable of my entire childhood.
Our progress was slow, but steady, and before long we were at our final destination: Rangely. Daddy found a job in the nearby oil field. We moved into a small log cabin with a coal-burning stove, and I regularly feasted on apricots and fresh pastries, the source of which will be revealed in due time. Our stay in Rangely was short, but a comfortable routine was established. (witch, cat, rough slope, snake, whirlpool in the river, Mr. Haney (the baker))
Entry XVI September, 2006
The log cabin was nestled at the base of steep foothills which rose abruptly a few hundred feet from the back door. The setting was very similar to Tucumcari, where we had volcanic ash hills behind the house. There was a difference though. The hills at Rangely were steeper and higher, and they were not composed of volcanic ash. They were rocky.
Not fully understanding these vital differences, I soon made my way up one of the slopes with my makeshift sled of cardboard. Understanding was not long in coming, as I began my sled-journey down a shallow, gravel-bottomed ravine. Faster than the Tucumcari hills, the ride was going fine until the pebbles began to erode through the bottom of my "sled". I soon realized that disintegration was on the way. I tried slowing my descent by dragging my hands, but sharp rocks and ever increasing speed made that impossible. By the time I stopped, the "sled" was scattered along the ravine in fragments and the seat of my pants was worn thin.
So ended my sledding experiences at Rangely. But still fascinated by the hills, I occasionally made excursions to the top; usually with my mother, but sometimes alone. Once while making the treck alone, I encountered a rattlesnake at the very peak. The snake slithered into a hole, and I quickly made my way back to the house.
I have always been fascinated by stories of witches and goblins, and sometimes pretended to be warlock. On one such occasion, under a full moon, as I cavorted behind our little cabin, with a cloak made from my mother's tablecloth... I encountered a tiny kitten. We made friends immediately. Mother and I named her "Fluff" and she remained my mascot for all nine of her lives.
Like Tucumcari, our stay at Rangely was short-lived. Memories which remain with me are those of fresh, sweet, apricots; huge, powerful, oilfield trucks laboring up steep grades; and a churning whirlpool in a nearby river. And how could I ever forget "Mr. Haney"? Tall and toothless, and red as an Indian; he was a local baker who had to get up very early each morning to bake rolls and doughnuts and cakes for the day's trade. Mr. Haney had a delightful sense of humor, always laughing... with his big, red, toothless mouth opened wide with the pure joy of being alive. His work at the bakery ended in mid-afternoon, and he frequently stopped by our place with a huge paper sack filled with delicious, sweet rolls and pastries... still hot. I have carried memories of his kindness with me for a lifetime.
Soon the work ended at Rangely and the decision was made to return home. Our financial condition at that time is unclear to me since I wasn't monitoring the cash flow. Apparently, there was enough money to make the return trip successfully, and perhaps even a little surplus to plough into the land when we got back.
Soon, once again, we were home.
Entry XVII October, 2006
Shortly after our return, an overnight storm blew the rotted trunk of a large oak tree down near our house. At the top was a woodpecker's nest carefully chiseled and containing several small woodpeckers. They had not been injured by the fall, but had little chance of survival on the ground.
Mother rescued the fledglings and nourished them with food she prepared herself. She made a paste of boiled egg, milk and water and fed them with a medicine dropper. The little birds adapted very well and would sit on the edge of their new "nest" in our bedroom and skwawk when they wanted to be fed.
Their little pink and toothless mouths would open wide, reminding me of our baker friend in Colorado, Mr. Haney. I named one of the birds "Haney". Before long, Haney and his siblings were old enough to fend for themselves and took up residence outside.
In the years following, we raised many young wild birds in this fashion including cardinals, blue jays, mocking birds, and sometimes the canaries which mother grew for sale.
In this setting, I developed a love and respect for the world of nature and viewed myself as an integral part of it. (Billy, the mink, pet skunk, possums, armadillos, bats, flying squirrels) (Oriole nests, fieldlarks, walks in the rain, brooks, wet weather springs, lake spillway...)
It was during this interval; the time between our return home and the beginning of school in the fall that I began to construct makeshift "refineries" and chemical plants from tin cans and pieces of discarded pipe and hose. The only photograph extant of me and my father together shows one such toy plant in our backyard. I also began drilling miniature "oil wells" with derricks made from wire wreath stands discarded from the nearby cemetery.
Miniature volcanoes were also homemade amusements. A conical pile of powdered sand and clay was piled over the open end of the delivery hose of the tire pump from our "39 Chevy. Pumping at various rates gave the flameless eruptions and a perfect "cinder cone".
In summer I enjoyed building dams on small streams, and "caves" were a constant fascination, and there was always a treehouse under construction.
