The three girls were all excited about the coming Christmas Holidays.  With Christmas carol music in the air, and all the windows decorated brightly, and TV advertisements showing off all kinds of things kids want only heightened the pleasure of the season.  Each day new advertisements came in the mail filled with pictures of pretty clothes and toys three young sisters could hardly live without.  Connor, Kenna, and Hannah were busy making lists for “Santa” so he would know what they wanted.   They made long lists of clothes and toys they wanted and really needed, only to erase some items, cross out others, and then add new ones.  The lists were

growing longer daily.

          Then one day Connor got to thinking about Christmas.  “Hey, sisters, do you get the feeling these “lists for Santa,” might not be the real spirit of Christmas? That maybe there is more to this Holiday than “getting?”

“Well, now that you mention it, Kenna and I were just thinking about that very thing this morning,” said Hannah.

“But what can we do?” asked Cindy.

Then in unison they said to each other, “I know, we will do the giving!”  

“But what can we give?  What do we have that we could share with others?” they asked each other. 

“We could bake cookies,” Hannah said.

“And I know how to make pecan pralines, and muffins,” said Kenna.

“I bet mother will let me use her sewing machine!  I can make hot pads, cup towels, and aprons,” said Connor.

          In their excitement they forgot about making “Lists for Santa,” and started making lists of materials and groceries they would need for making gifts to give.  In their excitement they thought of other things to make.  They could make special decorated tree ornaments. “And we could write poems, and short stories of Christmas, and draw pictures of baby Jesus,” they said.

Sleep came slowly that night.  The thought of really doing something for someone else filled their heads with joy.  Christmas Joy.  Just as they were drifting off to sleep, Connor sat up in bed and said, “And we could make gift cards to give of our time to help clean house, wash windows, and any task that they might need done.”

“Hey, Connor, that is a good idea.  I bet most folks would find that helpful,” said Kenna.  “Now will you let us get some sleep before we have to get up and go to school,” said Hannah.

To be continued. 

Thanksgiving

          My, don’t we have a lot to be thankful for?  The recent rains that have returned our land to green, head our list of things to be thankful for.  We are thankful for our neighbors, our families, and our husbands and wives, and our children, grand children, and great grandchild.  And I am thankful for the memories of past Thanksgiving Days.

          Our daughter, Jeannette, arrives early and decorates the kitchen.  She unfolds a bright red spread for the table, and places a candle display in the middle.  She insists on using the best china; that we have been saving for company, which is proper.  Her decorating sets the scene for a festive day.

          Alice always puts the turkey in the oven the day before and let it cook all night.  She goes peacefully to sleep, but I fret all night fearing it will get too done, or not done enough.  She is always right; it comes our perfectly every time.  Alice also has been kind enough to learn to make my Mother’s sweet potato pie.  It is similar to the traditional pumpkin pie except it has grated zest of lemon for the favoring.  That takes me home in memory.  She also bakes a special pineapple cake.  I don’t know how, but she has it fall in the center allowing most of the pineapple frosting to flow to the middle.  Just to show how thoughtful Alice is, she will let me eat the juicy center first.  Our daughter in law, Vicky has become famous in the family for her prize winning chocolate pie, made with a homemade crust.  She usually makes two, but hides one for Greg and me for later.  While she is in the pie-making mode, Vicky makes an apple pie with that fancy lattice top, and everything.

          Well, as you can see all the work has been completed the day before.  Thanksgiving morning all that has to be done is to cook the mashed potatoes, make the brown gravy, open a jar of sweet pickles, brew the iced tea, make a green bean casserole, chop up oranges, apples, pineapples, grate some coconut for the fruit salad, and not forgetting the jar of Maraschino cherries, which I will sample as the day goes by. Some like giblet gravy, and someone usually makes it, but I manage to sit at the other end of the table to avoid looking at it. Did I mention cranberry sauce?  No?  And yeast rolls to sop in the gravy?  And make the after dinner coffee?  As I said, all the work is done the day before.  Except the corn bread stuffing.

