1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/ NETTIE CALLS THE SHOTS

Honk, honk. Honk, honk, honk.  Hoooooonnnnnnnk!!!!

The first honks were like announcements of arrival.  The last one--insistent.  Just like my grandmother sometimes when she wanted us to do something.

"Nettie's outside!!" I yelled, looking out the picture window and seeing her big old lumbering 1953 black and white Buick.

"What does she want?" Susan called from her bedroom, where she was doing math homework.  I knew this because I had opened the door earlier and been told to get out because she was "doing math homework".  I knew she wouldn't leave her room anyway to go outside to see what Nettie wanted.  She never did. 

She was what I called  "an inside girl."  She had perfect, unmarred hands and fingernails.  She didn't like to get dirty or sweat.  And she would much rather read, or play Canasta or Scrabble than run down the sides of the creek or climb on the thick wooden rails of the corral.  I couldn't understand it.

On days when the entire family rose at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to work cattle,  Mother and Daddy usually  made a halfhearted effort to get her involved, then gave up, saying something like, "Well, you can set the table for lunch then."  Like that was a punishment!  They probably made a show mainly to keep Jan and I from whining about why she didn't have to help, and we did.

Nettie knew I'd always ride with her in her car,and sometimes Jan would,  riding through the dusty pasture roads, looking out at the Herefords grazing placidly on the thin grass, standing hip high in thistles and milkweed., stirring up the grasshoppers. I found their intermittent bawls oddly calming and pleasant.  Sometimes they jerked their heads up from eating, grass jutting from their white lips as they stared at us, unperturbed, chewing rhythmically on the green repast, saliva dripping from their mouths, watering the dry ground below.

She sometimes stopped the car suddenly, throwing up a small dust cloud behind us.  She opened the driver's side door, held onto the steering wheel and turned her ample body sideways.  Holding to the open door, she then stood up slowly, her arthritic knees creaking like two rusted  barn door hinges begging for oil.

"Hand me my cane," she'd say, "and my hat."  I stuck the wooden cane toward her from my place in the front seat while Jan grabbed the huge sombrero-like hat and set it on the driver's seat. Nettie  grasped the smooth wood in the curve of the cane handle, steadied herself, reached down for the hat, and after dwarfing her head with the monstrosity, started out toward the cows.  Prone to skin cancers, she wasn't taking any chances.  The hat and a long sleeved shirt were summer standards.

That was our cue  to get out of the car and scramble toward her.  She wasn't afraid of the cows and neither were we, but it was best to walk close to her so if she started a stampede, punching and yelling at them, that we weren't in their way.

"You old heifer, what are you looking at?" she'd ask, jabbing her stick toward a large red and white cow, with bags hanging almost to the ground.

"Why,  I'm looking at you," Jan would whisper, chuckling.  We stifled laughter.

"Where's your baby?" she said, louder, like the cow hadn't heard her the first time.  "Oh, I see him.  Right over there.  Now he's a pretty thang."  Now softer, like you'd exclaim over a mother's new baby, a REAL one, "He sure is.  Come here baby, come here."  The calf ran lickety split, kicking up his heels with abandon.  He was nowhere near Nettie  and not planning to come any closer by the way he was acting.

I shaded my eyes and squinted up at the blinding sun .  Jan kicked at a dried cow patty with the toe of her tennis shoe.  We weren't with Nettie  anymore.  It seemed to be just her and the cows.  I wondered if living alone as a widow so many years made her converse with things other than people.  She might talk to her furniture for all I knew. 

"Here bully, bully, bully," she teased.  "You old bull.  You think I'm afraid of you because of those big old horns.  I'm not afraid of you.  You made some pretty calves this year.  You sure did." 

She took a few steps forward, away from the car, and waded into the middle of the herd, about fifty cows.  Her felt Daniel Green houseshoes would be no match for this dust.  Her red and black plaid dress moved slightly in the hot breeze, and the back of the cotton longsleeved shirt she wore over it waved like a multicolor flowered flag.

 Most of the herd began  moving slowly away like bored guests at a dinner party moving away from a boorish speaker.  A few stood very still, looking at her, their slight defiance caving when she continued walking toward them, her cane stabbimg  into the ground, anchoring each step.  The bull was the last to cede his territory, but he, too, eventually moved out of her way, his 1200 pound body drifting slowly away like a large ship on calm water.   Hooves plodding, he gave a token shake of his long thick horns, their dirty ivory tips at least three feet wide.

