Why Grandpa Was a Sharecropper

This is a story passed along to me, filled with the frailties of our human condition. It seems important to tell such tales. If we only focus on a past through rose colored glasses, we miss the true human drama that our ancestors experienced that in many ways are exactly the sorts of things we encounter today.

First a note about my grandpa on my daddy's side. He was not a tall man, and mostly I remember him with his white hair, and the dark glass which covered one eye he had lost when he was young. I remember us sneaking into the bedroom when he was sleeping to stare at the empty socket where an eye once had been.

Grandpa had a fierce temper and would argue with a fence post. My mama was the same way, and they tell the story that everyone was walking on pins and needles over what would happen when the two first met. Well true to form, he snapped at her, and she snapped right back. What followed was a ferocious battle of pure stubbornness of epic proportions. Suddenly they both broke out laughing and were as close as any two people ever could be after that.

But this story is about a much younger grandpa, a man who did not get many breaks in life, spending much of his younger years as a share cropper trying to eke out an existence raising and picking cotton on shares with the landowner. How had he come to this place? The story began with his father, my great grandfather.

Grandpa Jimmy had been part of a large family as were most in those days. His daddy was fairly well to do, with real estate holdings in the Paris, Texas area. He loved my great grandma by all accounts, and all should have been well for him, but for a sometimes cruel fate. Great grandma took ill and died soon after. Grandpa was terribly lonely when a young woman in the area began to pay him some attention. The story I heard was that she was 16, which would be shocking now, but not so much back then. He was totally infatuated by her and soon they were married.

Now his new wife had her own family to worry about. Quietly and carefully she began transferring resources over to her family members. Then great grandpa died and a young grandpa Jimmy was on his own. Without education or resources, the only choice was sharecropping, and that is what he did. He later met grandma Ollie and they began raising their own large family not too long after.

One story of note I've always held onto. My grandma Ollie was generally a quiet woman. Most of my memories of her were of her insistence in her later years of not having anyone interrupt her when her soaps were on. Also of the great family gatherings where she and the women would be busy in the kitchen, the men sitting around the table swapping lies, and us kids crawling under the large dining table between legs, both chair and table legs, and the humans jabbering above us. It was our fortress or our getaway, depending on what the game called for. Then we all would gather around for a wonderful dinner, much of the produce raised in the garden and chickens slaughtered from the back yard.

Well there was a younger grandma too. On one occasion, they had been told to vacate the shack where they were living. Grandpa left to try to find work elsewhere. While he was gone, grandma heard a noise outside. A crew had arrived and informed her she had to get out that moment because they were going to tear the place down. She reminded them the boss had given them two weeks, but he was not interested in negotiating.

"Just a minute then," said grandma Ollie. She walked into the house. Out she came, a shotgun under her arm. "If you don't git out of here right now, I'm going to pepper you," she warned.

The crew leader's eyes got really big then. "We...we'll be back soon. With the sheriff!"

"Couple a days and I'll be gone anyhow. Just leave us be." As they told the story, her voice never raised, but was cool as a cucumber. Grandpa found another job and soon they were gone.

Later in life, grandpa Jimmy and my uncle Hilyard went into business together repairing shoes. We used to visit my grandparents about once a month or so. Then one day, grandpa went to the doctor because of severe headaches. It turned out to be brain cancer. They found it too late and he was going to die. I'll never forget those days. We visited him in the hospital, and then he was out for a time before going back to die. There was an old custom that I think really had value all its own. We all gathered, then he called us in, one at a time. This was not an ordinary visit. This was a ritual, one where he thought carefully what he wanted to pass on to each one of us.

My turn came. "Yes grandpa?"

"Come here and sit on the bed beside me." I walked over and sat down as he instructed. I was ten years old. "Won't be long, you'll be growing up and going to work."

I nodded.

"Your work is a piece of who you are. Take pride in the job, no matter what the job is. If you're working for a boss man, make him look good by the work you do. There's more rewards to work than just a paycheck." I thought he was done, but he motioned for me to hold on a moment. "You got some of the stubbornness of your mama. I like that." I grinned and so did he, then he motioned me to send the next one in.

