Happy birthday, Ray!

Today, Tuesday, August 21^st, is Grandpa’s 78^th birthday. I asked Grandpa today what his favorite birthday present was. He referred me to a picture from seventy years ago of him standing behind a table that held a birthday cake with eight candles. Behind him is his birthday present: a tent. In the tent sits his dog Scraps, staring at the camera with one ear perked up.

The picture is of me standing in front of my Indian type tent. In front of me is a little table with my cake and eight candles. I remember putting that tent up in the backyard, taking an old blanket for a pillow, and spending the night out there. I could think of it as being out in the middle of nowhere. My little dog Scraps would stay in the tent with me; he was my guard dog. He, to me, was a very big dog at that time, I would imagine. The reason I became so thankful that I got it that tent was for that private time.

I also had another place where I could spend some time alone: our wooden front porch. Although, private wasn’t so private with my super dog. That porch was well-used. What I enjoyed the most and this came back last Saturday: when it started raining, the thunder and the lightning, the early drizzle, then heavier and heavier with a little more wind. It reminded me of my younger days when a northern would blow in. The place that was the driest to be outside and not get wet was the front porch of the house, which was not enclosed at all. What I enjoyed was to kinda tie together a cardboard box or two and that was my cover. I would crawl inside the cardboard box. I wouldn’t tear the box up; one side would be the floor. I could slide in there and take a piece of old towel for a pillow and I would lay there and listen to it rain and the wind blow.

Still to this day, I can sleep through a thunderstorm. It’s a comforting noise, if you may. Saturday morning, out where the dumpster is, either Paul or Danny drug a box as big, deep, wide, and long as this kitchen table. It was a cardboard box that was sitting on top of a wooden pallet, and it had a lot of parts from Modern Manufacturing out of Beaumont. I’m thinking we’re liable to get some rain and I don’t want to see this box get destroyed. Man, what I could have done with that box when I was little. I drug it away and put it on the back of the pickup that was outside but under the roof of the shop Saturday morning. Later, when I saw Paul, I told him, “Y’all can cut that box into four pieces and put them on top of the rafters and use those as a creeper to slide on and crawl underneath the cars. That’s what I used to do when I didn’t have a creeper good enough.” I didn’t want it to get wet and messed up.

So I’m sitting here on the back porch, seeing it starting to rain. I probably could have laid down somewhere where the rain wasn’t getting to me and fallen asleep. I flat out enjoyed not only the wind and the rain but to see changes in attitude of birds and, when it stopped, here these frogs emerged. I got the biggest kick out of those frogs. For ten minutes duration, I’d take that water jet nozzle and shoot this frog and it immediately would jump. The way some of those frogs could jump tickled me. I’d shoot another one. There was a couple on the sidewalk down here next to the plants. They didn’t know whether to go back against the house or into the yard. This one of them was right by the wheelbarrow and jumped over the wheelbarrow, over the sidewalk, and next to the swings. But where did they come from? Penny said that happens occasionally in Berry Creek. So anyway that was the frog ordeal. Sometimes when it rains a lot, we call it a frog strangler.

Grandma went grocery shopping and when she was leaving to go back out to the truck, it was raining cats and dogs so she literally stayed in the grocery store damn near half or three quarters of an hour and finally decided to heck with it. She ran to the pickup and still got soaking wet. Her hair told me that.

So anyway, that was like a Saturday evening from the past, nobody else around.

After seventy-eight years, it’s amazing to think something so simple, the feeling of freedom and independence, is what Grandpa cherished the most out of his birthday gifts. And I take comfort in the fact that he can easily recall and regain that feeling every time a thunderstorm passes through; I can only hope there will be no shortage of rain in his many years to come.

Take me out to the ballgame

The first time Grandpa met Coach Jim Mallon, he tried to coerce him into offering Danny a baseball scholarship to Southwestern. The attempt was not successful but Danny wanted to play for Southwestern so that’s where he went. It was a good thing. Coach Mallon was not only an exceptional coach but he became a good friend to our family. He passed away on February 26 of this year; Grandpa remembered him and told me about his memorial service:

The boys knew when Coach Mallon was ticked off at any big mistake done either offensively or defensively. You could really tell when he would kick the dirt real hard, or when he got back in the dugout and kicked the chair in there so hard that it bent the hound out of it.

One time I saw him walking toward the north side of the dugout at the old stadium, where there was a real large two and a half foot long very, very old RC Cola thermometer. Whatever took place that angered Coach Mallon—as he came to the dugout, he reached out with his fist, hit that RC Cola thermometer, broke it, and somebody said, “Do you know that was an antique thermometer still in good shape?” He said, “Well it ain’t no more.”

Another time he had a real problem with a call made by the home plate umpire. He and that home plate umpire met at home plate. While that home plate umpire was talking, giving his spiel for why he called what he did, Coach Mallon was continuously dragging up dirt with his feet and he dug enough dirt while that umpire was talking to cover that umpire’s shoes and home plate. The audience got the biggest laugh out of that one.