I repeat. In spite of near constant financial stress, material shortages, and the absence of a stable family life, my surroundings were idyllic for a child of my predispositions. There was room to learn and grow in a free and nurturing environment.
Entry XVIII November, 2006
My life to this point had been devoid of relationships with other children, and it might seem that adjustment to a classroom setting would have been difficult, if not impossible. But such was not the case. I entered the first grade joyously and for the most part, maintained excellent relations with my teachers and classmates for the entire twelve years spent in the public schools. There was not a single year of the twelve that I didn't happily anticipate the beginning of school.
There were numerous reasons for this. (1) I learned effortlessly and enjoyed it. (2) My mother's sister Edna and my mother had paved the way for good relations with my teachers by being fair minded and co-operative. (3) Mozel Brown, my first grade teacher, was a kind and loving person whom I quickly came to respect and love. (4) As the years passed, I was given remarkable freedom of action within the school setting... a freedom which I never abused. (5) A deep bond existed between me and most of my teachers over the years. Our relationships were co-operative, not adversarial.
The memory of my first day in Mozel Brown's class is as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday. That was the first and only day my mother came to school with me. After a visit with "Miss Mozel", she left.
Several significant events ensued. I happened to sit behind a lovely, spirited little girl named Bennie Lou Ables, who immediately offered me a piece of chewing gum. (Is this beginning to read like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden?) I gratefully accepted the offer of sweet friendship, but before I could blow my first bubble, Mozel Brown admonished me not to "chew gum in class" and I swallowed my prize. Woman, woman, thou art the downfall of man! (I don't think Bennie Lou's transgression was ever detected.)
Later we were introduced to the first reader... a huge, oversized book which opened to about three feet in width and which contained the story of "Dick and Jane" and "Spot", and was printed in bright colors.
Quickly it was recess time, but as the play period drew to an end, Mozel lined us up beside the outdoor toilets and instructed us to go inside and not to come out until we had "used the toilet".
What a shocking experience! I found myself inside a smelly, wooden outhouse for the first time, with at least half a dozen other little boys my age, facing a long, wooden "toilet seat" with holes uniformly spaced and cut to fit the behinds of six-year olds.
As I took my seat, much too close for comfort to the boys on either side, Mozel's words rang in my ears, "Don't come out until you use the toilet!" While everyone else did their business and left, I sat there petrified. I didn't need to use the toilet; I tried to follow the teacher's instruction, but I couldn't! Endless minutes passed, and I could hear the bell ringing to resume class. (Mozel carried a big, hand held bell, and she would ring it from the schoolhouse steps to re-assemble her flock.)
Having discovered me missing, she sent a student to see what had happened. She supressed a chuckle when I, in all seriousness, explained to her that I had intended to follow her instructions if it took all day. I don't recall ever using that toilet! I don't think I ever did.
Entry IXX December, 2006
As might be expected, my little gum-chewing Eve and I soon became a romantic "item". Bennie Ables and Bobby Moore. What a pair! Sometime during that first year, Bennie introduced me to the fine art of first grade kissing under one of the big oaks that grew in the schoolyard. That kiss was the first and only one I ever received at school... for the whole twelve years!
During those years it was customary for the faculty and students of the school to celebrate a "Halloween Carnival" in late October. the affair was the biggest event of the year and was used as a fundraiser for worthy school-related causes. Couples were elected by their classmates as "king and queen" of each grade. Then at a coronation ceremony the night of the carnival, a high school and a grade school king and queen were crowned, winners being determined by which classes had raised the most money.
Bennie Lou and I were elected king and queen of the first grade, and somehow our class managed to raise the most money, making us the reigning monarchs of grade school. Mother made a little tuxedo for me to wear at the coronation. (I looked like a miniature "Dracula".) Bennie Lou wore a tiny white evening gown.
So, I was the "king", and I acted the part... so much so that the nickname "king" followed me for years. On the festive night of the coronation, there was a talent show and Bennie Lou sang "Dust on the Bible". Her older brother accompanied her on the guitar. In years to come, much of the money raised by the king and queen contest was used to buy theater seats for a new school auditorium. The sale of countless cakewalks and bags of peanuts and popcorn helped furnish this very fine 250 seat auditorium, which was later demolished to make room for a "new" and greatly inferior building... with no windows... and no auditorium.
The new building did bring with it however, a huge debt which probably has not been retired, even as this is being written. The older building was debt free, having been built by the Works Progress Administration in the 30's. Destroying the old building to build the new inferior one was a textbook example of lethargy, stupidity and greed, repeated countless times all across America.
But lethargy wasn't in my vocabulary, and greed hadn't touched me as I walked across the stage with Bennie Lou in October 1947. I was king, and the world was my domain.