          Alice has developed a way to make the stuffing into an easy task.  The day before Thanksgiving, she makes a large pan of corn bread to which she adds plenty chopped onions and celery.  With a lot of pepper and sage in the pan of corn bread  sure makes the house smell great.  Thanksgiving morning, the turkey is done, Alice adds the drippings and juices of the turkey into the crumbled cornbread.  Now this is the best part, she calls me to sample to make sure there are enough pepper, sage, salt, onions, and celery in the mixture.  It takes me several tries, but I get it right; sooner or later.  She then bakes this mixture in a granite pan and serves it as a special dish.  It always earns the blue ribbon of the day.

          But, you know, even without all the turkey, stuffing, pies, cakes, casseroles, hot rolls, Thanksgiving Day, with the family would still be my favorite holiday.

Hollis Baker  22 November 2009

          Seventy years ago most little towns were visited by traveling “Medicine Shows,” during the summer and fall months. They consisted of a flatbed truck with plenty of signs all over the fenders, doors and panels announcing “Doc Bailey’s Medicine Show, with free entertainment of magic, music, jugglers, and mysterious sights never seen before by human eyes.” What they didn’t say was that Doc Bailey had concocted a mess of sugar water, cake coloring, alcohol, and various spices, bottled and labeled with an impressive list of uses “Guaranteed to cure ingrown toe nails, rheumatism, head aches, sore mussels, sleeplessness, mumps, measles, and anything that ails mankind.”  The Doc and his crew would set up in a vacant lot as close to the town square as the Sheriff would allow, and about dark began their spiel. Loud music was the sirens call to us town folk, and we came in great numbers to see and hear the sights.

          We laughed at the clown, applauded the musicians, and marveled at the contortionist. The magician was a favorite, and how he put the pretty lady in a box, stuck numerous swords, through openings in the box and she came out unharmed, still puzzles me today.

          But the best thing on the bill of fair was the announcement that a local talent show would begin right after “Doc Bailey’s Elixir Medicine” pitch and sale.  And the “medicine” sold fast at only fifty cents a bottle.  Many folks swore it was the best cure-all they had ever used, and kept a bottle handy at all times.

          Us locals signed up for the talent show early.  Well I didn’t for they had no category for playing hooky from school.  But guys and gals signed up for hog calling, high jumping, singing, and playing the harmonica.  They all did their “Thing” and we enjoyed them all.  One Pretty Little Blonde girl, with cowboy hat and pink boots, picked the guitar, and sang “Red River Valley,” to uproarious applause.  Then my Grand Pa came on stage, with his baggy wool suit, run down shoes, and shaggy beard, to do his offering; an Irish Jig.  I think most of the family was a little embarrassed with his act, but he did a good job.  What the rest of the family did not know was he had enlisted all his grandsons and grand daughters to be at the show and applaud loud and long.  It came down to a run off; the Pretty Little Blonde Girl with her guitar, and Grandpa and his Irish Jig.  Doc Bailey had the Pretty Little Blonde girl do a verse of her song, and then Grandpa a few seconds of his Jig.  He then called for applause from the audience for each one in turn.  The Pretty Little Blonde Girl’s response was long and loud.  Doc then called for an audience response for Grandpa’s Irish Jig; the applause was longer and louder thanks to all the grandkids and other assorted family members.  Then Doc Bailey announced the Pretty Little Girl as the winner! 

        There was a little fuss but Grandpa took the loss with grace and good sportsman manner.  In fact, I think Grandpa liked her talent presentation better any way.

            You remember a few weeks back we discussed an unusual rock house James Mather found on a newly acquired parcel of land way out County Road 214? Neither James nor anyone else I spoke to knew anything about the structure.  At that time I promised to visit the Exxon station more regularly, hoping to find the answer to the riddle.  In my imagination I could just see a rugged, bewhiskered old man wearing scruffy boots and patched jeans, with a sweat stained hat, having coffee there.  And in my fancy I would approach him and he would have the answer to our riddle.