Someday, I’ll need to have a visit with Ms. Jane Mallon to point out different items that Coach Mallon brought by in the years past wanting some explanation for “What was this, what was that used for?” If I didn’t recognize it immediately, or wasn’t too sure, I had a good story for it. Over time, Coach Mallon recognized some of those special stories. He always talked about them. Coach Mallon did leave some of his old relics with me—some I display in the office of the shop today. A few weeks before he died, he brought a plow nut. As they got in the truck to leave the shop, Dennis, who helped him with different things, asked Coach Jim if he was satisfied with my explanation. He said, “Hell yea, is there a better one?”

Just recently Dennis came by and said, “I’ve been going through Coach Jim’s personal belongings and the so-called artifacts, antiques, and tools and I’m going to bring them out here to you because you’re the only one that has not only expressed an interest in them but knew what they were used for and the colorful explanations of their use, whether factual or fictional.”

Having talked about some of Coach Mallon’s ways of handling things, the inevitable sad story was that Coach Mallon died. Friends and family of Coach Mallon had a memorial service on the baseball field at Southwestern University where he coached for 32 years. For four years, from 1980 to 1984, he coached Danny and quite a few other boys who I remembered when they came to the baseball field to reminisce. Some I recognized; some I didn’t.

It was a bright, sunshiny day appropriate for a game of baseball. It was quite an impressive way that Southwestern went all out to honor this famous baseball coach. There were boys in baseball uniforms at all of the major entrances to Southwestern, directing traffic toward the parking lots. At the parking lots, golf carts picked up the visitors and brought them along, inside the left field fence, along the dugout, along third base. Boys stood at attention outside the dugout in their uniforms. I spoke to each one, asked them where they’re from—answers were from all over the country—and told them this is a day they will certainly remember.

After we were seated behind home plate facing a podium by the pitcher’s mound, the memorial service opened with a special prayer by Weldon Crowley, Professor Emeritus at Southwestern University and a friend of ours. He asked us all to please stand and take our hats off. The National Anthem played solely on a trumpet as we all faced the United States flag as it was raised to the top of the pole and then brought down to half-mast. He then asked everyone to be seated and had some special words. A soloist sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The song “Amazing Grace” was also sung. After which, a few words of wisdom came from Professor Crowley about the side of Coach Mallon that everybody knew about.

It was said that once, when the team lost, someone asked the coach, “Well, what did you think about the team’s execution?” Coach Mallon’s answer was, “I was all in favor of it.” At another point in time, Coach Mallon was going to see how quick-witted the boys could be and said, “In today’s game, we’re going to reverse the signals on odd innings.” The third inning came up and one of Mallon’s players called time and walked toward the third base coach’s box where Coach Mallon was and said, “Coach, this is the third inning isn’t it? Well now Coach is it odd or even?”

After the laughter, a very close friend, Doctor Pearce, came to the podium. He said he had visited Coach Mallon, who gave him a poem that he wrote. This poem was entitled, “We Never Even Met”. It referred to twenty some odd years ago when a person had donated a kidney to Coach Mallon. This poem was about one minute in length. It told of his appreciation to be able to live an additional twenty some years with that stranger’s kidney. Quite a tear-filled audience was listening. It was also quite impressive when the audience was asked to remain standing as the family and the honorary pallbearers, including my son Danny, left the baseball field and went on their way to go to the gymnasium across the street where the family received people. During the time that they were leaving the baseball field, Weldon Crowley suggested that there wouldn’t be a better time to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”; the audience fell into rhythm and sang it joyfully. My son Danny spoke at the reception. Danny and Jeff Livin were two boys from the 1980 to 1984 baseball team who were honorary pallbearers.

On Facebook, Danny shared a special post that brought tears to my eyes and Grandpa’s when I read it to him: I want to say something special about my coach and friend, and every thought and word just leads to another great memory of fun, laughter, hard work and hard play. The emotions of the game, the battles, the victories, the defeats… they simply all add up to great memories in the game of baseball and more importantly in the life lessons taught by Coach Jim Mallon….thanks my friend…your legacy lives and the stories will not be forgotten because we love to tell them over and over again… Our prayers are with Jane and family, God Bless

America's favorite pastime

Sports are a big part of the Texas lifestyle. We always look forward to football, but baseball is our game of choice right now. We recently watched my cousin Morgan play for Texas State baseball. For Mother’s Day weekend, my mom’s only request was to tailgate at the Saturday and Sunday Texas State baseball games. 

I’ve never been a sports enthusiast because, most of the time, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t go to enough games to learn. I can’t pay attention when they’re on television; I like to blame it on being a “visual” person. However, I do enjoy cheering with and for our family. I am also a crowd watcher. At the Mother’s Day game, there were a group of girls in front of us discussing their rowdy weekend and I felt like I was switching channels on the television between a reality TV show and ESPN. During the less eventful parts of the game, I’d just tune into their conversation and keep myself entertained. Grandpa, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off the game. He channels a reporter when relaying the stats while my report is short and sweet; either they won or they lost.

Grandpa and Grandma love watching their children and now grandchildren play sports. They are still constantly driving all over the United States to see their grandchildren play. Grandma and Grandpa have had the privilege to watch two generations play baseball, Danny and Morgan. Grandpa had some stories to share about watching Danny, Morgan’s dad, play and some stories about funny things that happened on the road to the games to entertain the crowd watchers like me.

