everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

e.e. cummings

When I first walked around New York City, I stared in disbelief at the tall buildings of Manhattan. I had never seen so much concrete. The history and architecture of the buildings may be enthralling, but it doesn’t speak to me the same as an old, knotted oak tree or a sunset sprawled across the Texas sky. And sunset, my favorite part of the day, was a rare sight. Either I was at the office, or buildings blocked the lowering sun. When I made the move from New York to Walburg, I’d go out by myself to see the sun set in front of my grandparent’s house. Wisps of cotton-candy colored clouds stick to the sky and, closer to the horizon, a bright orange sky burns in the distance.

Sunset in Walburg

Nowadays if you exit my Grandpa and Grandma’s Farm to Market road from the highway, you’re led down a twisty black paved road. On the side of the Interstate, you’ll see a Crestview RV dealership—something my family complained about for weeks on end as it was being built but has since seemed like it has always been there. As you near the first big curve in the road, a small white church sits straight in front of you. To the right of that church is a small house with a fence extending down its right side and on down the road. That fence wraps around my grandparent’s pasture. Their small white house has sat on that same corner since 1955. Going further down the road on the left, you’ll pass the game room, Mickan Motor Company, and several large yellow warehouses. Behind those warehouses lies a graveyard of tractors and old farm parts. About thirty seconds later, you’re in the heart of Walburg, and about thirty seconds after that, you’re out again.

Miles of pasture extend down each side of the road, occasionally interrupted by a small neighborhood or business. In the fall, the pasture looks like stalks of gold in the sunshine. In the spring, wildflowers of all kinds line the roads, and the famous Texas bluebonnets cover the fields with the right amount of rain. The fields and yards are as green as the John Deere tractors that keep them groomed. In a good winter, hay sprouts from the dirt. This year, farmers kept praying for rain to have one small harvest before the dead of winter. My grandpa and I would drive along the county roads, staring out into the rows and rows of tilled, planted soil—a testament to the dedication and faith of the farmers hoping for a miracle.

When we were little, we spent the majority of our time outside in the backyard or in the infinite pasture. We had huge bonfires, where we would roast marshmallows and the kids would systematically find things to throw in the fire. My grandparents had a trampoline, where we would perform our stunts. I was usually chosen as the one to be skyrocketed into the air because I was the runt. I jumped in the middle, and my cousins and sister propelled me in the sky by jumping as close to me as possible. Grandpa had a treehouse built for us when we were all little, and we would climb up the wooden steps and whoosh down the metal slide. We taught one of our golden retrievers, Saint, to climb and slide too. We also had our version of a merry-go-round, which consisted of four chairs molded to the ends of two crisscrossed metal bars all painted blue. We would sit in the chairs and someone would go in the center and push. When we felt we were going fast enough, the one pushing in the middle would duck under the metal bars and proceed to roll out. One of my revered pastimes was watching the Monarch butterflies migrate. The trees, covered in butterflies, looked like they were on fire as the Monarchs flapped their red, yellow, and orange wings. Some afternoons, we would be the only traffic on the Farm to Market road as we raced in Grandpa’s pedal cars. Grandpa had a golf cart that we would use to ride all over the pasture. I would usually go crawfishing with bacon tied to a string. On cloudless nights, we would all go out on the trampoline, bundle up in quilts, and gaze for shooting stars—calling out when and where we spotted one.

Now we still fish as a family in Grandpa’s pond, go out on the fourwheeler with the dogs trailing behind, or sit out on the swing in the backyard and admire the breeze in the backyard. Just last month, the number of stars illuminating the night sky stunned me. I was frozen watching them flicker above me. All I could think was, “Thank God for this moment.” In the age of iPods, computers, big screen TVs, it’s nice to go to a place still engulfed in nature, a place where I can feel as infinite as the sky, and as free as the butterflies.

Small Talkin'

My sister was married in late September, and after the wedding, I dog-sat while they were on their honeymoon. When Lauren and Brian returned, I packed a suitcase and went up to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Grandma and Grandpa were going to Michigan for a week in early October to celebrate another wedding. I stepped in as the new receptionist of Mickan Motor Company—answering the phones, manning the cash register and the gas pumps, and excelling in my main duty of chatting up the customers.

I didn’t realize how much I loved small talk until I went to New York City: the capital of “just give me the facts.” Everyone was too busy. I had my staples for small talk: the owners and workers of the convenience stores on each end of my apartment block, and the lady at Ashby’s who served me soup almost every day. 

