Williamson County has many small villages and communities scattered across the expanse of the area.  Some are gone with few signs of life to show their place in history, but some are still vital, and growing.  Richard Wear and I visited his hometown of Andice a few days ago and found it alive with memories of the past as well as faith in the future.  I asked Richard how the village got it name.

He replied with a sly grin, “The store had a sign on the façade that originally said ‘Beer and Ice,’ but the Beer part fell off and that left ‘and Ice,’ and that is how it got its name.”  I didn’t really fall for that story, even though it is a good one, so I dug a little deeper.  I found the real story just as interesting.  The area was first called Stapp for an early settler who built a church/school building in the 1850s. (The Stapp family still own property in the area.)  In the 1870s the storeowner, Andrew Jackson, applied for a post office which he called Berry’s Creek.  It closed three years later.  In the 1890s William Isaac Newton applied for a post office with the name of his son, Audice.  The postal service in Washington miss read the name and granted a post office with the name of Andice.  So there are two stories, both charming, we can take our pick.

            While in the area Richard pointed out old farms, schools, and events of the past.  One school, Whitehouse, which was once filled with the laughter and lessons of 30 or so students is now gone without a trace. Another school, Smart, has a few rocks showing the foundations of the building.  This was Richard’s first and second grade school.  He said his teacher, Mrs. Stapp, required all her students learn to read at an early age.  This gave them an advantage as they moved into the higher grades.  Mrs. Stapp was an excellent seamstress.  Should a kid come to school with a torn garment, she would let them go into a closet, hand out the offending shirt or pants, and she would repair them.  We drove by Richard’s folks home place and admired a new structure, St. Catherine’s Chapel, built by his brother James.  This handsome building, paying homage to their mother, gives family and pilgrims an opportunity for prayer.  Just a way down the road Richard pointed out the large stock tank Mr. Wear had built for his cattle as well as a swimming hole for all the kids in the neighborhood.  Further on, we opened a gate, drove through, and were quickly into a field of cedars and mesquite.  Richard said when he was a kid this was his fathers cotton field.  He said it still made him sweat just seeing the place.  Stapp and Berry’s creek come together here with a few pools of water still showing in this dry, hot weather.  And sure enough where there is a creek there were campsites for the Indians.  We searched the ground and found many flint flakes where the original owners had worked their projectile points.

            We returned to Andice and the local store and café.  We ordered hamburgers.  Now if you haven’t had a ‘real hamburger’ in some time, this is the place to go.  The buns were hot, the lettuce crisp, the tomatoes ripe, pickles tart, and the meat cooked just right.  A perfect meal for a couple of old guys making a trip into the past.

Hollis Baker  17 August 2009

          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. 

Summer Swimming

            What beautiful weather we have been having these last few weeks.  Summer is on its way.  When we were kids we started testing the temperature of the water in our swimming holes sometime in March.  The grass was greening, and wild plum tree buds were swelling, surely the cold had drained from the pool.   Still cold?  Hoo boy, you bet.  Even April, with the bluebonnet’s flowering, showed little improvement in the feel of the water.  Some of the bigger boys, to show their bravery, would jump in.  We noted they just as quickly jumped out and hurriedly dressed.  The Merry Month of May came with the glory of spring and the water began feeling less painful.  But marvelous June soon came and we knew our time had arrived.  The rest of the summer our address was Old Man Wengren’s stock tank. 

   Now when I say swimming holes I didn’t mean swimming pools.  We did not even know what a swimming pool was.  A place to swim was usually a stock tank up in someone’s pasture. Our favorite was Mr. Wengren’s.  It was hidden away from any road by live oak, and cedar trees and other brush.  That allowed us to swim the way young boys were meant to swim, in the buff.  The stock tank covered at least half of an acre and was plenty deep.  The dam holding the water back was tall, grassy and plenty broad for us to get a running start to jump in with a big splash.  We kept one kid on ‘look-out’ for Mr. Wengren, for he would sometimes come chase us out.  When the look-out saw him coming we would grab our clothes and scatter like rabbits into the trees and brush.  I think that added to the adventure of the swim; forbidden fruit.  And I think he may have gotten a kick from watching us run in all directions.

            But the water was not as you might expect.  It was a light creamy tan tank of water, somewhat the color of fresh milk from Mother’s cow.  You could not see into the water at all.  And some times the smell was not all that good either, but it was water and we could swim in it.  I have seen stock tanks in other areas that were reddish, and stock tanks that were grayish.  But our swimming tanks were all a beautiful creamy tan, with a muddy bottom, and we liked it that way.  We had heard of pools in the big cities where the bottoms were cement and the water crystal clear.  I’m not sure we even believed those stories.

            Well we all grew up and went our ways, chasing our various fortunes.  Some of us found them, some of us didn’t.  I fear most of us found the cement pools with clear water really did exist.  To bad.  However, this summer, as I am driving around and I find a stock tank just the right color, with a muddy bottom, I might just stop, crawl over the fence, and take myself a real swim.

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.

                   Traveling across the state Monday, almost each city and town had a celebration of Memorial Day.  Old men in their uniforms, young men with their boy scouts and girl scouts, paid their respects to the men and women of our armed forces.

                   The holiday was started in 1868 to honor members of the armed services that had served in the Grand Army of the Potomac.  After World War One the day was changed to include all members of the armed services who had served in any war or military action.  Poppies from Flanders fields in France became a popular symbol of the remembrance of service, taken from the poem by Major McCrey;  “In Flanders fields where poppies blow, Neath crosses, row upon row……”

                    The Liberty Hill chapter of the VFW served breakfast to quite a crowd of veterans as well as their families and friends early Monday morning.  It was a great time to see all the men and women who had served and thank them.  We then moved into Veterans Park where Sergeant Hickman bulged “Assembly.”  Standing before the Wall of Honor a prayer was lofted into the bright spring morning. I was proud of Liberty Hill’s Veterans of Foreign Wars presentation of the Colors, the eulogies of those who paid the supreme sacrifice, as well honoring those veterans still living.