Danny wanted to play at Southwestern University, and I thought he was good enough to get a scholarship. At the time, I didn’t know Coach Mallon, the Southwestern University baseball coach, but one night after a baseball game in Georgetown where he was the head umpire, I approached Coach Mallon and told him that I thought Danny would come to play baseball at Southwestern if he had a scholarship incentive. Coach Mallon told me he only had enough money for pitchers and catchers. It is ironic that Danny played second base and pitcher in high school. Well, that didn’t stop Danny; he wanted to play for Southwestern so he went there.

At the start of the baseball season, either the first or the second game, the second baseman got hurt. Well, here was Danny’s chance—they started him at second. Now, that was quite something for Danny to be able to start as a freshman.

“I’ve got to have some record of this,” I thought. The best way to start, I decided, was to get me a video camera. That way I’ll be able to see it from time to time. I bought a Sony Betacam camcorder along with a tripod because that is what they used in filming television at the time so I figured a Sony was the camera to get. I’m going to be ready.

At the old Southwestern baseball field, there was a little hill up from the third baseline with a couple of trees on top that provided enough shade for themselves but hardly anything for anyone standing near or next to them. I set up the tripod and got the camera on there. Now, I’m going to get Danny in action.

My plan was to swing that camera and follow the ball at the crack of the bat. But I started thinking I’ll be able to follow it better if I take it off the tripod especially if it were to go over the fence, and I think I can control it a little better with my hand as far as moving it. Sure enough, the announcement came that Danny is up to bat. I had Danny in the sights at bat and here comes that ball and a loud crack. I watched the ball go over the scoreboard and I thought “Hot dog!” Unfortunately, I let my camera fall down, so I had taped a video of sugar ants on the soda water can on the ground. There would be no instant replay on that one. But that camera did tell a lot of tales the next years coming.

There was a pretty serious baseball game taking place in Seguin against Texas Lutheran College, Tim’s alma mater. That game was a critical game, and decided who would go to Regionals that year. If TLC won, they’d go to the regional playoffs in Phoenix, but if not, that was it and they stay at home—sad and disappointed. Tim had already committed to cheer for the Bucs, the Southwestern baseball team, because his little brother Danny was on the team. But since the game was at Texas Lutheran in Seguin, Tim caught a lot of static from the TLC side accusing him of being a traitor. Tim said, “Hey that’s my brother. I’ve got no choice.” The score was tied in the top of the ninth with two outs. Well, Danny was on base when there was a deep hit to center field. He came around second into third, and got the motion to keep on going because they were still trying to field the ball in center field. When Danny came around third, he slipped on loose gravel, lost his balance and rolled but in the next instant, started running and crossed home plate. The ball came into home plate but the catcher had to reach high to catch it and Danny slid low. SAFE! They held TLC in the bottom of the ninth and went on to Regionals.

Prior to that game, I had made a deal with Mr. Ehrenfried Boriack to make me a bunch of barbecue at his own barbecue pit at home. I told him, “If we win in Seguin, I’ll be coming to eat the barbecue after we get home but if we lose, all I’m going to do is come over there, get the barbecue, put it in freezer bags and put it in my freezer.”  I also asked Mr. Boriack to make a big pot of beans, and of course, extra sauce. Ethel had made a big bowl of potato salad. We’d have plenty of bread too. We can live on all that.

Well, we couldn’t wait to get to Mr. Boriack’s to eat the barbecue in celebration. I had enough barbecue made to feed 100 people—more than twice what we needed to feed the baseball boys and the few parents that were coming. We had the celebration in our backyard. We set a few tables out there full of paper plates stacked with bread, barbecue, sauce, beans, and potato salad. They just about wiped it all out. It was a celebration.

Anyhow, it’s on to Phoenix from there, and I’m taking my camera along because there’s no telling what might come up. On top of my cap, I fixed a cardboard sign that said Walburg Channel 1. If I held that big camera up to my shoulder, I believe one could actually think, “Look, it’s Channel 1 Walburg.” Well, Danny’s brother, Tim, he was all gung-ho; he carried the camera and the cardboard ID on his cap. He’d come through the gate all the time without a problem; they let him through because it was Channel 1 Walburg.

Channel 1 Walburg grew to be pretty famous. All the baseball boys knew about Channel 1, and figured that there was going to be a replay at some point in time. Pam and Cindy, in their bumblebee outfits, were the self-proclaimed cheerleaders, and they were “swangin’”.

It was hot as blue blazes in Phoenix but that didn’t bother us any because we were winning. We also knew that we had a cool place to stay after the games. The short stop, Danny Villanueva, his daddy was known as Mr. V, just like I was known as Mr. Mick. Mr. V had three brothers and two sisters living on the northwest side of Phoenix. That’s where us parents who followed the team went to stay. About nine of us couples followed the boys. While we were in Phoenix, the boys were playing and us parents were busy watching. There was no such thing as a shopping morning or afternoon, we were always busy watching because it was double-elimination playoff games. The Villanueva’s were excellent hosts. From what I can remember, probably sixty of seventy of them would come out of the woodwork for the night games. I mean, our Southwestern boys had support from that family. It was really cute to see them come out every night.

