Six hundred miles from home at Christmas time is a long, long
hill to climb. That is 12 hours of driving, or 14 or 16, but I felt confident
that my old Buick could make the trip. 
My new bride was home with the folks, and that pulled at my heart. But
the commanding office had posted an order, “No furloughs.” 

I used all my persuasive powers but nothing could sway his
decision.  Finally I played my trump
card, “But Sir, she is expecting.” He relented.

Exuberantly I packed the car, filled the gas tank, aired the
tires, and checked the oil gauge. Dawn found me on the road east. I filled the
cab with my gravelly voice singing Christmas carols even including the
Chipmunks’ new song.

I glanced at the instrument panel.  Speed; 55 miles an hour.  Oil pressure; perfect. Gas gauge; full.  Water temperature; pegged on hot! I pulled
off the road and raised the hood…steam enveloped me.  On closer inspection I noted the steam came
from a rusted out freeze plug. A nearby parts house had a fit, and I installed
the errant plug.

Fifty miles on eastward with a song in my heart I heard the
dreaded sound of steam spewing from the engine. 
The heat gage pegged again.  I
pulled into a garage and the man said, “Some of these old cars get hot and need
a new set of spark plugs.”  I bought them
and installed them. I think I noticed a faint smile on his face as I drove
away.

Fifty miles further east and the problem reared its’ ugly
head again. This time I found a station and filled the radiator with water. Fifty
more miles and I had to find water for my huffing beast. I had about driven out
of the valley, and I knew the desert between here and home water was going to
be hard to find. I found the last station, filled the thirsty radiator with
water and bought two five gallon cans. By now I had figured the pattern of my
beast…50 miles and he needed a drink. I filled the cans with water and turned
to crawl over the mountains that separated the valley from the desert.

By now the evening was upon me as the shadows crept longer
and longer. Home seemed to stretch farther and farther away. Out in that bleak
desert I spied a small village. The lights were still on and a garage was
open.  He said, “Some of these old cars
need a new distributor cap as they age.” 
I bought it. He was smiling as I drove away.  Anyway his kids needed a toy for Christmas I
told myself.

As the cool of the evening came on I noticed I could drive 70
miles before needing to water my raging steed. 
But watering holes were becoming fewer and fewer. Somewhere in the inky
night I found another wide place in the road that had a few scattered housed
and one garage…all dark and locked up tight. 
The water cans were empty. A check proved the gas tank was approaching
the same fate.

I napped as best as you can in a crowed car cab. Dawn finally
climbed over the sage brush hills and the station opened. “Gasoline and water
please,” I pleaded.

Some distance on I notice the brush covered hills were now
sporting cedar and live oak trees.  Home
could not be far away.  The last of the
water in my cans proved to pose a problem. A ranch house with a windmill was
visible a few hundred yards off the highway. I took my two empty water cans,
crawled over the fence and came face to face with a growling dog. We had a
conversation. I explained my problem and that my wife and folks were expecting
me home for
Christmas. Could I please have just two cans of water? He relented and I went
on my way.

As dark came I managed to crest the last hill, and drove into
my parents driveway. They were all up and waiting.  We embraced, laughed, and cried. The
Christmas lights on the tree melted away the toil of the last two days.

I never told my commanding office that Alice was just
expecting me home for Christmas.

Alice got up early the other day, flew into the kitchen, and made a batch of yeast bread.  It sure made the house smell good.  I puttered around the yard, watering the flowers, marking time until the loaves came from the oven.  I timed it just right.  She handed me a loaf in a paper bag and said, “Take this out to John Steel.  I bet he hasn’t had a loaf of yeast bread in some time.”  “Don’t you think we might sample it first?” I asked.  “No I don’t.  You can have a slice when you get back.  I want him to have this while it is still hot.”