Entry XX January, 2007
Second grade at Whitehouse Elementary School was less than exciting. The teacher was an unattractive younger woman who seemed to be preoccupied with capturing butterflies and moths and gasing them to death with chloroform. I thought the creatures were much more beautiful in the living state than when dead and pinned to the bottom of a cigar box. Although I did not particularly dislike the second grade teacher, I found her mannerisms and dullness irritating. About the only interesting thing that happened at school that year was when Bennie Lou fell during recess and broke her arm.
Third grade found me in the class of Mary Louise Yarbrough; a lovely and soft spoken, genteel lady, the younger sister of my first grade teacher, Mozel Brown. Art, and a smattering of science broadened my horizons under her tutelage. Mary Louise drew the first science-related diagram that I ever saw on a blackboard (showing the earth revolving around the sun). I realized at the time that her drawing was inaccurate since it represented the earth's orbit as circular rather than elleptical. Mary Louise also introduced us to the fine art of bird house building.
It was during this otherwise idyllic time that I had my first taste of conflict and pain. The pain came in the form of a severe and prolonged allergic reaction to poison ivy. The inner sides of my thighs became raw as calve's liver and the infection was spreading upward and back. After exhausting home remedies, I was finally taken to Dr. Rice (the same doctor who had delivered me). His series of injections proved useless, and as a last resort, he prescribed tincture of metaphine (a bright red liquid resembling mercurachrome). It was mopped on with large cotton swabs producing extreme, burning pain. But it proved highly effective. A very few applications and the itching, burning misery that had tormented me for months was over.
But misery of another kind reared it's ugly head. A small clique of "bullies" seemed to be hell-bent upon making life miserable for me. Instead of taking my mother's advice not to fight, I should have beat hell out of them. But I seem to have been as popular with most members of my class as I had been in first grade, and once again Bennie Lou and I were voted king and queen.
Mumps, chicken pox, and the other usual childhood diseases of the day came and went during my early years at Whitehouse. A fall from a tree resulted in a broken arm, but the trauma of death had not entered my life. Death was unreal to me since at this point in my life none of my immediate family had died. Within months that was to change. Grim reality came knocking on our door.
Entry XXI February, 2007
My mother had been reared in a matriarchial household from childhood. Her father was a tall, blue eyed Scot with black hair. From all reports, he was a good father and provided well for his family as a railroad construction engineer, but death claimed him before my mother reached puberty. The story goes that he developed fatal pheumonia while supervising the construction of a railroad bridge during a cold, rainy winter.
His death left his widow, Martha Caroline "Mattie" Jones, with some land in the piney woods of east Texas and three daughters, the youngest of which was my mother. The family's major asset was a big log house which the engineer had constructed before his death.
Grannie was a frail little lady, a former school teacher who was not at all suited to the crude, frontier life imposed upon her by the sudden death of her husband. Nevertheless, she and her daughters attempted to extract a livlihood from the land. Crops were planted, and it seemed for a time that they might survive as farmers.
Then one Sunday morning, as was their custom, Mattie Jones and her daughters set out for church in the family wagon. Going to church was an all-day affair back then, and it was near twilight when they returned home. There they discovered their homeplace and all their material belongings reduced to a pile of smouldering ash.
Now in debt from loans intended to finance the farming operation, and without shelter, Mattie was forced to seek whatever work was available. There wasn't much to choose from; She accepted employment as a cook for a logging company and soon found herself and her daughters working in a cook tent, surrounded by a crew of loggers. The situation was not idyllic. Events which took place there left indelible impressions upon my mother emotionally... some of which she carried with her to the end of her life.
During this time she also acquired a typhoid infection from drinking contaminated water from a mill pond. Her description of the fever, its effects, and the effect of the medications used to treat it are both sad and fascinating. (See Chapter...)
The hardships endured during this period served to strengthen the bond between my mother and Mattie. They loved each other very much. Was their bond stronger than that between the other sisters and their mother? Very probably so. It remained strong throughout the years, and when the time came for Mattie to die, she asked to be brought to my mother's house. Not to the neatly constructed and well-kept structures of her other daughters, but to the shanty in the woods that my mother had built with her own hands. Maybe too, the trees were calling her back.
She died in that little house; a slow and agonizing and humiliating death, amid a constant stream of prayers that she would be healed. She wasn't healed. She wasn't even granted a peaceful death. We watched her die, and my mother went to pieces; emotionally overwhelmed. "Is this how God rewards the faithful?" I wondered.
In mother's mind, the death of Grannie was made even more exacerable by the fact that only a few months before, uncle J.B. had died of a massive heart attack. Mother was one of the first on the scene and rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital where he was pronounced "dead on arrival". She described to me many times the horror of that trip.