When he died, we all took our turn sitting up with the body. It's an eerie feeling sitting in a mortuary late at night with a body all alone. But there I was, ten years old, doing my duty. The casket was open and most today would be worried what it would do to the child. But I'd seen my other grandpa and slept in the room adjacent where I could see his body stretched out on a kitchen table when I was five, so this was small stuff. I remember the drive to the cemetery, then all of us gathered around.

At that young age, death was still something uncommon. I'm much older now. Death is no longer such a stranger. So many since have died. Aunts, uncles, cousins friends, my parents, my soul mate. From each I've learned and grown however. I remembered grandpa's advice. It served me well in my working years. Seems it really was good advice.

Blessings in Disguise

March 13, 1965. My brother was working on his camping merit badge for boy scouts. My friend David and I agreed to camp with him on our farm twelve miles outside of Tyler near Overton. We drove our family car with the equipment, David following behind on his motorcycle. All I recall was that it was a Yamaha. Hidden away in the gear was a bottle of vodka the two of us had secreted away for the evening after my brother went to sleep. Dad drove the car back that Saturday afternoon and we set up camp. Soon enough my brother had fallen asleep and out came the bottle, and soon enough neither of us were feeling any pain.

The bike was stripped down for cross country riding, and that started to appeal to us. David looked over at me and said, "I need a battery for this headlight. With it we could do some cross country out here."

I replied, "Hmm, wonder where we could get one."

"They will be working late at the bike shop tonight. Tomorrow is a big race in Louisiana. Let's ride in and get a battery there."

I stumbled over to where my brother was sleeping, telling him we would be gone for a bit to get a battery and would he be okay? He mumbled something still asleep which of course we interpreted to mean yes. We pushed the bike out to the road, I climbed on the back and pushing the pedal the bike roared and we were off.

Let's be clear what was happening here. We were driving a motorcycle without a light along the Old Overton Road which winded about like a serpent until we got to the Kilgore Highway. Too many police were on that highway since it was the main thoroughfare for people going to buy alcohol from Tyler where selling booze was prohibited. So we cut over to the Old Kilgore Highway to ride the rest of the way into town, then cut back down back streets headed towards the bike shop located on Troup Rd. We were making this journey at a considerable speed. Driving down one back street, at what I would guess to be around 55 to 60 MPH, I looked around David, realizing to my horror that there was an intersection there with a car stopped at it. His eyes were watering and he hadn't seen it.

"Look out!" I screamed and he hit his brakes. We spun sideways and CRUNCH went the leg caught perfectly between bike frame and the car we had hit. Later a perfect imprint in the frame could be found where my leg had been. I was lying on the ground with my leg pulled up under me. Perhaps it was the shock, or maybe the considerable amount of alcohol in my system, but I really didn't feel much pain. I knew instinctively however that the leg was pretty badly broken.

A crowd began to gather. Some well meaning samaritan offered to help me straighten my leg. "Please don't," I said.

Leaning forward he says "Here if we just..." and he starts to reach for the leg. Now I was an instructor in Red Cross First Aid. Doubling my fist I promised to knock the crap out of him if he did not back off. A bit offended, he did so.

Meanwhile, there was David, feeling no pain, wandering around. The police arrived and he began to smart off with them. Bad mistake because he was immediately arrested for DWI. An ambulance arrived and I carefully instructed them on how to properly pick me up so as to do no damage. "We know all that. Just hold on and let us do our job, okay?" I shrugged as they moved me onto a stretcher.

"Take me to Mother Frances," I told them. "Can you guys call my dad too?" I gave them the number. Still buzzing, "Oh and can you turn on the sirens? That would be cool." They shook their heads, but turned on the sirens and rushed me to ER.

So here I am lying there waiting for the doctor to decide what to do for me. Our family doctor had arrived soon after I did. Lying there, I see my dad walk in. Oh, did I mention that the week before I had gotten three tickets. Two were for running stop signs, the other for speeding in a residential neighborhood. The officer had chased me a considerable distance before I saw him. A group of us were going off campus to lunch. At one point I had been going eighty, but the fastest he was able to clock me on this venture was 45. We raced across a shopping center parking lot, coming to a stop along the highway. One of my friends looks back and says, "There is a cop behind you."