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           A closing prayer was offered.  The sad but moving notes of taps was then blown by the bulgier, and we were dismissed.

          I felt proud that we, as a nation, would take time to honor these men and women, who gave a part, and sometimes all, of their lives to protect us.  May we always keep the faith, the honor, and respect for these who served.

            I guess we all have neighbors.  Well some of you have lived way out in west Texas, and we might not think you had any neighbors, but you did.  They may have lived   20 miles down the road, but they were neighbors.  And they were good neighbors.  If a problem arose, you could bet your saddle they would be there to help any way they could.  And if you had a good thing happening they would be there to help you celebrate.

            The first six years Alice and I were married we moved 12 times.  That will create a whole lot of neighbors.  You know I can’t remember any of them being difficult.  We had fun neighbors as well as stoic ones.  We had rich ones, but mostly neighbors just like us.  Army privates don’t generate a whole lot of cash, but we all shared what we had.  We have great memories of making ice cream together, or sharing a pot of brown beans and cornbread with each other.  Many times in El Paso we got together and made a batch of hot tamales that was as much fun in the making as it was in the eating. 

            We finally bought a house in the city and our varied list of neighbors was more limited.  We still had plenty of folks living real close as well as neighbors across the street and around the corner.  I remember one neighbor who had a mischievous streak he enjoyed, and we tolerated.  He loved finding my car parked on the street and he would wash and wax one fender and half of the hood.  I guess he thought I would be a little miffed and wax the rest of the car.  I fooled him; I thought that 1950 Chevrolet look kind of cute with one waxed fender and drove it that way.

            Some of our neighbors enjoyed borrowing things, like lawn mowers and watering hoses.  I felt ok about that for that gave me the license of returning the favor by borrowing his tools and garden wagon.  Neither of us ever returned a borrowed tool, we just went into each other’s garage and got what we needed.  Worked out fine.

            We lived one place with a neighbor that gave me a little trouble.  He worked in his yard all the time.  Alice on occasions pointed out this fact.  His yard looked great.  That put the pressure on me to try to keep my yard a little neater than I really wanted.  He was a fun guy and we had many good times together, and I suggested that he might slow down a little.  Didn’t do any good.  He just kept planting, pruning, and mowing.  He even sometimes crossed the street and helped me mow my grass.  But I got even with him.  When he would spread commercial fertilizer on his lawn I would conjure up a rain.  The clouds would boil up in the northwest, lightening flashed, and thunder rolled.  Then came the soaking rain.  Washed all his grass greening fertilizer right across the road into my lawn.  Now I had a beautiful green lawn also.

            We moved a few more times, but now we seem to be pretty settled.  And I am happy to say we again have a great bunch of neighbors.  God bless them all.

            Tom Green lived in our town, and hung out at the feed store where I worked.  He was a big man with a quick grin and a quiet voice.  Most folks were attracted to him.  It felt comfortable being around him.  It was said in his youth he had traveled and worked all over the world at all kinds of occupations.  He followed the oil field crowd from west Texas to Venezuela and on to the Philippines. He worked as an Archeologist in China’s Gobi desert as well as in the shadows of the pyramids of Egypt.  Some stories hinted he had served as a French soldier in North Africa.  Few in our town had been far from the county line, and especially me.

            One day I summoned up enough courage to ask him a question.  “Mr. Green, what was the most exciting adventure you remember?”

            Tom leaned his rawhide-bottomed chair against the feed store wall and sat quietly staring at the ceiling.  I was afraid he hadn’t heard me and was about to repeat my question.  “Well it may have been the time I almost saved a young damsel in distress from the ravages of a Dragon,” he said.

            Don’t you know this statement got my full attention?  I stood closer, not to miss a single word he said.

            “I was living in Houston at the time and got an anxious call from a niece of mine,” he said.  “She had grown up in west Texas and had just moved to a little village in the country.  Her excited voice on the phone told me she had a problem.  She said there was a Dragon in her back yard that had eaten her cat and was now chasing her dog around the fenced yard.  I grabbed my gun and a rope, jumped into my pick-up and raced the few miles to her home.  In my haste I was driving a little fast.  A police car, with lights flashing, pulled me over.  He gave me a ticket for speeding, and going the wrong way on a one-way street.  The Cop asked me what my hurry was?  I answered that I was going to capture a Dragon that was threatening my niece.  He pulled me from the truck and made me walk the centerline of the street.  Convinced I was not drunk, he let me go.  My niece met me at the door almost in tears.  She said as her dog was making the fifth run around the yard, ahead of the dragon, she opened the door, let the dog in, and slammed the it shut just as the Dragon hit the screen, tearing it to pieces.  I peeked out the window.  I did not see any fire and smoke billowing from a Dragon’s nose or mouth as I had expected.  In fact I couldn’t see a Dragon.  What I did see, lying flat in the grass in the middle of the yard was a five-foot long alligator.  I thought about teasing her for thinking an alligator was a fire breathing; smoke blowing Dragon, but considering she was from west Texas I thought perhaps I should let lying Dragons lay.  I roped the ‘gator’, and with the help of a neighbor dragged the ‘monster’ back to the nearby bayou.  On the way back to my niece’s house, we found her cat, high in a tree, safe and unscorched.”

            All these years since that tale was told to me I have wondered about its veracity.   However, now that I am his age, as he was then, I wonder what I would tell a freckle faced, tow headed little boy should he ask me, “What is the most exciting adventure you have had?”