We had good times after the games. We’d gather at somebody’s house in the backyard for a cold one, as Tim would say. Pam, Cindy, and Tim, naturally, were a part of it. We had places in the hallway, in the living room, quilts put down for a fast night of sleep, a fast shower, and here we go. We’re ready again. We didn’t bother with cooking any meals.

The World Series of Danny’s junior year was in Lubbock, Texas. Lubbock Christian was the host. It was cold, windy, and miserable. We didn’t win anything to speak of or to even brag on. That was that. That was 1983.

The spring of 1984 looked really good for Southwestern baseball. Southwestern was to play Mary Hardin Baylor in Belton for the Conference Championship. For traveling in the state, we had a good road car. I had bought a four-door sedan, a 1980 Lincoln Mark VI; it was a humdinger.

One weekend, there was a Saturday and a Sunday series up at Mary Hardin Baylor University in Belton. I’m going to go up early, early Saturday morning; Ethel was going to come later. Belton was my first experience being around the boys, who had been really close the year before and now were just like family. After all the games we won, we needed to win this one in Belton. When I got to there to watch that game, I noticed that Danny V’s dad wasn’t there. By that time, our two boys were known as Danny V. and Danny Mick. Later it was shortened to Mick. Thirty years later, for me, it’s still Mr. Mick. My grandson, Morgan, goes by Mick or Mo Mick.

Anyway, I noticed that Danny V’s dad wasn’t there and something must have happened because it would have to be a real accident for him not to be there. We could get close to the dugout, so I asked his son about him. He said his daddy’s already in Phoenix getting everybody riled up because that’s where the regional playoffs would be held again. He’s already there without knowing the outcome of this game between the Bucs and Mary Hardin Baylor that would determine whether we would even go to Phoenix. He said he was so sure we were going to beat Mary Hardin Baylor that he went to get everybody betted down. Luckily, we won.

So it’s time to decide who’s going to be staying where and with who again. Channel 1 Walburg is back in Phoenix. In Phoenix, it’s a lot of tough games but we won those too. Hot diggity dog. What are we going to do? Where is the World Series? The name of the school that’s hosting is Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, Idaho.

Ken Schauer, a former pastor at Zion Walburg, and his wife Sandy had moved to Odessa, Washington. Pastor Ken and Sandy left at three o’clock on Monday morning to come see the game scheduled for 9am. It took five hours driving around the mountains to get from Odessa, Washington down to Lewiston, Idaho on the Snake River. After the game that morning, which we won, Pastor Ken, his wife Sandy, Ethel and I spent the evening on the banks of the Snake River there in Lewiston, Idaho. You can walk right up to the Snake River barefooted without getting mud squished between the toes because it’s on volcanic ash that doesn’t stick to your feet or shoes. We had an early dinner together, and the next day, Ken and Sandy went back.

It had rained during the night pretty rough and caused a lot of debris, so the field in Lewiston and Clarkston was not ready for a ballgame. We traveled forty something miles up north into the state of Washington to play at the University of Washington’s baseball field. On the way, we stopped at a little antique shop, and that’s where I found a hand-cranked telephone that I brought back along as a remembrance, if nothing else.

Of course, the visiting team consisted of us parents. We were something like nine couples. Of those nine couples, the pitcher’s mama was a widow, and the dad, Bohannan from Lampasas, came but the mom stayed at home. We had a big van that we traveled in that we rented at the airport up in the eastern upper edge of Washington where we flew into and drove this van down to Lewiston. The Snake River makes a big curve there.

While we’re at this baseball field in Washington, Tex Kassens, the athletic director at Southwestern University, put on a little show for us visitors in front of the Southwestern dugout. He got on his hands—feet straight up in the air—and he started walking on his hands. He wouldn’t stop at two or three feet, but he’d walk about 20 feet and then back. Of course, he’d do a little more when we hollered. It was quite a show, and Tex was quite an athlete. He taught swimming at Southwestern University along with being the athletic director and a personal friend.

It was this big second time around World Series for Coach Mallon where a lot of things happened that went into the memory book of good times passed with the Walburg Channel 1 camera usually around. One picture that caused a stir of Coach Mallon got to Facebook. Coach Mallon had a disagreement with the head umpire behind the plate, and he called the umpire to join him halfway between home plate and third base. When Coach Mallon knew he was right, everybody else knew it too. In this case, that home plate umpire, as we called him then, was an old codger. Coach Mallon took his cap and turned it around to where the beak was over the back of his neck so he could get a little closer to that umpire and keep telling him what he thought about his calling. That picture wound up on the front page of the local newspaper the next day. Coach Mallon was wondering if we couldn’t go around town and pick up all the papers so none of them would get back down to Georgetown. After a bunch of excitement, we lost that game and wound up with third place in the World Series—not too shabby.

So we get back home from the World Series, coming in third place, not too shabby. After all, there’s many a team that would just like to get to Regionals, much less the World Series. A couple of real proud moments for Coach Mallon, me, and, of course, Danny came after. Coach Mallon received a box containing an award earned by Danny: Danny had received the 1984 NAIA Golden Glove award. Then there was also the history book; Coach Mallon didn’t even realize it until he saw it in print that Danny set a record that will never be broken. I said, “What do you mean ‘never be broken’?” His fielding percentage was .1000—perfect. He never had an error. And to think, in baseball, a mistake is so easily made. Somebody could tie him at some point in time but Coach Mallon said that would be highly unlikely because of how many games Danny has played. You always talk about well he did this and that and what not; I didn’t exactly sit still when I heard that. Here he gets not only the Golden Glove for that World Series tournament, but also sets an unbreakable record.