Okay he is always saying that so I laughed and said, "Guess we are going to have to outrun him then." I never had looked back. Meanwhile he believes we are stopped for him. He is getting out of his car just as I peel out spraying him with gravel. Okay, so finally I saw him. Great timing huh?

He pulled in front of me, jumped out of his car with his hand on his holster, and ordered me to get out of the car. He was furious and screamed at me for a few minutes before settling down enough to get about writing the tickets.

No, I had not mentioned that had I? Nor did I mention it to my dad. I had been borrowing money from friends to pay the tickets and made my buddies swear not to rat me out. So there I was just a week later, lying in the hospital with a seriously messed up leg. Dad knows that we were drinking and that David was taken in for DWI. With no small amount of trepidation, I open my mouth. "Um Daddy? In my wallet. No way I can make court date now. I have three tickets that need to be paid in traffic court." His face is starting to turn red, and I can see his fists clenching. He was worried about me and furious with me all at the same time and if he had taken a swing I can't say I would've blamed him.

However he controlled his temper, quietly removing the tickets and putting the wallet in his own pocket. "Don't want anything to happen to it here," he said.

Then came some X-rays and a very concerned doctor standing by me. Dr. McDonald asked me, "how much did you have to drink tonight?"

"Between us we had a fifth of vodka," I told him.

"Frankly, I'm not sure how much use this leg is going to be for you after this. We're going to have to put a pin in there and use weights and try to keep one touch point and hope it fills in." He shows me the x-ray. "See that? It is a triangular piece of bone that fell out. It's going to dissolve. But we are going to put this point..." He showed me the part of the upper part of the femur above the knee. "... against this part of the femur next to your knee. The weights will keep the bone from slipping." He took a deep breath. "Trouble is, I can't put you under with all that alcohol in your system. It's going to hurt a lot."

I took a breath and nodded. They wheeled me into the operating room and then I felt them sticking a rather large pin in one side of the bone, then another to the other side. He was right. It was the most excruciating pain I had ever known up to that point. For two weeks it remained, with horrible spasms on occasion tearing out pieces of the muscles along my leg where the pin came out. Mostly though I was so heavily sedated with morphine and demerol that I just floated in and out. One night I heard a call for Dr. Red. Suddenly there were nurses running about. It was a five bed ward, and looking towards the window I could see flames. Seems the power system had caught on fire. They didn't have to move me though, and another shot of meds sent me back to the twilight.

After two weeks, a specialist was brought in. They put me under and replaced the pin in the knee itself. Progressively they were able to use less pain meds over time. I was moved to a semi private room on the fourth floor. A homebound teacher came to help me with my lessons since this was my senior year of high school and I did not want to repeat it.

This entire event, involving a three month stay in the hospital, followed by two months in a body cast, then another month in a wheel chair and then crutches for another six months, proved to be a profound blessing. It was my first experience with stillness. A parade of patients shared my room, and I could talk with them and often learn from them. I got to study human nature up close. Outside I watched the trees form their leaves. For someone with no patience, I had to develop some because there was no choice. I graduated from my high school in a hospital bed. The principal and school superintendent showed up along with a newspaper photographer to record the moment.

I attempted to have a relationship with a candy striper there. Yes, I was gay, but I sure was trying not to be, and looking back, I was pretty lonely and needy at that time. Years later we connected again, but on a basis it should have been in the first place, friendship. I love the way in my older life circles like that are completed, but that is another story. Though I drove the nuns there crazy, and to a degree perhaps the staff as well, it was to be the first of a number of life lessons that would propel me towards a sense of self knowledge that had alluded me before. I had more years of drinking to do, but the seeds had been planted. The leg turned out pretty well too, though it was bent out a bit, a condition that only a few years ago led to the need for a knee replacement.

One last thing. My friend had an aunt who lived right here in the Twin Cities area where I eventually would move many years later. Her aunt had written a poem which captured my heart. I cannot promise I can quote it exactly, but the gist of that poem has stayed with me over the years.