             Well to my astonishment last Thursday, as I promised, I was having a cup of coffee with a bunch of gentlemen at the Exxon, when in came that very man I had imagined. I introduced myself, and he offered me a calloused hand that had done a life of hard work, and said he was pleased to meet me.  “Sir, we have a mystery here in Liberty Hill that you may be able to shed some light on.”  I shared with him the house James had found and the fact that no one knew anything about it.  “No, he said, I am afraid I can’t help you with that.  I am from out west and I don’t believe I have ever been in these parts.”  You can imagine my disappointment as the old man paid for his coffee, got into his battered pick up and drove off to the west.

             Gary Spivey was sitting at our table.  Gary Spivey, our historian.  He said,  “I overheard your questions to the old man and the riddle of the newly found building.  What do you want to know about that house?”  Well, Gary did not fit the description of the man I knew would reveal the answer to my quest.  In fact, Gary was wearing Nike running shoes, walking shorts, purple Liberty Hill tee shirt and a baseball cap.  Hardly the sage I was expecting.  However he did have the answer to my question.  “The building was a stage stop on the road from Austin to Lampasas and further northwest,” he said.  Gary stated in the 1830’s as roads were spreading to the north and west, a stagecoach could only travel from 10 to 20 miles, before the horses had to be changed.  And the passengers needed rest also, so the stops were placed that far apart.  The stage road northwesterly from Austin came to what was to become Liberty Hill and made a fork; one going west, another going north.  The north fork of the long ago road is where our stage stop is located.  So I found a Texas map and laid a straight edge on the map from Austin to Lampasas and sure enough, the line passes close to our mystery stage stop.  Gary said one early stop was at Jollyville, just north of Austin.   Others were placed along the route northwest. 

             So there you are.  Mystery solved.  If you have a question, hang around the Exxon station until a wrinkled, battered, whiskered, booted old man comes in for coffee.  Then ask Gary.  Odds are you will get the answer.  

               A lot of guys go to the Exxon station for coffee each morning, and sometimes have breakfast.  The ladies in pretty green smocks make a mean taco and good coffee.  Besides you can hear a lively story there once in a while.  Sometimes it is the same one from last week, but it is still good.

            I saw James Mather there a few weeks ago.  He had just bought a parcel of land out county road 214 where the community of San Gabriel River Ranch is.  He was excited about finding on his land what has become a mystery.   He asked if I wanted to go see it.  I jumped at the opportunity.  In the thick live oak, Spanish oak, and cedar covered land there stands a most unusual stone building.  The structure is about 20 feet by 25 feet with a fireplace in the north end of two feet thick walls.  The fireplace opening has a keystone to carry the weight of the rocks above.  The masons that built the house shaped the stone with carefully cut limestone rocks.  They obviously knew how to build a stone fireplace.  Openings on all four walls where windows would normally be are only about one foot wide by 20 inches tall.  There is a doorway on the east side as well as on the west side.  The lintels over the doorways have fallen away or were removed in later years.  All around the house are the remnants of rock fences to keep something out or keep something in or both.  

            The mystery is, why is it here?  Some one labored long and hard to cut and haul the stone.  It is built stronger than most buildings of that era.  There does not appear to be any signs of an old road in the area.  Could it be a forgotten stagecoach stop?  Or perhaps a Pony Express relay post?  Or was it a home built on the far frontier.  With two-foot thick walls it is apparent it was built for defense.   The window openings appear to me to be made for shooting from.  The fireplace offered a bit of comfort as well as a place to cook meals.

            I spoke to Imogene Stanford, a long time citizen of the area, but she did not know of the building.  I called Raymond Hodon, who lives, with his wife Edna, on the North Gabriel to see if he could shed any light on the mystery.  His guess was it might have been built on a long forgotten trail between the Baghdad community and the gristmill at San Gabriel Mills, some 5 miles up the river.  I scanned the book, “Land of Good Water,” by Clara Scarbrough looking for a clue, but found nothing.