So I went to see John Steel.  You know he lives way out County Road 200 in a little shotgun house sitting on a ridge over looking the San Gabriel River.  Of course that spotted dog of his met me at the yard gate, and played like I was some kind of a bugger.  John was sitting on the gallery drinking a cup of black coffee.  He hollered the dog under the house and invited me in.  “I have just put on another pot of coffee.  You sit and I will get you a cup.”  Now as hot as it was I really didn’t want a steaming cup of coffee, but you don’t say no to John.  “Thank you, don’t mind if I do.”  I noticed he was eyeing the paper sack I was carrying.  “What you got there?” John asked.  “Something Alice sent you John,” I said, handing it to him.  I wish you could have seen his face light up as he went into the kitchen with the sack of bread.  He came back soon with two slices of hot buttered bread and our coffee.  “It don’t get no better than this,” he said.

            We talked of the weather, things going on around town, the state and the nation.  He said our Mayor was doing a good job; that Perry could do a good job if they let him, and the lunatics had taken over in Washington. On the national debt ceiling he said, “Four trillion dollars?  “Why I could buy me a new mule, and a good second hand pickup for half that much,” he said.

            We sat quiet for a while, enjoying our coffee and bread, enjoying the morning breeze, as the last of the gulf clouds drifted by.

            “How is you garden?” I asked. 

            “Let me show you,” he said.

            We walked out to the garden that sits between the back of the house and the barn. I noticed he moved a bit slow and favored his right side.  The windmill was making a pleasing, squeaking sound as it slowly brought water into the tank.

            “The garden is about gone.  The beans bloomed, but never put on a pod.  The tomatoes did fair at first, but the heat burned them up.  But we got plenty of black-eyed-peas,” he said.

            We eased back on to the porch and I asked him about his getting around so careful like.  “Got a case of the shingles,” he said.  I asked if it hurt much.  “Only when I try to sleep or when I am awake.”  “But I think that warm loaf of bread will just about fix me up.”

            I hurried back to Alice’s kitchen and got me a slice of still warm bread—with butter.  It just might protect me from a case of the shingles.

     One October evening, just as the sun went down behind Post Mountain, Eugene Pirtle, a buddy of mine, came by Zimmerman and Sawyers Feed store, where I worked, and made a rash suggestion.  “Lets go to my home in north Texas and spend a few days. I will show you around where I grew up.”  “How?” I asked.  “We don’t have a car and it must be hundreds of miles to your home.”  Eugene explained that it would not be a problem.  We would hitchhike home.

          Being young, adventurous and almost handsome I consented to the outlandish adventure.  Dark found us standing on Highway 281 thumbing each car and truck that came by.  Soon, Master Sergeant Phil Sands, from Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio, stopped and invited us to join him.  “I am going to see my mother in Ft. Worth.  I need some one to keep me awake during the three hour drive.”  We soon realized Phil drove wide open from one beer joint to the next one.  But we got to Ft. Worth in record time.

       Eugene was pleased.  He said we were just a few miles from his home.  And it was just midnight.  The next fifty miles only took three hours to get close enough to his home for us to walk the last five miles.  Eugene’s mother rousted two of his sisters, Willine and Alice, two pigtailed little girls, from their bed so we could sleep comfortably.

      That hitchhiking trip changed my life forever, and for the better.  The little pigtailed girl, Alice, grew up, cut her hair, moved to my hometown, and agreed to go to the movies with me.  Life and love flowered and soon prompted a proposal of marriage from me.  However Uncle Sam made a proposal that I had to accept first.  The flow of letters from Ft. Bliss to home and back used up a forest of paper and a river of ink, but kept the fires of love burning brightly.

       We were married and have had a grand march through time with plenty of highs and a few lows.  Childhood illnesses kept the lights on till the wee hours a few times.  Tough work decisions made days drag by with no visible end.  But the bright times came in abundance.  The children’s successes at school, and life gave us much joy.  Alice’s hard work as an ambassador to the world has been rewarding.  The business has made it through the highs and lows of our nations economy, and continues to do well.  Seven grand children and one great grandchild warm our hearts daily.

       The matrimonial knot was well tied.  This week, we will have been married 60 years.  That is not a record, but it sure beats the average.

        What have I learned from this trip down life’s road?  One; hitchhiking can bring joy, happiness, and fortune.  Two; listen carefully to Alice, she knows the way.