The Tumbleweed

Blown by the winds of destiny

Into the hands of fate.

God, lay your hands upon that tumbleweed

Bless it and give it it's liberty

Bless it at any rate.

For I too am a tumbleweed

Blown by the winds of destiny

Into the hands of fate.

Thank you to my friend's aunt, who gave me through her niece words to hold me up until I could find my own way.

Choices and Consequences

Today I read that the South Carolina legislators are considering articles of impeachment against Governor Mark Sanford. As I thought of all that has transpired in his life, there is a clear morality play being performed before our eyes, one that teaches the importance in the choices we make.

First we hear that he has disappeared and no one can find him. From that we learn he has gone to South America where he was engaged in a love affair with someone other than his wife. Remember the love letters read for all the world to see? I thought at the time, this man really loves that woman. It was clear from his amateurish proclamations. Amateurish I thought, but nevertheless genuine.

Upon returning, he was faced with a choice. Should he go to the one he loves? That would have been my choice. Or does he try to clean up the mess and reconcile with his wife. What followed were statements from key republicans and by the governor that took on the feel of a really bad soap opera. He had sinned, and with his friends at C-Street, he would reconcile with God and his wife. He made a second decision as well. He reimbursed the state for his plane fare, and insisted he had taken no state money.

His wife agreed at first to give it a shot, but ultimately decided against reconciliation. By now, Sanford had lost both his love in South America and now his wife as well. Then a study showed he had used considerably more state money for private use. More calls were made for his resignation. Another choice. He would remain in office. As in the first choices, power triumphed everything else. Power vs Love. He had made his choice.

So here we are today. The state is considering articles of impeachment. Even if he prevails, his power is forever compromised. He wanted it all. However his choices have left him with far less than that. Power really does corrupt in so many ways it seems. One thing for sure. We will not hear him preach anytime soon about moral values. Perhaps had not the preaching been so virulent early on, the fall might not be so far on the other side. In a way, still another choice gone awry.

Trail of Tears: Being a Liberal from Texas

Most folks know I grew up in Tyler, Texas. Now for those not familiar with Tyler, suffice it to say that it is a part of Texas where liberal politics can appear to be something of an endangered species. The town abounds in Baptist churches. I used to joke saying there was one on every corner. That was an exaggeration of course, but not by much. I grew up attending Glenwood Methodist Church, but after growing up landed in the Tyler Unitarian fellowship.

Just recently I went back to Tyler. That little fellowship is still thriving after all these years. A magnet for liberals of all sorts, huddled together to ward off the cries of intolerance. When I was president of the fellowship, we learned our small church had actually been investigated by the Texas Department of Public Safety. Ours was not the only one. A Dallas Unitarian Church was also investigated at the time. They were concerned about possible "un-American activities" and of course they should have been. We dared be opposed to the Vietnam War, talked about liberal notions, and even had a pastor who called for the legalization of pot. Our parties were the best in town, with dancing, plenty of alcohol, occasional pig roasts out by the lake, and always enlightened conversation. One older couple who spent time at the home with Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A labor leader who had a cross burned in his yard. We always sang I Am Woman by Helen Ready in these early days of the women's movement. Great debates would rage over the efficacy of socialism, or perhaps deeper matters of spirituality. My friend introduces me to her cat named Owsley. I smile knowing that is the chemist who made much of the LSD out on the west coast. We are talking of the sixties and seventies after all. All ideas were subject to discussion and active debate. In a real sense we were a family all our own in the truest and best sense. Incidentally the investigation was leaked, and a legislative committee clipped the wings of the overzealous DPS for those investigations.

I remember campaigning for Sissy Fahrenthold for Governor of Texas. That year the foregone conclusion was that Ben Barnes was the appointed successor to power, but we rallied behind this liberal feminist from Corpus Christi. Seriously, we spent hundreds of hours knocking on doors, answering and calling folks on phones, and silk screening hundreds of posters to put out all over town. I also worked my heart out for George McGovern that year and became the coordinator for voter registration in the East Texas area.