            So the building remains a mystery of our area.  My mind brought up thoughts of the early days of hard working men and women pushing the frontier further west.  It is hard for us, in these days of easy living, to understand their courage, tenacity, and strength to build such a structure.

            I think I will visit the Exxon station more often.  Maybe I will have breakfast with black coffee.  Who knows, one morning, an old, wrinkled guy with scuffed; overrun boots will have the answer to our mystery.  I will let you know.  I might even buy his coffee.         

          Many of the younger set, may have never heard of S & H Green stamps and their redemption stores.  It was a practice that those stores participating in the ‘Stamp’ business gave their customers a stamp for each ten-cent purchase. It was a discount, and ‘ thank you’ for trading with the store. Those stamps were then licked and stuck into ‘books’ that could be traded for merchandise at the S & H Green stamp redemption store.  All kinds of merchandise were on display and in their catalog.  Toasters, furniture, sports gear, camping equipment, and of course, kitchen dishes were available. A wide range of stores gave ‘Green Stamps’ including businesses that sold groceries, gasoline stations, clothing shops, and even insurance companies.  Sperry and Hutchinson founded the business in 1896 and it quickly became popular.  The peak of business came in the middle ‘60s.  At that time the company printed three times more stamps than the U.S. Postal department. Their catalog printing was the biggest publishing business in the United States.

          Alice was one of those persons that saved each stamp she could find.  I found a bar-b-que grill in one of the catalogs that I just had to have.  I managed to convince her that we really needed that grill.  She made a game of the endeavor.  She got the kids involved by having them stick the stamps into the books, while she shopped only the stores that gave stamps.  Some stores even had double-stamp days and you can bet that is where we shopped.  We managed to get the required books to trade for the grill and hurried to the store.  The sales lady flipped through the books and found a page or two with missing stamps.  Embarrassed, we hurried to the nearest grocery and bought enough supplies to get the required stamps to fill the books.  I got pretty good at grilling hot dogs and hamburgers on that bar-b-que grill.

          Well those ‘sticky, stampy’ days are gone it looks like.  But no they are well and doing great.  You can now get, on the Internet, S & H Green ‘points’ that can be redeemed for almost anything you would want.  When you buy a ‘Gift Card’ from Starbucks, JC Penny, Shell Gas, Macy’s, Olive Garden and a long list of other businesses they will give you ‘points’ to trade-in for stuff.   So if you need desperately a bar-b-que grill, Google S & H Green Points and buy enough gift cards and you will have that cooker in no time.  And you don’t need to lick any stamps.   

Green Stamps and Glass Dishes

          They came from Arkansas to the Big City in a battered, rusty pick up truck.  Just looking at it parked out back of the apartment house in the shade of a cotton wood tree made you wonder how it made it all that way.  Mr. Ferguson was a quite man but a good ‘Monkey Wrench Mechanic.’  Mrs. Ferguson was the spark plug of the old couple.  Without a tooth to call her own she did all the talking for the both of them.  You couldn’t tell their age but their poverty showed through their merger dress.  Overalls for Mr. Ferguson, straight ankle length sack dresses for Mrs. Ferguson was their wardrobe.  A little shack out back of the apartment house, remodeled into a living space during the big war, was all they could afford to rent.   They seemed pleased with their place in life.

          Alice lived in one of the ‘Uptown’ cold-water, share a bath, apartments in the big house.  Mrs. Ferguson took an instant ‘Shine’ as she called it to ‘Mrs. Alice’.  “Mrs. Alice will you have coffee with me in the morning?” she asked.  Alice went.  Mrs. Ferguson had cleaned the place up and had two mugs, of different kinds and one without a handle, sitting on the table when Alice arrived.  “Now Mrs. Alice you sit where the good mug is and I will take the other one.”  Alice took inventory of the dishes on the wood shelves.  All were of different colors, shapes, and ages.  An idea hatched right then in Alice’s mind.