Brady Bohannan’s dad from Lampasas was one of the parents on the trip, but Mrs. Bohannan stayed at home. Mr. Bohannan wound up being our driver; that kinda became an automatic after the first day. On the trip up to the state of Washington, a norther had come through with the rain the night before, and it was pretty cold. Mrs. Scott Neal was saying that she was a little cold and didn’t bring her jacket along so Mr. Bohannan took his jacket off and gave it to her. Well now, with her wearing that jacket all that day and most of the night until she gave it back to him when we got back to Lewiston, his coat had a certain odor about it and a little makeup around the collar. He decided sooner than have to explain when he got back home of how that coat got this odor—the scent of a great perfume and a ring of makeup around the collar left by a good lookin’ woman—that he was going to throw that coat in the Snake River.

A couple of weeks later, Coach Mallon came by the shop and said, “I wonder whatever happened with that jacket that Bohannan claims he threw in the Snake River because he wasn’t going to take it home and get into trouble.” I said, “You know, I hadn’t heard but I tell you what, I’m going to call him right now.” So I called Bohannan’s house in Lampasas and Mrs. Bohannan answered the phone. All we knew was that he was going to tell her that it was into something pretty bad so he just wound up throwing it in the Snake River. So when Mrs. Bohannan answered the phone, I was talking with her and asked where Mr. Bohannan went. She said, “He just went out down to the Dairy Queen to get a couple of hamburgers.” I said, “Well, did he ever tell you about the coat?” She said, “No.” I said, “Well, Coach Mallon was just by here asking whatever happened to Mr. Bohannan after he told you what he did with that coat.” “All he told me was he threw it in the Snake River,” she replied. I said, “Well, I know you can forgive him for this for now but we’re going to tell on him.” This was Coach Mallon’s idea, not mine. I told her, “Mrs. Scott Neal didn’t have a jacket that morning, and as we were driving up to Washington, he took his jacket off and gave it to her. He said, he’s going to go home and say he threw it in the Snake River.” Now you got, as Paul Harvey would say, “the rest of the story.” I called to ask Mr. Bohannan when he is going to tell you about what really happened with that coat. She said, “No, he hasn’t said anything but here he comes in the front door.” I said, “Tell him they found that coat.” “Hey, Mr. Bohannan, this is the such and such hotel in Lewiston, Idaho and they said they found your coat in the Snake River.” The next thing I heard over the phone was that he’s coming in on all fours begging for forgiveness. I said, “Bye” and hung up. We had a lot of good laughs. At that time, we were already daddies of children that would have done that kind of stuff.

Danny was home maybe one or two weeks when a fellow stopped by the shop and said he’d like to talk to Danny. He’s a scout for the Baltimore Orioles, who lives in Waxahachie. I said yes, Danny’s coming on down to the house and they’re going to talk about it and I came on down after a little bit because I was thinking, “Oh, a scout, let’s see what kind of money they were offering him after all.” They want him up in the New York Penn League. That’s a real famous league up there. That was on a Friday. He would be leaving on Sunday. “This coming Sunday?” “Yes.” “You’re furnishing tickets?” “Oh yeah.” Well they already had the tickets made and everything at Southwestern. It was early Sunday morning that we took Danny to the airport in Austin off of IH35 on the north side. I even took a picture of Danny’s suitcase going up the rollaway. It’s a big deal.

We didn’t hear from him often. The second to last week of August, on my birthday, Ethel gave me a pair of tickets to fly up to see Danny for a week. I got to fly up there and stayed in the same house where Danny and five other boys from the Orioles were staying.

I think the next time somebody visited was when Penny went up there. It was at that trip that Danny proposed to Penny in upstate New York, outside of Newark. In fact, he bought Penny’s ring from a jeweler in Newark, New York.

It was after that baseball season that Danny asked me if he could come back to work here at the shop. He didn’t think that being away from home playing baseball six months of the year was his style. So I said right away, “You bet. Come on home.”

Dog Days

My grandpa told me about his grandpa’s dog and his own dog, and it became clear that the love of dogs must pass down through generations. When it comes to dogs, there are always a few good “tails”:

My first little dog, a rat terrier, his name was Scraps—all we gave him to eat was scraps off the table. Scraps and I played. I also had a rooster who was a playmate. The rooster wound up growing spurs, and if he didn’t like something I did, he would attack me and try to whip me with his spurs. It was Scraps, the old red rooster, and me, until Ms. Max Bielss, my baptismal sponsor, gave me a beautiful Persian cat, Mitsy, as a gift. This Persian cat was always around my feet at home. We all played together under the house. The cat and dog got along fine; the master was perfect.

Shep was my Grandpa Max Mickan’s dog; he was a retriever but didn’t look like one. From the front door of the house across the yard, the next thing was an oat field. At Easter time, we would always gather a bunch of rocks the size of tennis balls or baseballs and throw one out into that oat field to see if Shep could find it and bring it back. Some could throw far, others not very far. Shep would always bring it back. Although we had four or five rocks, we never did need but one.

