Growing up

Another walk down memory lane....


On the ranch in Seguin, where many of my childhood memories reside, you could see company coming from a mile away. With the fine sandy soil that made our 'roads,' you could see a dust plume following any vehicle that approached. Much like the Cowboys and Indians would watch the trail for this tale tale sign of approaching trouble, we would watch for this sign to announce visitors.

Occasionally, a stranger would come slowly, almost hesitantly, up the road to our house, if they were lucky. If not, they would accidentally take the one road leading to the other pastures and have to turn around and hunt for civilization again. I always wondered if someone would be stupid enough to keep opening gates; going deeper and deeper into the ranch. I pictured one of the men doing pasture checks and finding an abandoned vehicle or worse - one that just held the skeleton of a doomed stranger. Pretty morbid, huh? I guess it is. But you have to understand. I was taught early on that people not belonging to the ranch, were a danger to themselves and others. Examples of this were demonstrated on occasion. Like the 'hunter' friend of the ranch's owner who shot himself a deer. Only it wasn't a deer. It was a 500 lb cow. (This seemed to happen every couple of years. It was so bad that my Grandpa finally convinced the owner to quit inviting his friends to deer hunt.) Every once and a while, we would spot someone going in the wrong direction and jump in a truck and go rescue them. I'm still amazed how many salesman would open the big front gate and drive up to our house. I wouldn't have. I knew that strangers could get shot for less than trying to sale a vacuum.

Most of the time though, visitors consisted of my Uncle Nunny, one of my grandparents, or the Culligan Man. All expected. Most of the time, the men would turn in front of our house and take a right to the feed barn, the shed (which is where they did all sorts of odd jobs), the dog pen (that housed about 15 dogs,) the horse barn, or the tractor shed. But, sometimes they would drive straight up and park in front of our house. I don't know how or why it did it, but the cloud of dust that followed every vehicle on the ranch would not billow into our yard. At least, it never seemed to. The dust would billow over the truck and settle there, never going further. It looked like an invisible wall stopped all the dust from entering our yard. Nowhere on the ranch would you find carpet grass. Maybe it was that little oasis of green, lush-ishness in the middle of weeds and sticker burrs that stopped it. Maybe that dust respected all the hard work my grandmother had put in transplanting bits and pieces of that grass from town until it covered the entire yard. I don't know. I just remember that it was neat to watch.

The men would come stomping into the yard; knocking the dust, cow manure, and various other things off their boots and clothes. Most of the time they would be talking, laughing and discussing what they still needed to do or how something had gone wrong. On these days, they were more than likely coming in for lunch or a cup of hot coffee. They would take off their hats as they entered the kitchen and deposit them onto counter. Then they would sit around the kitchen table and wait for their food. Usually, my mom would know they were coming and have something ready. If not, they would be just as happy with sandwiches. After eating their fill, they would lean back in their chairs and relax for about 15 minutes. Then they would thank my mom for the meal and head back out the door. It was like a whirlwind of testosterone, sweat, leather, loud voices, and big male bodies.

Every once in a while my Grandpa would drive up to our house in the early afternoon. If I saw the dust trail, I would meet him at the yard gate. He would wait for the dust to settle, and climb out of his truck. He'd say in his wonderfully low, gruff voice, "Tammie Lynn, go pack a bag. You're coming with me and Grandma tonight." That was the best! I would run in the house and head to my clothes closet. I would quietly grab a change and clothes and some PJ's because it would dawn on me that my mother hadn't been informed of his plans. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity as my Grandpa and my Mom discussed my future, he would come to the living room door and ask, " Are you ready?" Was I ever?! Jumping up with my bag of clothes slung over my shoulder, I would hug my Mom goodbye and rush out the door.

I loved riding in my Grandpa's truck. It was like entering a privileged world. His world. The world of men and cowboys, where all kinds of mysterious things happened, like de-horning, castration, and hay raking. I would drink in all the papers, tools, and paraphernalia in his truck. I would try to memorize the smell that was him. All while trying to be good and impress him too. It was tough, let me tell ya. Those rides in his truck rank as some of my favorite memories.

I'll write more later - where you like it or not. I must be feeling melancholy or something, but I like writing these good memories down.