We could never figure out why she did it.  The cows were having a perfectly lovely day, munching on grass and weeds in the pasture until she came and broke up their party.  There was no point.  Only to tell our dad, her son,  that she had "looked at the cows" and give her observations.  That was her contribution to the family business, I guessed.

She sure couldn't help us on Saturdays when we worked cows.  That was when the real work with the livestock took place.  Cows aren't very smart.  We'd often get behind them in the pasture and yell, walking them toward the corral.  Rarely, Daddy would saddle Sugar and try corraling them that way.  She was so lazy that she'd get tired and wouldn't run fast enough to herd them, instead trying to go to the horsebarn, a different place altogether.  If one of the methods didn't work, or too many decided to cut and run, we'd load a bale of hay in the back of the truck and they'd follow it like kids following an ice cream truck.They fell for the "food trick" almost every time, except in the spring when they had gorged on new grass.   


Once they were all inside the corral, we just shut the gate, and we had them.  Several of them would always run over and drink water out of the old porcelain bathtub that was their watering trough.  Then, it was a matter of culling a few at a time from the group, persuading them to go into the smaller pens and eventually running them into a corner where we could push a gate against their rear ends,  making their walking area smaller and smaller until they had to move forward in a line until each one individually reached the "squeeze chute."

That had to be manned by my dad or someone strong.  The cows were enticed in there because they could see an opening.  They occasionally had to be prodded with a hotshot, a metal stick with batteries that delivered an electric jolt.  In my father's defense, he didn't use it much or let others use it much.  Only with the most recalcitrant bovines.

My cousin Phil usually found time to chase Jan and I with it, threatening to shock us, and laughing happily at our screams.  He usually managed to herd us toward a cow paddy that we stepped in,  our feet  sliding wildly through the brownish green muck.  Simultaneously we shuddered,  shouted our disgust,  and ran for  rags to wipe off the slimy mess, all to the background peals of laughter of Phil and the rest of the "crew."

The "squeeze chute" was made so that the cow's  head could stick out through a gap in the bars, while  its body was squeezed tight.   But dumb as most of them were, they would imagine they could jump through the hole for their head and drag their whole body behind.  The chute was hinged on the sides, so my dad could "cinch" the metal bars tight enough to hold them still and then do the necessary work. 

It was hot, messy, nasty work, and the branding seemed downright cruel to me.  I could hardly bear to look.  A small fire was built and the branding irons placed there.  Once they were red hot, they were applied for a few seconds to the cow's hide.  The cows bawled-loud-but it only lasted a few seconds.  Then they had a new letter S on their right hip.

And they never seemed to hold it against my dad or even remember it after they escaped the corral.  The branding was always the last thing after tattoos were inked  into their ears with a tool that looked like it had a thousand sharp needles sticking out of it,  and shots were given for who knew what,  and they were doctored for anything else that was wrong with them. 

Some of them had pinkeye at times, and my dad squirted some type of drops in their eyes.  They also got sprayed with insecticide to kill the swarms of tiny flies and the thick, slimy white grubs that imbedded themselves under their tough hide. 

Sometimes one of the boys who might be helping work cows would mash hard on each side of a small opening on  the cow's hide and out popped a shiny worm, blasting up like a rocket, rising high above the cow's back, then descending like a failed flight, to the trampled dirt and manure inside the corral.

About 11:30 on cow working day, Mother headed for the house where she scrubbed her arms and hands, and prepared hotdogs, french fries, ice cold tea and usually a frozen dessert like lemon or chocolate cream pie.  When it was ready, she stepped outside holding a large cowbell in her hands, and shook it hard, till the sound was loud enough to reach us working at the corral. 

In a few minutes, the old turquoise truck pulled up to the garage and in tromped seven or eight sweaty and dusty  kids and adults.  Half headed to the two bathrooms while the others waited their turn for hand and arm washing at the sink. 

Conversations at the lunch table usually consisted of the morning's excitement, the wild cows, the bulls, the mad ones, the mean ones, the sick ones, the ones that tried to escape.   Everyone jockeyed for position to tell their story, waiting impatiently to tell their viewpoint of the activities.  Some times they got to, but more often my dad held center stage.  If he took a breath and someone talked really fast, they might get to tell something before he started in again. 

My cousin Phil was about 17 now, and he often came down and participated, though I couldn't understand why.

If I were an only child and lived in a nice, modern, and most of all "air conditioned" house, I doubted I'd ever come down to a hot place like this, that smelled  of manure and cow medicine and sizzling cowhides.