Hollis Baker   5 June 2011

            This time I have hit upon a champion plan to put Liberty Hill on the map.  Bob Rook and I were having coffee at the Exxon the other day.  Bob flew F-4’s for the Navy and is writing a book on guided missiles that are on display at White Sands Guided Missile Proving Grounds.  This led to a spirited discussion of NASA’s Space Shuttle program ending soon.  He said that the Space Shuttle Enterprise is now at the Smithsonian.  The other three shuttles are to be displayed around the country.  The Atlantis will go to Kennedy Space Center, the Endeavour will be installed at the California Science Center in Los Angeles, the Enterprise that is now at the Smithsonian will be moved to the Intrepid Sea-Air Space Museum in New York City, and the Discovery placed at the Smithsonian.  They have snubbed Texas.

            But I have a plan to change that and give Texas the honor it deserves.  We will have a fundraiser down town on Main Street. We will raise moneys to send a group of lobbyist to Washington to urge NASA to send one of the Space Shuttles to Liberty Hill. I think we can persuade our mayor, Michele Murphy, and our Mayor Pro-Tem, Mike Crane to take the job. They can get it done.  We will even send an alternate, John Steel to help if things get a little tough.   With all this moving around, it should be easy to get them to land one of the shuttles on Highway 29 along about Seward Junction.  We will get PEC to remove overhead wires and signal lights for a few minutes so the shuttle can land.  Shucks, the thing is only 58 feet tall, 78 feet wide and 122 feet long.  I bet we can get Pete Kauffman to pull the shuttle to the Lion’s Park with his International-Harvester farm tractor.  Wouldn’t that be a site to see?    

            I can imagine it now, the Space Shuttle, all shinny bright, with NASA painted on the sides, sitting on the playing field, across from the library.  We can build a snow cone stand for summer visitors, and a hot tamale shack for the winter folks. We would attract citizens all the way from Hutto to Burnet and from Kyle to Salado.  Wouldn’t take long to pay off the 28 million dollar price tag the government wants for each Space Shuttle.

Greetings to family and friends.  What a beautiful wedding we have just witnessed.  The bride is a beautiful, intelligent, hardworking young lady. We are happy she looks more like Alice and Joyce than her crusty old grandfathers. The groom is a handsome, intelligent, hard working young man.  We are pleased with Hollie’s choice.

            Can you believe it, they have asked for   advice on how to have a long, loving relationship in their marriage.  I don’t believe I have ever been asked that question before.  I have been asked how to grow large, delicious tomatoes.  I have been asked how to have a lovely yard, full of flowers, and well-manicured lawn.  I was once asked where to dig for fishing worms and where to go to catch a string of fish.  I don’t guess he had much luck…he never asked again.

            But being asked for marriage advice   got me to thinking.   Are they serious?     However, in truth, it has been a grand adventure, for 60 years, and I would not trade it for anything.  Looking around, I can see that Alice has managed to make it a memorable journey.

            Well, I took the question at face value, went down into the meadow, to my thinking tree, to contemplate the universe and our granddaughter’s question of marriage advice.  The grass has braved the early spring days, and given me a green carpet sit on. A few flowers have begun to show their faces, and fill the air with their fragrance, and a gentle breeze tussled the leaves of my thinking tree.  As I fully expected, the answer came.  No, there was not a bolt of lightening, nor clap of thunder, or even a voice from the void.  The answer came quietly, with the warm feeling of success.  I do not have any advice for our grand daughter, for no mortal man can know, or handle that wisdom. Sorry, Hollie Gail.  But I have a few words for our future grandson-son-in-law.

            Five words in fact.  The first two are important, and cover a great deal of space in the life of a married couple.  The first two words are, “Yes Dear.”   Kevin, when your lovely bride says to you, “Mind the bicycler” your only answer is, “Yes Dear.”  Or when she asks, “Please take out the trash,” you must reply, “Yes Dear.”  If you can keep your head and remember these two words, you and your wife’s life will be a breeze.