Now Sissy did pretty good, and got into a runoff that year against a conservative rancher named Dolph Briscoe. Everyone was surprised when Barnes did not get into the runoffs. But Texas was a conservative state, and despite our best efforts, Sissy lost in the runoff and Briscoe went on to be governor. Tyler was so conservative, the locals were mostly amused by our efforts. Occasionally some red neck would unload on us, but mostly they just chuckled.

Yet looking back, we produced some darn good liberals from our part of the world. Bill Moyers grew up in Marshall. U.S. Senator Ralph Yarbrough, Federal Judge William Wayne Justice, and head of the Texas Civil Liberties Union Bill Kugle were all from Chandler, a small town on the outskirts of Tyler. From nearby Minneola hailed later to be San Francisco mayor Willie Brown. When he was the leader of the California Assembly he came to Tyler. I was appointed as driver for him and actor Robert Culp when they appeared for the East Texas Fair to campaign for George McGovern.

On occasion I took a lot of crap off folks for my politics. I think that is why we were such good liberals. It is hard to stay one in that environment unless you learn to take care of yourself, and your beliefs are stronger for having been required to defend them. In this day, when I think of how far to the right Texas politics has moved, I'm reminded of my friends back at that Unitarian Fellowship. Some are still there all the way from when I was a member. Together they keep the flame of liberalism burning in spite of it all. In my book they are heroes.

My First Act of Activism: The Great Leash Law Debacle

Lassie sat quietly, tongue hanging out in the Texas heat in the St. Augustine grass that covered our yard in the East Texas town of Tyler. The road in front of our house was a blend of oil and tar mixed with dirt. It would be paved in another year or two. Running across it as fast as we could, the tarry mix would continue to burn for a few minutes after crossing in our bare feet. All the children had black soles on their feet, the price for going barefoot on our block. The collie-shepherd mix sniffed my leg, then wagging her tail gave me a big juicy slurp on the lips while we sat beneath the pecan tree trying to catch a cool breeze.

"They are what? That is just wrong. Lassie is used to running free!" How many other children had dogs named Lassie in the mid fifties when Lassie was the hottest show on television. I leaned into Lassie, giving her a big hug. "Don't worry Lassie, I'm not putting any leash on you.

Hank nodded. "My dog is a roamer. It would kill her to have to stay tied up or in a fence."

"What can we do? They have to know this is just wrong."

Hank said, "maybe we can call somebody?" Into the house we rushed, looking for the phone book, searching for the number for someone with the city. Finally we found it, and I began dialing a number for the city manager.

A woman answered the phone. "May I help you?"

"Yes ma'am. We need to speak to the city manager."

"Whatever for? How old are you?"

"About the proposed leash law ma'am. It's just plain wrong and unfair to the dogs. I'm 9 years old but I'm a citizen too!"

She was laughing now, and I was getting irritated. "Well he isn't in right now, but I'll leave a message for him."

"Can he call me back?"

"Oh I don't know. Here what is your number."

I gave her my phone number and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally I called back. "Oh he is so busy right now. I'm sorry." No she wasn't. It was clear to me this guy wasn't calling back at all. So I called my friend.

"Hank, they are blowing us off. What next?"

C'mon over and let's talk about it." Out the door I ran, screen door slamming behind me. Hank lived the next block over, so I cut through the back yards and moments later was knocking on his door.

"C'mere, I've got an idea," he said. "Look what I found. Something I had put away in my closet."

It was a tiny printing press with type that could be laid out for mass production. A toy he had gotten for Christmas.

We were busy little bees the next few days, printing up thousands of little leaflets proclaiming

DON'T LET THE LEASH LAW PASS!

CALL YOUR CITY COUNCIL TODAY!

(we had an image of a dog below that)

All over town we traveled, sticking them in mailboxes, on telephone poles, on store fronts, anyplace people might see them. If someone was outside, we would approach and explain what it was all about. Some laughed, but some applauded us. "Most grownups don't know what's going on with city hall. Good for you two."