But in Walburg, Texas, it’s a whole different ballgame. First of all, I learned to introduce myself as, “Ray’s granddaughter, Cindy’s daughter” whenever people would ask. Instantly, they would recognize the connection, and were even able to see the resemblance. “Are you one of the ones who was in New York,” some would ask. I would smile at the fact that Grandpa had probably told them a hundred times about how I worked in “Midtown Manhattan” and lived in Brooklyn.

On the first day, I had several regulars come in and say, “Wow, Ray, you look different.” One day, a young woman entered and announced, “Oh, I just love this little place. I’ve never even been to Walburg before.” I could feel my chest puff up with pride as I told her that it was family owned since 1927, when my great-grandfather built it, and how my grandpa took over, and now my uncle. She exclaimed how special that was, and how she was so glad to have stopped in. Several times, people wanting to hear a story would ask where Ray was. You could see the disappointment when I would explain that he was out of town. Regardless, they would take a seat and talk about everything from the weather to politics, saying whatever was on their mind. Then they’d be back again the next day to do it all over again.

Day One

It’s October 26^th, and my Grandpa Ray Mickan sits across from me at his wooden kitchen table. I wrap a small blue quilt from the hall closet around myself because the air vent blows right above me. I sit with my feet under me in the wooden chair so they don’t touch the chilly laminate wood floor. Behind me sits the refrigerator, with its freezer door covered in pictures of children and grandchildren. To my left, a single window above the sink looks out to the backyard. Grandpa has finished off his toast with sugar-free jelly and Smart Balance, and his morning cup of coffee. I, too, had my breakfast of champions—Cocoa Puffs.

Neither of us know how to begin, so he just starts talking. His voice is deep, yet rhythmically soothing. It is just loud enough to hold your attention. His words are tinged with a country twang expected of his upbringing—not the thicker drawls of deep west or east Texas. His first memory, as a three-year-old, is a story of how he remembers bawling because he was stuck in an unfortunate place by the pin securing his diaper. The vividness of his retelling is astounding, as I have been to known to struggle to think about what took place yesterday. He continues by telling me stories about his childhood. He tries to stay in order but when he talks about his Uncle Alfred, it sparks stories of later in life. We decide to go ahead and tell those while he’s thinking of them. My fingers race across the keys, keeping with the speed of his words. He gives thought to each sentence, and pauses at the crucial parts of the story to give me time to catch up.

He tells me not to worry if he doesn’t look me in the eye, because that’s how he gathers his thoughts. During our interviews, Grandpa will look out the sole kitchen window to his right and survey the landscape as if he’s seeing the past unfold outside. His thick, aviator eyeglasses magnify his brown eyes. He moves his tan, husky hands with the gestures of the stories. Occasionally, he’ll place his head in his hands to gather his thoughts and seem to doze for a moment, but will quickly lift his head a minute later and continue right where he left off.

He tells me of a time with no electricity, when they took baths once a week in water that was heated by a fire on the stove. Usually they would take baths in the same water in which they washed their clothes. I try to picture it but it seems so foreign. I can’t imagine that kind of life taking place on this very same plot of land—his parents stepping on the same soil that’s around us today. 

In order to imagine his life as a child, I have to strip away the huge yellow warehouses made of sheet metal that now contain his old cars, tractors, and our toys, and replace them with his childhood home. I would also have to remove the house Grandpa built when he and Grandma got married, strip the pavement from the road, and downsize many of the huge pecan, oak, and mulberry trees to saplings. The “gameroom” where Grandpa keeps his antiques, PacMan, pool table, would have to become a bar. The metal fence that lines his property would certainly not be there either. The shop, Mickan Motor Company, which his father, Daniel Mickan, built in 1927, seven years before Grandpa was born, would be a bit smaller. However, like present day, it would be full of familiar faces from around Williamson County. It seems like a completely different place, yet still the same old soil. I struggle to grasp all of it.

That first day, we complete about five pages in Microsoft Word. Grandma comes from Mickan Motor Company at about 6 o’clock, where she’s been conducting the finances and managing the cash register, and sees Grandpa dozing off during a story and hints that it’s time to call it a night. After we watch the evening news and Grandma leads a devotional, I head to my bed. All I keep thinking is, “I’m writing a book.” I used to laugh in amazement at the fact that I was going to write a book, and now there are actual words on a page.