            The next three words to remember are, “You’re probably right.”  It may be a good idea to have these words tattooed on your inner arm for quick reference.  When she says, “You should have turned right at the   signal light,” you must learn to say, “You’re probably right.”  Or when you have a car radiator overheated, and she asks, “Do you need more air in the tires?” you must check your tattoo and say, “You’re probably right.”  If you will learn to use these five simple words, “Yes Dear, you’re probably right,” you will also, some day, be celebrating your 60’th wedding anniversary.

I awoke, way in the night, to the gentle sound of sleet on the tin roof of the bunkhouse at the B8 ranch, on Morgan Creek where I worked. The ranch had been in the family since 1884, and I dearly enjoyed working there.  However with the snow and sleet I knew what that meant. Some one would need to feed the cattle up on the mountain, and it would probably be me.  We didn’t put out hay or feed with range cubes; the cattle rustled grass, and browse for feed.  But with snow, and sleet the grass would be covered.   I would need to take an ax, ride up to the mesa and cut live oak tree branches for the cattle to eat.  The cattle loved them but it was a daunting task to do.

            I went to the horse meadow and caught Pacer, my horse, brought her to the barn and gave her a coffee can of oats.  She quickly ate the oats and I saddled her. Riding the trail up the mountain to the mesa I felt the old west was again alive.  On the way I pulled my old felt hat down tight and glanced at my shadow…looked just like Matt Dillon for sure.  I know, a man was not supposed to glance at his shadow, that was vane, but I was just a kid and could not help from taking a peek.

            The cold crept inside my jacket and my gloved hands were stiff.  I built a large brush fire.  The cattle could smell the smoke and come to it.  Besides I needed the fire for myself.  I called the cattle like I had heard my Uncle Otis do…Whoooupp, whoooupp.  They came running. I chose a fully leafed live oak tree, climbed up and began cutting branches. The cows came for the leaves. They ate hungrily a while then stood by the fire, sometime scorching their hair, then back to eating live oak leaves.  I’m not sure they ever got full.  I kept cutting. 

            Some time that afternoon I got careless and tired, made a mighty swing with my ax and missed the limb.  The ax slipped from my grip, made an arc up and then down just close enough to cut through my glove.  The cut soon filled with beautiful, but freighting, red blood.  I eased down from the tree, sat down in the snow and removed my glove to discover the glove cut through, but only scratched the palm of my hand.  It bled nicely, but not enough to send me home for the day.  I was somewhat disappointed.  I tied a rag around the cut and continued to feed the cattle, cutting more live oak leaves.  My mind soon wandered to my cut hand, and the old west.  Wasn’t an ax cut at all… in my mind it became a knife cut; received in a street brawl, protecting some ladies honor.  I stood tall in the middle of the muddy street to see the ruffians turn tail and run. I finally came to my senses and finished cutting oak brush.

            As Pacer and I made our way down the mountainside I stole a glance at my shadow.  Just a peek you understand.  I discovered the shadow was not Marshall Dillon.  It was the spitting image of John Wayne, bleeding hand and all.

            I bet you remember the “Andy Griffith Show.”  They just don’t make those good ones anymore.  One of the outstanding shows in the series was the one called, “Citizens Arrest.”  Gomer Pyle makes an ‘U’ turn right in front of Barney Fife; the town of Mayberry’s deputy sheriff.  Barney turns on his blinking red lights, sirens, and stops Gomer.   Barney gives him a ticket and a lecture that is was his duty to up hold the law as well as plain citizens duty.  Then Barney makes a ‘U’ turn right in front of Gomer.  Well Gomer stops Barney yelling “Citizens Arrest, Citizens Arrest.”  Andy gets into the argument and forces Barney to write himself a ticket.  It gets very sticky fast after that.  Rather than pay the ticket Barney locks himself in jail.  The story goes downhill from there.

            Just a show on television and could not happen you might say.  Well it did.  Right here in downtown Liberty Hill.

            After Joe Spivey, Gary Spivey’s grandfather, retired, Lee Hayes was elected constable of the town of Liberty Hill.  Lee had developed a feud with Eugene Shackleford, Title One councilor and advisor, and owner of the local pool hall.  Some nights around the pool hall things got a little loud and out of hand, and Lee Hays tried to quieten things down. Shackleford took umbrage to the request.