Well they say you can't beat city hall. We sure didn't. The leash law passed. In the spirit of our founding fathers and mothers, with characteristic revolutionary zeal, we refused to honor the law, and our dogs ran free. We had to watch them more closely though to ensure the evil animal control people didn't snatch them. Four years later, I would be passing out literature for John F. Kennedy's bid for president. In another ten years, I would be marching in protest of a war in far away Vietnam. But it all began sitting under a pecan tree in front of our red brick house in Tyler, Texas. Years later I can still see those hydrangeas and rose bushes in the beds nearby, feel the gnats as we swatted them away. And of course Lassie, running to knock me down, then showering me with nuzzles and licks, then lying down beside, her head resting in my lap. I've come to appreciate how precious a gift memory can be.

Today, only a few photos

I just did not feel like writing today. Instead, I'm posting a few photos I've taken. It's the best I can do today.

Faith Run Amok: Time for Reason?

Robin and I woke early this morning, giving us a chance to talk about all sorts of things as she got ready for work. Okay, I love her so much, but...

Here is where the reader goes, "Oops, this writer is entering dangerous territory!"

But she is one of those people who gets an idea about why something is as it is, not based on reasoned fact, but because she just "knows it." Today we were talking about honeybees. A study shows that the bees were hit by a multiple attack by different viruses and that is why so many bees recently have died. This is science. She looks at me and says, "well Monsanto is experimenting with hybrids that do not require pollenating. Then there is microwave and radio wave pollution. That weakened the bees so they were susceptible to the viruses."

"How do you know about this? Did you read it from some study?"

"People have been talking about it in my forum. I know it's true though." There are forums where the conspiracy never rests I've learned. Everything from chem trails to the eternal 'they' who are out to get 'us' of course.

"How do you know it?"

"It only makes sense." She looks at me exasperated. "I just know that's what it is."

Now I'm the one ready to scream "Arghhhhhhhhhhh."

But see, she's not alone. The world we live in is filled with these faith based pronouncements. Someone makes it up, then others repeat the mantra in a world where no conspiracy can be too large, or any plot by a drive for one world order too extreme. I turn on television, only to hear some guy ranting that health care legislation supports killing grandma, or that Obama is not really a U.S. citizen. "How do you know that?" the announcers ask.

"My Congressman said so."

"You know that it is not in the legislation. His birth certificate has been verified."

::holding fingers in ears chanting:: "I can't hear you! It's not true. I know it isn't. I just know."

It's like we stopped living in the real world and began a massive game of make believe. "He's a Communist and a Nazi!" Never mind that the two are mutually exclusive by definition. Do not interrupt me with those pesky facts.

Now we can disagree on certain things. I believe that government can and does provide useful functions that are good for the common welfare. You may be one who believes any government is bad government. We can disagree and that is cool. But what is NOT cool is arguing your position with made up facts. When a sizable number of people are playing this game of make believe while the other side is trying to adhere to facts, no conversation is possible and compromise is out of the question. Seriously, how do you compromise with a fairy tale?

How long might it be before these zealots of faith drown out and convert sufficient numbers to march with them. Here history provides some ominous warnings. One is the original bonfire of the vanities. The most famous was in 1497 when a priest Girolamo Savonaroma led a revolt against the Renaissance of that time burning great art, books considered immoral like Boccaccio's and out of fear it was said by some that the great artist Botacelli threw some of his own art into the fire as well. Faith distorted by fear and hate replaced reason on that day. Periodically these exercises of intolerance and faith based non-reason have arisen throughout history.

I long for another age of reason, similar to the one that took place when our nation was founded. I long for a place where proven science holds a loftier place in society than belief stated as fact. At one time religion was held separate from the political. Our founders knew the dangers of mixing the two. Sadly much of today's discourse comes from that forbidden blending. Fox News and Rush Limbaugh and Tele-evangelists create their own realities, dispensing to an unthinking mob. Can't we distinguish fact from belief? Creationism is taught as science, but creationism is a function of faith not science. To put it on equal footing with Darwin is absurd.

I long for another age of reason, for in this polarized world, it offers our only hope in compromise and becoming one people again.

I long for another age of reason. Imagine reporters reporting facts. Long conversations with friends without elaborate conspiracies and distinguishing fact from hunch.

May it be sooner rather than later. Or if I"m wrong, could the reptilians come and devour me now?