"Hey, where were you this morning, Snow White?" he teased Susan.  She ignored him, but you could tell she, like the rest of us, never got mad at him.  He was totally good natured about everything he said and did.  He was like the seventh kid in the family when he was there, but better natured.

"I set the table," she finally said, like it was justification for something.

He could always get away with saying things to my dad we would never say.  He made fun of him for getting so worked up and yelling and cussing the cows which was as much a part of cow working days as sweating.

"Hey," he called across the timbers of the chute one day, his arms hanging across the third rail, feet planted on the first, "you'd bawl too if someone stuck a hot iron to your butt."

We all watched to see my dad's reaction.  His face was already red and flushed from the heat, the effort, and the frustration with the cows, who never seemed to understand what was expected of them.  I watched as his face appeared to turn from red to fuchsia. 

Then he was done branding the cow, and his shoulders relaxed.  He released the bar that held the cow's head in place, and she backed up fast, her rear end slamming against the metal gate behind her, hooves scrabbling on the dirt of the chute.  My older brother Elton Jr. was at her head and released the pin on the small gate that had held her and swung it back, running backward quickly, not because he was scared of her, but to encourage her to run forward.

Once she saw the opening created when Jan or I slid the corral gate open at the end of the chute, she took off for the opening, kicking her heels wildly as she exited to open pasture.  By that time, we had jumped on the corral fence to make sure we didn't get her happy back feet in our faces.  We were always amazed that these lumbering beasts could move with such agility as they ran, their back feet leading, twisting their bodies up and around like an invisible hand was wringing them out like a dishrag.

Daddy watched her go, laughing at her antics when she got outside the corral.  Then he picked up the branding iron and held it toward Phil, who was safely across the chute.  "Boy," he said, "you keep on and we may have to use this on you."

We all laughed, then looked toward Phil, whom we knew would have a retort. 

"Yeah, well, you'd have to catch me first, short man," Phil said to peals of laughter.

My dad didn't say anything, but I could see him smiling as he pitched the branding iron back on the fire. 

'Well, I believe we're about through for today, boys and girls," my dad announced,  at the same time that we noticed a black and white buick moving toward us like a mirage, the sun reflecting off the shiny metal bouncing up and down in the middle of a thick cloud of brown dust.  We could barely see Nettie's head over the steering wheel, but we could see the huge sombrero-like hat, sticking out on each side.

Honk, honk, hoooooooonnnnnnnnnnk!

"Yes your majesty?" Phil cracked, sweeping his hand across his body and bowing at the waist.

"Let's go, everybody!" Daddy said, moving toward his mother's car.  "Nettie's here for the day's report!" he laughed goodnaturedly.

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/THE BEST RESTAURANT IN TOWN

I didn't think Mother's choice of restaurants could get any worse, but I was most decidedly wrong.  Daddy continued to work in south Texas and west Texas, and we continued to let a trip to see him count as something like a vacation. 

This year we were headed for Floyada, near Lubbock, Texas.  It was 1963, and he was working on a cotton gin out there, doing something with machinery, nuts and bolts.  We had no idea what, but it seemed to interest him endlessly.  He loved his work. 

I don't think he liked staying out for weeks on end without seeing the family, but most of the cotton left Navarro County due to a change in government policy, and there was still lots of cotton in west Texas.  It was the best way for him to earn enough money to take care of the family. 

Neila had graduated college and planned to marry Tom in the fall.  She was already working in San Antonio, Texas as a teacher.  Stephen had married Mavis last year and was also living in San Antonio, where he was in the Air Force.  Elton and Deanna had been married six or seven years, had a four-year-old, and Elton had reinvented himself at least three times.  He started out at Chattanooga Glass Factory, went to work as produce manager for Safeway Stores, bought a plane, learned to fly, sold the plane, and now was talking about a call from God  to be a pastor. 

We four girls and Mother had gone to visit Daddy.  We stayed in a small motel in Floydada, Texas for four or five days, eating out most meals at places Daddy frequented and where the owners and waitresses knew him by name.  Other than Susan, Jan and I being taken to a billiards hall for the first time by the teenage daughter of the gin manager, the trip was pretty unremarkable.  That is, until the return trip.

We got up and left around 7 a.m. before the Texas sun started beating down on the rough red sand and scrubby brush.  Jan and I started saying how hungry we were by the time Mother had  pulled onto the highway and stopped at the first traffic light, maybe the only traffic light, in town. 

"We'll stop soon," Mother promised.  "Let's get just a little way down the highway." 