Grandpa’s dog, Shep, was also good in loading animals. Occasionally, I’d go to help Grandpa haul a bull, cow, or a steer to the auction sale, and it was a little difficult getting that animal into the trailer all the way—meaning that the back legs were still on the ground. Grandpa, who had his mouth full of tobacco, he’d put that tobacco to one side of his mouth, spit, and he’d say, “Shep!” and point to that animal’s hind legs. Shep, as fast as greased lightning, would snap at the back heels of that animal. That animal tried to kick back but wasn’t fast enough. Because of that snapping, the animal was up in the trailer and ready to go anywhere. That was grandpa and his dog. We’d come home and I’d try to teach my dog how to do that and he’d look at me with a “Forget it!”

What made us go to the backyard was grandpa said Shep could walk a stepladder. We thought, “Walk a stepladder, come on Grandpa, them stories are getting a little deep here.” He said, “Try it.” My grandpa and grandma’s water system was a very tall water tower; by gravity, the water would flow in the house. At the bottom of the water tower was a cutoff that needed to be shut whenever severe cold weather came. During the afternoon, when it warmed up, you could turn the water back on. We got the big, long stepladder to the water tower. Under the top rung of this stepladder was a yellow jacket nest, but we boys thought, “Let’s see if Shep can really climb that stepladder,” so we put that rock about five steps from the very top. Old Shep just crawled up that stepladder and got that rock in his mouth and he backed down and brought us that rock. We went to the next step up and the next step and finally we stuck that rock just under the yellow jacket nest. When Shep seized that rock, it disturbed the yellow jackets and they came after him. But he was still bringing us the rock, along with the yellow jackets. The first most comical thing I ever saw was grandpa in the backyard behind the big oak tree with his hand over his mouth laughing, and laughing, and laughing at what these boys tried to do to disturb his dog Shep. Meanwhile, Shep thinks it’s fun to chase those boys scattering in all directions with the rock and the yellow jackets still behind him.

Years later, I saw an ad in the paper about an old part of a slide that was for sale. I said, “You know, I think I want to go buy it. I might be able to make something out of it.” Grandma asked, “What in the world do you want with a slide that’s not even all there?” I said, “Well, who knows? I guess we’re just going to find out.” Well, after looking at that slide and doing a little thinking, we built a tree house. From the floor of the tree house, we attached the slide and hooked up a waterline to an area above the slide so when you turned the water on, it would run down the entire slide. It created a lot of fun when you jumped on to the top of the slide when the water was going and you could slide down fast. Wow. At the bottom of the slide, to create even more fun, we got a big swimming pool and filled it at least half full of water so that when you came down that slide, you’d hit the water. It was twice as much fun as landing on dried ground. Tiffany and Lauren’s dog Saint was the smart one; he’d climb up the ladder, get on the slide, and slide on down. That was more fun to watch.

The tree house and slide

Saint, our ladder climbin' dog

A Dog Gone

In my lifetime, eight wonderful dogs have been a part of my family: Rose, Charcoal, Sparkles, Saint, Nikki, Buddy, Samson, and Bella. My sister now has Sadie and Zoey, so her and Brian’s house is once again full of the pitter-patter of little paws and licks to the face when you’re least expecting it.

On Tuesday, our Golden Retriever, Bella, lost her fight to cancer. If you know my family, you know that we have had dogs for as long as my sister and I have been alive (and my parents even before then). Bella lived with my parents, making this the first time in over 25 years that my parents are without a dog at the house.

When it comes time, we bury each of our dogs at the pasture at my grandparent’s house. Two trees grow out in the middle of the pasture, surrounded by open land. We are able to laugh because, during the times of drought, patches of green still surround those trees. Right now, we have at least fifteen dogs there. My grandpa remembers where he has placed each of them. They come from our extended families: my grandpa’s dogs, my aunt and uncle and cousin’s dogs, and our dogs. 

Grandpa on the John Deere burying Bella

Grandpa under the tree

In early January, we also lost our other golden, Samson, to cancer. My grandpa and grandma, as always, were there to help us put him to rest. My grandma prepared a lunch for us and grandpa dug the hole for us. Both were a huge comfort. Grandpa told me about his feelings when Samson passed. He compares it to a different kind of anticipation than that of Die Vorfreude (the joy of anticipation) which I have mentioned previously:

Last Sunday [on January 8^th], word came to us that Samson died. That meant that Sam is going to be buried in Walburg, which also meant that, most likely, the two girls that were involved with Sam’s life and he with theirs were going to be at the funeral. Was that a joy of anticipation to wait for Sam’s body to get here? No, that was a different kind of anticipation. Yet, still, Tiffany, you were looking forward to seeing your mom and dad, and me to seeing my daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughters because it was going to be a private family affair.  

The first thing that needed to be done was to dig the grave in case of ill weather or forecast of rain. It was a case of a strong north wind, as one would say, “The North wind doth blow.” However, it was a favorable time to put a much-loved dog in his final resting place. This place is well known because other dogs of the family are buried close by. That was a certain amount of joy in knowing that everything went well. Then there was the joy of the reception afterwards with the usual chatter of good times. The toughest of all—there was no joy of anticipating the good-bye. It was truly a sad time, but it was a time that was anticipated.