          After coffee Alice hurried home, got all of her S&H Green Stamp books and walked five blocks to the exchange store.  The only set of dishes she had enough ‘Green Stamps’ to trade for were kind of tawdry, yellowish, glass dishes.  But they were all the same pattern, shape, and color.

Alice presented the dishes to Mrs. Ferguson as an extra set she received as a wedding present.  “Besides, my husband doesn’t like them,” Alice said.  Mrs. Ferguson graciously, through tears, accepted them.

          Next week Alice again had coffee with Mrs. Ferguson.  She had proudly displayed the dishes on the shelves for all to see.  She served the morning coffee in the old mugs.  “We had our pastor out for coffee last week, and I showed him my new dishes,” Mrs. Ferguson said.  “But I didn’t let him use any of them.  We are saving them for company,” she said.

            Roy Edward, my childhood friend, got a new rifle.  A brand new lever action, Winchester 22 caliber that looked the world like my uncle’s 30-30 deer rifle.  He cut a handsome figure carrying that gun, looking a lot like John Wayne.  He even developed a swagger and walk like the Duke.  I carried my dad’s old Remington pump 22 caliber.  I must admit to a little jealousy.  However my old gun worked well, and was accurate.

           With all that firepower now in our control, we decided it was time for a squirrel hunt.  Saturday morning found us walking through old man Wingren’s pasture, over Long Mountain and down into Morgan Creek with all its pecan bottomland.  There, under those towering trees, we just knew there would be a world of squirrels.  We hunted, as best two 14 year olds knew how, until noon without even seeing our quarry.  I think our casual stomping up the creek may have warned the world of our coming.  We sat, leaning against a tree trunk in the thick leaves on the ground, disappointed and hungry.  As we sat there quietly, a squirrel peeked around a limb, high in the tree.  Roy Edward eased his gun to his shoulder, took careful, aim and shot him.  His first victory with his new gun.   We were both ecstatic.  We quickly dressed the squirrel, built a fire, fastened him on a green stick, and begin cooking our lunch.  We cooked and cooked for at least 10 minutes.  The flesh began to change color, especially after being dropped intro the ashes a couple of times.  We decided our feast was ready.  Roy offered me the first bite.  I demurred.  He bravely took a tiny bite.  He quickly passed the lunch to me.  With the first bite I realized that a meal cooked without salt and pepper, and such a short time, takes a stronger hunter than me.  It was not the tastiest dish to set before the king, and was hardly like our Mother’s Sunday chicken.

           Next Saturday found us at the city dump shooting cans and bottles we lined up against a old log.  There was no shortage of targets.  We didn’t have to field dress them, or try to have them for dinner.  And we could shoot till our hearts content, and be home in time to enjoy Mom’s fried chicken.

           I don’t know where Dad’s old Remington gun is today.  I know I never killed a squirrel with it.  I do know that was the last time Roy Edward and I went squirrel hunting.  As we said, “Busting bottles, and bouncing tin cans was more fun.”   

            I guess June is our favorite month of the year.  Vacations for one thing.  A whole week to do whatever we want to do; sleep late, drive to some far and distant place just to get sunburned, work in the garden, and celebrate the end of the school year.  Kids especially enjoy June. The kids are drawn like a magnet to the pools, and lakes around the area.  They can’t seem to get enough of splashing, swishing, laughing, pushing and swimming in whatever water they can find.

            I looked up the reason we call this the month of June.  It is named for the Roman goddess Juno, the wife of Jupiter.  I guess that is about as good a reason and any we might come up with.  June is also the favorite month for weddings.  Wedding bells ring out all across the area. Think of all the rice and confetti that is wasted this time of the year.  June the 6^th is the anniversary of D-Day, when the Allied forces landed on the Normandy beaches to finish of the horror of World War II.  And June 21 marks the summer solstice, the beginning of summer.

