A Meeting on Memory Lane

When I'm driving home, trying to pretend I'm doing anything but looking at car butts for an hour, I tend to let my mind roam. Sometimes, I end up working on a problem that came up at work. Other times, I'm making lists. You know, grocery list, to do list, gardening list, hope to do list, things to do other than my chores list...... I have even been known to have full blown arguments with my in-laws, ex-laws, and other nasty people- all by myself in my little Kia. (It's amazing that I haven't been pulled over and taken to the State Hospital, yet.) I think the only thing saving my crazy self is the invention of the cell phone. I'm guessing that the other drivers on the road don't realize that I'm not hollering at some one on the other end of the line. Nope. Not me. I'm having a real Let-It-All-Out, No-Holds-Barred, yelling match with an invisible enemy. (This tends to happen more when I'm a tad PMSy, but that isn't always the case. Sometimes, I'm just nuts.) Despite how kooky it may sound, I usually end up accomplishing a lot during this time. Today, though, was much nicer. Today I reminisced.

I started out thinking about the ranch in Seguin where I grew up. I think the dried grasses on the side of the road, the light of the winter sun in the sky, and possibly the doolley that tried to run me down, brought it all back. When this happens to me, I always end up thinking about my favorite person growing up- my Grandpa Caddell.

I remembered how my Grandpa came driving up to our house in his one ton, white, flatbed pickup. He would be spewing dust behind him like his tail was on fire. After coming to a quick stop, he would slowly get out of the cab. Not like king emerging from his chariot. More like a man that had been pushed and packed into a box and was finally able to experience the world again. Happy to be out of the box, but needing to do so slowly in order to make his body cooperate.

Grandpa wasn't old. He was just used. He had worked his body till it looked like a ranchers body. Therefore, it didn't do well sitting still - it got stiff. His body always seemed to work better on a horse or tractor. On one of these, he was as graceful and beautiful to watch as a ballet dancer. He would look taller, bolder, wiser, and somehow younger. He would come alive. Every part of his being was made to be a cowboy. I miss seeing that. It is hard to find these days. (At least while living in the suburbs of Austin, married to a teacher, and not even acquainted with a rancher anymore.) I think that is one of the reasons I love Pioneer Woman's blog/pictures so very much. They bring that back to me.

Anyway.... Back to the best man I knew as a kid, My Grandpa Caddell.

He always wore a white, straw cowboy hat that sat evenly on his head. His jeans were almost always dusty and were never without the crease from my grandma's iron. They rode just at his hips, barely. (He didn't have a huge belly, but he tended to look like a small potato with chicken legs.) I don't think I every saw him without a snap-on shirt. It was either white with little black pin stripes running down it or a Carhart khaki. That shirt was ALWAYS long sleeve.

Then there was the obligatory boots. He had three pair of boots; as did my Dad and my great Uncle. He wore his work boots more than any other pair he owned. They were a plain, brown leather that were the exact duplicate of my Dad's and Uncle Nunny's. (I don't claim to know where that name came from. Nor do I know where Aunt Bug, Aunt Sissy Gal, Grandma Duck, Uncle Boy. or anyone else in my family got there names. I'm just glad 'Eewie' only lasted thru high school and hasn't been heard from since.) These boots were scuffed and extremely durable. At anytime you would find cow poop, grease, mud, and hay stuck to the soles and oozing over the sides.

The second most used pair were his nice work boots (that's what they called them.) Like my Dad's and Uncle Nunny's, these boots were used for going into town. Maybe to meet with a banker, the owner of the ranch, or take the women folk (hah! How often do you get to say women folk? I couldn't resist) out to eat. These boots were kept nice. They were not worn in the pasture because they were the back-ups. Great thought was given to when and if they would even be worn. Why? Well, these nice work boots would eventually be lowered to the state of regular work boots when the aforementioned boots finally wore out. This was a big deal-the wearing out of the work boots. It would mean a lot of discussion, debate, and finally the dreaded trip to the western store where he would end up buying an exact copy of the boots he just threw out.

His least worn pair of boots were his 'dress boots.' These boots varied with each man's taste. My Grandpa liked black boots with filigree and scrolls on the sides and top. They never had a metal tip on the toes. Never! My Dad liked brown with the same classic scrolling and filigree. My Uncle was my Grandpa's brother to the end and preferred black, also. These boots were only worn on special occasions. When these boots were worn, so was the dress hat, shirt and slacks. No Jeans! These were brought out for funerals, weddings, and other very important occasions. (These type of occasions were just about the only time my Grandpa ever rode in my Grandma's car, too.) I loved these boots. They always smelled of leather - not ranch dirt. They would always get shined before they were worn. And you knew something special was fixing to happen. Plus, cowboys tend to clean up pretty darn good.

Now, I just realized that I have been writing on and on - forever - on just what the man wore! I need to stop. I apologize for my wordy trip down memory lane. If I do it again, I will try to keep it shorter. But I can't make any promises. I don't seem to have an off switch sometimes.
So, for now, I'll say goodbye to my Grandpa with hopes that I'll visit him again. I hope you enjoyed meeting him. I hope you liked what you saw. After all, first impressions are important and I want you to like my childhood hero.