As Grandpa Kieschnick talked about Die Vorfreude—that is a recollection of what it’s all about—family.

His words rang true to me when we buried Bella on Tuesday—it was about a family gathering and mourning for a loss, and providing comfort during a time of sadness. I had wondered how my grandpa felt always having to bury the dogs, but he enjoys being with family even if it is a sad occasion. Once again, he put Bella to rest and we gathered around the trees in the pasture. We found comfort in each other. Though it was sad, we reflected on a dog gone, but not forgotten.

Plans

As I grow older, I have stopped thinking about where I will be in five or ten years, and started going more by month to month. I have an idea of where I’d like to be, but I find I’m always surprised where I am even in a year. My twenties have been nothing but big and small changes. I just started working for a doggy daycare part-time. I love it because I get to be around animals that I adore all day long. But by this time, when I was little, I probably would have said I was going to be a vet, that I would be married, and possibly have children (definitely a couple dogs). However, as they always say, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” I’ve had plenty of surprises in my life: switching my major from Biomedical Science to English, moving to New York to pursue a branding career, and returning back to Texas to write a book are a few of the major ones. If you would have asked me my plans a year before any of those, I had no idea what was coming. 
 

For my grandpa, plans changed in December of 1961. His mother took his dad to King’s Daughter’s Hospital in Temple, Texas because his dad had said that he couldn’t button his pants anymore. Something wasn’t right. After a couple days in the hospital, the doctors diagnosed him with nephritis. There were no kidney transplants or dialysis in those days. The doctors gave him three months. Three years later, he was still alive in the hospital. You can only imagine the seriousness because Grandpa’s dad didn’t believe in insurance. Mickan Motor Company could only exist under my grandpa’s supervision, and it needed to run well. It was, as Grandpa calls it, the biggest change of his life. But he says it now, as he knew it then, his dad had prepared him.

For the next five years, his dad would alternate between hospital stays while grandpa managed both the farm and the shop. Grandpa had always assumed he would work for the farm. In fact, for the seven years that his father was sick, he kept up with the farm work and the garage. He would be at the shop from before sunrise until long after it had set. Soon the shop became more of a priority.

By 1962, grandpa and grandma were already blessed with all four of their children. They also had a surprise in their plans a few years earlier in December of 1958. Grandma was expecting a baby, and went into labor. Grandpa’s dad always did say that Ethel was big enough to have twins. She felt like she was feeling twins, but Dr. Gaddy would say, “One head, one heartbeat; it’s going to be a biggen.”

On December 9^th, Grandpa took Grandma in to the old Georgetown hospital. There were two doctors, Dr. Gaddy and Dr. Benold, and Ethel’s sister Mimi was the nurse. That morning, Grandpa wasn’t allowed anywhere close. He had to wait on the front porch for the report from the nurses. They later came out to tell me that I had a real cute little girl. I thought, “Well good that makes two daughters then.” But after a bunch of talking they finally said, about 30 minutes later you also had a big boy.

The rest of the story is inside the hospital. When they were wheeling Ethel in, Dr. Gaddy still said, “One head, one heartbeat.” And so Cindy was born. Dr. Gaddy started cleaning up and told Mimi to take care of the mother, when Mimi hollered out, “Dr. Gaddy, there’s another one in here!” He said, “Oh my god, get Dr. Benold, we’re going to need some help.” All Ethel hollered out was, “What am I going to do in church?” She was worried about how to hold and keep calm three babies in church. After all, Pam wasn’t even a year old until two days later. Dr. Gaddy said, “If it was my wife, she’d say to hell with church.”

My Grandpa took on all that responsibility without planning to go into that career, yet it gave him work until he retired, and he’s still up at the shop on most days. As quickly as we can make plans, they change. But those little surprises or so-called kinks make all the difference. Now, of course I still plan, but only because I always enjoy a good chuckle.

A Little Bull

When you live in a town the size of Walburg, there’s not much else to do after a hard day’s work but chat about the latest goings-on and gossip. My grandpa is an excellent verbal storyteller. When I man the front of the gas station, as I do when Grandma and Grandpa go on vacation or, lately, to my cousin Morgan’s baseball games, people come in only to hear a good story. A look of disappointment crosses their face when I have to tell them that they’re out of luck today. I’m much better putting things on paper than telling them verbally. My verbal stories often in a look of confusion and people asking, “So, was that it?” I have to nod and try to backtrack and explain more, but by the time, the essence of the story is ruined. My grandpa, on the other hand, has perfected his verbal storytelling. Now it’s up to me to make it pop on the page.

When we were little, my grandpa used to make up stories for us, like the old tale of the Cocklebur Indians who lived on our property in Walburg. Imagine that! My grandpa is famous for his stories, but infamous for his tall (and sometimes long) tales.