The cumulative effect was psychologically devastating and mother sought to escape it somehow by attempting a reconciliation with my father who was then employed at a machine shop in Houston.
It was summer 1950 when we packed up and left for the big city; the only period of my pre-adult life spent away from the homeplace and away from the protective guidance of my teachers at Whitehouse School. While this was a unique experience for me, it was not altogether unpleasant. I remember much of it quite well.
Entry XXII March, 2007
And so we made the pilgrimage to Houston... a big town which seemed even bigger than life in the eyes of a ten year-old country kid. Somehow though it seemed a friendly and exciting place to me. I liked it.
The memory of my fraternal grandparents house on Quitman Street is unforgettable. The kitchen, the on-demand hot water heater with it's copper coils and blazing gas flame, the musty smell of the living room with its heavily draped windows, the easy-going nature of my grandfather, George. Somehow,
I had become attached to a little red hound puppy who had made the trip with mother and me to Houston.
Entry XXIII May, 2015 The world has changed since that last entry was made nine years ago. Nine years! Nine years during which my personal life has been rocked by deceit and treachery; nine years during which my country, the United States of America, the greatest bastion of liberty in all history, has become a defacto dictatorship. If I seem unhappy about this, it's because I am. I am, in fact, furious. Controlling that fury is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. Frankly I don't think it is something that SHOULD be done. But it is something that WILL be done for reasons which will become apparent much later in the book. So now, I resume the story with an account of my very brief stay in Houston. My mother and I had made the trip to the big city in our old green Chevrolet (1939 vintage). Along the way, we stopped at the ghostly remains of several very large steam powered sawmills at the edge of the great East Texas Piney Woods. They stood silent and cold. In memory I can still smell the fragrant pine sawdust and the valve oil of the steam engines. I embraced them. I worshiped the massive iron boilers, the steam cylinders, and the flywheels. (Our maximum speed during the 200 mile trip was about 30 miles per hour.) As we came nearer the city, countless huge billboards advertised liquor and new automobiles, and all the other enticements that a big town could offer. Within a day or two of our arrival, and after our visit to the Moore's home on Quitman Street, we (that is the three of us; my mother, my father,and I) set out to find a place to live.( Daddy was lining in a nondescript, one-room apartment at the time, The images of it are very clear in my mind.) The first house we visited as prospective renters had been recently repainted inside. I remember pastel yellow and blue. But the apartment finally chosen was upstairs in a very large old house. I had my own room with my own gable window with a view across the yard and to the street. It was, in fact, a perfect room for a ten year old. I had taken a model boat with me from Tyler, which I was constructing from an old apple box. The neighborhood was old; the homes were well kept but old, as were many of the people who lived in them. I walked down the sidewalk confident and unafraid, enjoying the cool shade of the lush, green trees and taking note of the glimpses of life which presented themselves to me. It was quite an adventure. Through one living room window I could see a large, salt-water aquarium which was home for colorful tropical fish which swam leisurely between rocks covered with green algae. Times were different then. Ironically the landlady was an elderly and devout Catholic as had been our landlady during our brief stay in Louisiana some years before. We got along very well together and she would occasionally invite me in for snacks. She owned a very large and articulate parrot which had quite an impressive vocabulary. Some time before, I had read "The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle" (the fictional story of a man who learned to converse with animals) and I was very interested in discovering whether the landlady's bird understood what it was saying. My experiments were cut short however. We moved. The exact reasons for the move remain obscure, but one event near the end of our stay is crystal clear. It was payday and the rent was due and Daddy was late coming home from the machine shop. Dinner was waiting, and my mother became justifiably concerned. I took it upon myself to determine why he was late, so I began the long walk to the machine shop. I had grown up taking long walks. But this one was different. This wasn't the woods; this was the biggest town in Texas. The foreman at the shop told me that my father had left work at the usual time. I became concerned and tried to imagine what had caused him to be late. I stopped at a saloon on my way back home and found him inside...sitting at the bar. The atmosphere was filled with stale cigarette smoke and the odor of beer. A tall woman with a heavily powdered face and garish red lipstick immediately came to me, and put her arm around me in a protective sort of way. Within a moment Daddy saw me and proudly introduced me as his son. The people all seemed cordial, but I quietly explained to him that dinner was waiting, and so we left. Within a few short days we left Houston. For some undisclosed reason, his employment at the machine shop had ended. Soon we found ourselves in Cleveland, Texas about twenty miles north of Houston. For more information call Bobby Moore at 903-707-6258 
-to be continued-
"The tree of liberty is watered by the blood of patriots and tyrants".... Thomas Jefferson....
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