            But vacations are the main activity of June.  I remember one vacation our family took all too well.  I rented a small camper to pull behind the family car and we headed for the beach.  The kids were ecstatic, I looked forward to the few days from the daily grind and Alice steeled herself to cooking in that little camper.  We swam in the salty water, dodged jellyfish, and picked buckets of pretty seashells.  Alice did a marvelous job of cooking and enjoyed wading in the edge of the ocean.  The kids and me were all covered with salt and sand, and sunburn.  The salt and sand we washed off easily, but the sunburn stayed.  I felt I was encased in a wool blanket that itched and scratched my tired body.  I asked Alice to drive us home.  She demurred.  I insisted, explaining my physical bodies plight.  She relented.  I explained the ways of driving with a camper hooked to the back of the car.  I retired to the camper.  I removed all my clothes except my shorts and went to bed.  Alice drove north towards home, gritting her teeth all the way.  Somewhere along the road we came to a small town with signal lights.  By now I have merciful gone into a troubled sleep.  A signal light flashed red and Alice slammed the brakes, coming to a sudden stop.  All the cooking pans in the camper were thrown to the floor with an enormous clatter and crash.  I awoke from my troubled sleep, fearing Alice had hit something expensive.  I leaped from the bed and out the door to see the wreck.  At that time the light changed to green and Alice sped quickly away.  Now here I am, standing in the middle of the street with nothing on but shorts and sunburn.  I gave chase and would have caught the runaway camper if the police had not caught me first.  He was kind and took me in the squad car and stopped Alice miles down the road.  She was surprised to see me sitting, nearly naked, in the police car.  I think she blushed as red as my sunburn.

            We did make it home.  The kids were exhausted, but happy to have splashed in most of the water at the coast.  My sunburn healed, but the memory of that vacation lingers on and on. 

Weather is a topic of conversation we all enjoy. “Sure hot for this time of the year isn’t it? I think this is the coldest spell we have had all winter. My, it is getting dry. Will it ever quit raining?” are a few of the things of weather we discuss. Of course there are the subjects of high winds, black clouds, snow and sleet storms. But the most feared weather happening is the hailstorm. They come unexpected, quickly, and often very destructive.

Back in the ‘30s Mom and Dad had a little farm up the North San Gabriel. It was on a high, dry ridge in the open country of that part of Central Texas. The land was thin, and sparsely wooded with a few fields Dad planted in oats, corn and cotton. Mom took care of the house, milk cow, chickens and a flock of turkeys. The house, cow, and chickens were an easy task to take care of. The turkeys had to be watched for they had a tendency of wandering off and had to be driven home each night and be penned to protect them from coons and coyotes. And the hens had the habit of hiding their nests in the brush and along the creek banks. She followed them, stole their eggs and brought them home to place under setting hens to hatch. Soon she had a flock of about 40 frying sized turkeys about ready to market. These added turkeys took most of Mom’s days. Just keeping up with the young turkeys and driving them to pen each night became a task.

Spring came early and wet that year. The weather at nights was still cool, but the days were hot and turbulent. This was a perfect condition for breeding severe weather. In the middle of one sultry evening and angry black cloud built up in the north west and rumbled and roared. Soon, with lighting and thunder the cloud swooped down and raced across the pasture bringing a killing hailstorm. Mom raced across the pasture and fields, making it to the house and safety. In it’s fury the hailstorm stripped the trees, beat down the crops, and killed all the turkeys. The storm left as quickly as it had come, leaving a strip of destruction across the land in its wake.

Mom and Dad were devastated. Looking across the fields of beat down crops, and killed turkeys, all seemed to be lost. However Dad’s Pollyanna nature soon found one small bright ray of light in the bleak picture. Dad loved gizzards and livers, but seemed to never get enough. Dad called some of the neighbors and invited them to a feast for dinner. They came, helped butcher the young birds, and fried a mound of gizzards and livers. Dad ate all he wanted. And he never ate another gizzard or liver the rest of his life.

Now, when I see a black cloud in the northwest, thundering and lighting or hear a turkey gobble I think of Dad and Mom and the night they ate all the gizzards and livers they wanted for a lifetime.