“When I first bought this land, as a result of gullywashers, there were sinkholes—one of which you could drive the pickup into and not see it. That big of a hole washed out. In the spring when there was plenty of rain, it had water for some time and crawfish. Because of the crawfish, there were also snakes and fish cranes. When it turned dry, the whole strip down by the trees was solid cocklebur. One of the most unwanted weeds is cocklebur. The reason I say the most unwanted is because it could grow three foot tall in good soil and be almost as wide, and it could produce thousands of seeds. Each one of these seeds would be a ball surrounded by hooks. If you step on it, it’s hard to pull out. When you walk through it, it will go through your clothing. If you’re pulling barehanded, it will stick your fingers.

I knew about the Tonkawa Indians of Central Texas, and I wondered what kind of Indians could be here? Cocklebur. They were so called because, at that time, only the high class had moccasins and the rest were barefooted. The Indians would scatter cocklebur behind them, so that anyone chasing them on foot would run into the cocklebur and it would stop them. They were growing the cocklebur thick for harvesting.

You did a lot of bullshitting and storytelling in those days too. Indians would sit in a big circle where they would do their stone making. The technical word is flint napper. A napper would have leather on his lap and a special deer antler hammer to shape that stone just right so eventually he would have an arrow or an axe head. The Indians had a fire in the middle. The reason for the circle was for bullshit, naturally. In this circle, you had this old boy chipping away and damn near finished and he screwed up. It would be thrown aside. This circle is where you found all of these good quality discarded arrows that weren’t quite perfect, and that’s where they find the artifacts today.

There is also a thicket back on the land behind St. Peter’s church, which borders on our land. There weren’t a bunch of Indians, only about 30 or 40, and that thicket is where they ran into to hide. You can only see five feet inside, and by the time you think you see something, you got an arrow and you’re dead. They had the horses on the other side of the hill but they were fast on their feet; they could run. If they get to the horses, then they’re gone.

The mulberry tree in the pasture that is over 100 years old. Most of my grandkids knew it only as the Cocklebur tree. The Indians would blow into the hollows and holes of this tree in order to make the branches grow so all their children could sit. The tree still sits in the pasture out back.”

In the end, there’s always time for a story. Every time I’m in the shop I’m still amazed at the people who take the time to sit, listen, and shoot the bull. My grandpa told this tale last week, and it’s also all too appropriate.

"Three bulls are sitting in a pasture, a big one, a medium one, and a small one. They are all looking longingly at the other side of the fence, wanting to get out and explore. They stay close to the edge of the pasture, and finally the big bull finds a place to escape. The medium bull and the little bull keep roaming, but soon the medium bull also finds a way out. Now it’s just the little bull scaling the pasture’s edge. He had all but given up hope when he found a place to squeeze through. The moral of the story: There’s always room for a little bull."

Spring Bruise

Last week was spring break for many schools here in Texas. My mother, a school nurse, instead of relaxing as most other people do, came and helped my grandparents and uncle clean out the gas station, my grandparent’s house, and pull weeds here at my sister’s house. This is not a big surprise considering I’ve never seen her sit and relax for a period lasting longer than ten minutes. The norm for spring break is to take a nice vacation, possibly soak up the first strong rays of the sun or play in the last of the melting snow. Though this story didn’t occur over spring break, it describes my grandpa’s not-so-relaxing skiing experience in the snow of New Mexico.

Ethel and I flew up to Ruidoso, New Mexico after spending the night in El Paso with our friends, Ned and Susie Sneed. We flew to El Paso in Ned’s plane on Friday, after being asked to join them for the trip on Thursday. Susie knew about a place way out there on an Indian reservation called the Inn of the Mountain Gods. A beautiful place. When we landed, the airstrip in those days was grass. Ned rented a car with tire chains because we were heading for the Sierra Blanca Mountain to ski. Ned is going to teach Ethel, while Susie teaches me. My ski outfit was insulated underwear, the Chinese quilted type, and my Texaco coveralls. Here we go.

Before we ever started, it was decided between Ned and I that, being as he was so good, he’d go up on the lift to the second or third section, but if I ever wanted to know where he was at, all I’d have to do was yodel and he’d answer me with a yodel. There wasn’t anyone else who would dare to yodel like we did. I’m going to meander on over to the ski lift after I finished with the beginner’s slope, but I fell down so they had to stop the lift for me to get up, get on, and get squared away. When I got on the ski lift, I saw these other people clapping their feet together to get rid of the excess snow, so I followed suit, but by doing that, one ski unclasped and wound up hanging by the strap to the ankle. Ethel looked up to the ski lift and thought, “What kinda dumb bunny is that with one ski hanging and one on?” Upon looking closer, it was a dude that also had Texaco coveralls on. The only one to wear something like that was me. She must have thought, at that time, it’s a good feeling not being there with me. That would have been embarrassing. At the end of the lift, there was a six-foot drop and you made a sharp right turn. There was also a group was taking pictures there. With one ski on and one ski off, I plowed into them. That’s all I could do. I couldn’t ski. I apologized, and I got out of there in a big hurry. The one thing that I did learn from that ski trip was never wear a billfold in a hip pocket. It will leave behind an imprint on your behind. But a good time was had by all.

I can only imagine hearing two grown men yodeling on the ski slopes. To get an idea what coveralls are, I've provided a picture of my grandpa in his old coveralls. I remember seeing them day after day when I was younger and he spent a good amount of his time working at the shop. They're clearly not the ideal ski outfit.

Grandpa in one of his many coveralls