Grandpa and I

Ray's Ways

On October 26, 2011, four days after I turned 25, I started writing my first book. But the story of how I discovered the topic of that book starts three years earlier after my college graduation. I graduated from Texas A&M in December of 2008. That evening, we had dinner to celebrate at a Mexican restaurant, La Margarita, in Georgetown, Texas. My dad had finished giving a tearful speech of how proud he was, and I had made my attempt at a speech that quickly turned into sobs. My Grandpa Raymond Mickan rushed to my rescue. He announced to my family and, much to my surprise, that he had chosen me to write his biography. Of course, I was flattered, but I still didn’t know how I, as a freshly graduated twenty-two year old, could be capable of doing justice to a biography.

A branding firm in New York City, Siegel+Gale, had offered me an internship for the summer of 2009. I knew this would be an invaluable opportunity so I chose to take it, not knowing that I would fall in love with the people, take a full-time position, and stay for two years. However, as usual, sometimes glitter on the street is just glitter and not gold. I started to miss my family and the great state of Texas.

But New York served me well. It made me put my dreams and my life in perspective. When you are able to see celebrities, writers, photographers, and actors attempting to live normal lives and shake the hands of CEOs, you are able to see them as a real person. You discover that anyone is capable of doing great things, even little old you. I started thinking of how I was holding myself back. I kept thinking, “I’m too young,” or “I don’t have enough experience.” Going to New York made me realize I should take advantage of my talents and passion now because the only one putting restrictions on myself was me.

I told my Grandpa about my plans to start on the book during a trip back to Texas in early 2011. His eyes welled up with tears and so did mine. As I started to tell people about the book, at first I would laugh and say, “Well, I’m going to write my Grandpa’s biography.” However, with each person’s reaction a funny thing happened. They would say, “I wish I would have done that with my grandfather.”  One of my great aunts even said, “When you’re done, you should write mine!” No one questioned or scoffed at my idea, like in my greatest fears. It was the convincing I needed as a first-time book writer.

The first question they would ask me about Grandpa was always, “What has he done?” My usual reply would be, “Well, I don’t know. That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Outside of our family and Williamson County, Ray Mickan isn’t a famous man. There aren’t any plaques to commemorate him, except there was a rumor that he was referenced in the population sign in his hometown of Walburg as the “1 old grouch”. Those who don’t know him would see him as a seventy-seven year old retired mechanic. He’s lived on the same plot of land his entire life. First, he lived in a house that his father built, then, in 1955, he moved to a house that he himself built for his wife Ethel—all nestled along the same curve of a Farm to Market road. He went to a Lutheran church and school just down the road, which he still attends to this day. He has a passion for music, and a fondness for church organs. He once told me that a particular organist, who played for my sister’s wedding, performed so well in a church service on the Fourth of July that it brought tears to his eyes. His own deep voice can make a church pew sway, and has been known to produce wet eyes.

Those who do know him gather around to hear his stories. He sits behind the front counter of Mickan Motor Company, the automotive shop that was handed down to him from his father, which he handed down to his son Danny in 2000, and chats with the customers, occasionally answering the phones or taking payments from customers. Some people walk in the door looking to chat with him.

My Grandpa has always been a storyteller. When we were little, we would gather to hear him tell us tall tales—never short. My Uncle Tim is quoted for saying, “Give me the short version of the story.” My family would go to Walburg, Texas at least three times a year, for Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, if not more, so there were plenty of opportunities to listen to Grandpa. My dad’s dad died before I was born, so Ray is the only grandpa I’ve ever really known. But now writing his book, I’m realize how little I know about him. I didn’t know that in his younger days, he and his dad were known for their paint jobs on cars. Or that he was the smartest person in grade school, but he was asked to leave high school. I didn’t even know how he got to be called Ray—a name he earned from singing a Johnnie Ray song in the school talent show. When we were little, he told us stories of how the Kookaburra Indians made their Kookaburra tree grow simply by blowing into its branches, or tall tales of lions, tigers, and bears while we drove deep in the jungle of Walburg, which was a low-water crossing through a thicket of trees. Now I finally get to hear the rest of the stories.

When I moved back to Texas in the spring of 2011, I got a final confidence boost as my grandpa proudly introduced me to all his friends, neighbors, the pastor, and random passersby as “the one who’s going to write my biography.” And so here I am.

With this, I’m chronicling my attempt at chronicling Ray’s Way of Life.