A little way down the highway meant until Mother saw a "suitable" restaurant or we talked so loud that it got on even her unflappable nerves.  About an hour into the drive, I was suffering hunger pangs so strong that I began doubling over on the backseat like a drama queen.  Jan was talking loudly about all the things she loved for breakfast:  fresh canteloupe, scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, toast, jelly, maybe ham.  Orange juice. 

Mother kept her eyes on the road, humming quietly to herself, saying nothing, ignoring us.  Susan sat up front with Neila and Mother.  Who could blame her? 

Jan and I had bought a sombrero, and we took turns putting it on  and saying in a nasal twang:  "Hey, senor, can you give me a ride?  I'm hungry and I'm looking for a nice place to eat."

Susan sighed loudly a couple of times,  making Neila chuckle.  Mother didn't even acknowledge how obnoxious we were and really seemed not to notice our repetitive playacting. 

As we passed through a tiny town called Spur, Texas,  Mother suddenly pulled off the highway into a gravel parking lot (she never chose cafes with paved lots).  We looked up to find ourselves face to face with the Spur Cafe, set back only a car's length off the highway.  This time there were no 18 wheelers, only two other cars. 

We climbed the four steep steps and entered the tiny white frame restaurant.  Metal chairs with deep green plastic seats and backs sat in some disarray around four dark green formica tables, also haphazardly arranged in the small dining area.  Mother quickly apprised the situation and headed for seats at the short counter at the back of the room, where a skinny waitress stood, arms folded, looking like she was daring us to order.  One customer sat on a stool at the end of the counter drinking coffee, his wrinkled khakis hanging off his feet as his dirty work boots looped backwards over the metal ring near the base of the stool.  That left the rest of the stools for us. 

We all slid onto the green plastic,  and at least Jan and I propped our elbows on the formica counter. 

The lady unfolded her arms, turned slowly, picked up some white papers, walked toward us, dragging the  dirty white rubber tips of her tennis shoes with each step and slung the one-page menus our way.  We perused them, though she probably thought we were only looking at them.

Susan was the first to speak.  She probably thought she might ameliorate any bad impressions Jan and I had made coming in loud and boisterous, with our fake Spanish accents. 

"I'd like scrambled eggs, please," she said politely.

"Chickens ain't laid yet," the plaid shirted worker said, scowling.

"Oh, I see," Susan said, like it was the most understandable thing in the world.

"Well," Mother said.  "I'd like a cup of coffee and a donut."

"Donut man ain't made it by yet," she said, looking as though she were enjoying this.  She turned to get Mother a cup of coffee, looking angry, tapping her soiled red tennis shoes impatiently on the sticky linoleum floor.

"Hmmmm, what about some bacon and milk?" Neila asked, taking up the game of What's for Breakfast?

"Meat man ain't been by yet.  It's early Monday mornin', ya know," she said, almost happy now.
She handed Mother her coffee with a frown and wiped her hands on her blue denim pants, leaving a tiny coffee stain on the right leg of the pants.

"Cow ain't been milked yet," I said under my breath, causing Jan and Susan to laugh.

"Well," said Mother, in her nicest questioning voice, "What do you have?"

"Cereal," she said.  But she pronounced it "sur ruhl".

"Surreal is right," Neila whispered.  "I think we're in the Twilight Zone."

"Oh you have cereal but no milk?" Mother asked for clarification.  "Anything else on hand?"

"We got Snickers and Coke."

"Okay," Mother looked quickly down the row at all of us, sitting quietly on the stools, afraid to  laugh, knowing it would become a tidal wave of mirth that couldn't be stopped.  "Five Snickers, four cokes.  I assume you have some ice."

"Of course," the lady snorted as if that were the silliest thing ever.  "Who doesn't have ice?"

Mother paid for the candy and cokes and we slid off the stools and headed for the door.  As we went out the front door, Mother turned as an afterthought, "Oh, I don't guess you'd have any orange juice, would you?"

The lady stared at her, incredulous.

"I didn't think so," Mother said cheerily.  "Just thought I'd ask.  It'd be some Vitamin C to go with the candy."

Neila was outside the door by now and started laughing quietly but hard, shaking all the way to the car.  Susan was thoroughly disgusted and it showed in her facial expression.  Jan and I, who sometimes almost read one another's minds, had already started a new comedy routine. 

"Hey senor," I said in my best nasal Spanish.

"Do you have any food at all for breakfast besides candy and cokes?" she finished to gales of laughter from the two of us. 

Mother said nothing, hopped in the car, started it, backed up, pulled onto the highway and started passing out the candy bars.  "Breakfast anyone?" she asked.

"Where are we stopping for lunch?" I asked.