            The next day Shackleford saw Hays run a stop sign on his way to Allman’s Grocery.  Shackleford claimed he had almost hit him.   He followed Hays to the store and declared “Citizens Arrest,” and filed with the Justice of the Peace.  Hays pleaded ‘no contest’ and paid the $3.00 fine.  The next day Hays said he didn’t run a stop sign; he wasn’t guilty and got his $3.00 back.

            Shackleford felt unrequited, so he got a bucket of red paint, a big brush and painted, in one foot letters, on the outside of his pool hall, for all the town to see, “LEE HAYS IS A LIAR”.

            That really incensed the local law.  Hays filed a criminal libel suit in Williamson County Court against Shackleford.  Shackelford decided rather than pay a lawyer he would defend himself.  He had never heard what Abraham Lincoln said; “A man who defends himself in court has a fool for a client.”  Shackleford lost. He was sentenced to a year in jail and a hefty fine. The Texas Civil Liberties Union heard of the case and supplied Shackleford with a lawyer. The TCLU tied the courts of Williamson County into knots. Local folklore said the TCLU took the case all the way to the Texas Supreme Court. They proved the courts did not have jurisdiction in the case and got a reversal of the previous verdict. Further more they forced the County to pay Shackelford restitutions. The amount Williamson County had to pay Shackelford was never reviled.

        So Justice prevails.  I don’t remember how Barney Fife and Gomer Pyle’s case played out in court, but I suspect Andy Griffith was able to get the case resolved so that “Everyone lived happily ever after.”

            As a kid we were all enthralled by the stories spewing from old timers sitting by the wood stove at the feed store about their trapping days.  Old Rupert McCoy, who was a regular at the store and a great storyteller, accounted in detail about his exploits as a trapper.  He said he had trapped every wild, fur bearing, animal in the woods from here to west Texas.  And, he added, made a lot of money while enjoying living out in nature.  We encouraged him in his telling.

            ”Tell us about trapping that mountain lion Rupert,” we asked even though we had heard the story often enough to tell it ourselves.

            “Well, I was camped up in the Chios Mountains out west.  In fact it was in the Big Bend country…a wild and lonely place, don’t you know.  I found a trail this cat was using on his rounds and set a big #8 steel trap for him.  I baited it with a little cotton tailed rabbit I had killed,” he said.  ”Next morning as I approached the trap, I could tell that lion had been there. The rabbit was gone, the grass and bushes was all torn up, and my trap was missing.”

            “What did you do then,” we asked.

            “Well, I baited another trap with a rabbit. This time I set a #10 steel trap and fastened the chain to a bigger bush.  The next morning I carefully approached the trap site and found that mountain lion had been there again during the night.  He had eaten the rabbit and made off with my other trap. This time I set two #12 traps about three feet apart and baited with another couple of rabbits.”

            “Did that get him Rupert?” we asked.

            “It sure did,” he said.  ”Next morning I came to the spot and there he was, caught by one front leg and one back leg…stretched out squalling loud enough to awaken the whole mountain side.”

            We enjoyed the story as often as we could trick Rupert into telling the tail.  But it had an effect on us kids.  We all wanted to hunt big game out in the mountains and sell the fur and become rich.

            I had an Uncle that had a bunch of steel traps that I could borrow.  I found a likely rock bluff, up San Gabriel Creek, with crevices, bushes, and everything.  I knew, for sure, there must be a mountain lion around somewhere close.  I fastened the trap’s chain to a persimmon tree, baited the trigger with a chicken wing from Mother’s kitchen, and set the trap.

            The next morning, just at daylight, I eagerly went to claim my trophy.  As I approached the site I could hear the chain rattling, and see it wiggling at the mouth of a crevice.  I had caught a lion for sure.  I ran all the way back to the house and got Mom to bring the gun and help me with my lion.  With a stick I pulled on the trap’s chain and out came…a big, creek wood rat.

            That ended my grand adventure of becoming a great, rich, story telling, trapper like Rupert McCoy.