Hollis Baker’s Blog

One warm, late spring day I was with my uncle way up North Morgan creek in western Burnet County. Here the water runs clear between shear canyon walls riddled with natural holes and small caves. These openings in the rock walls make perfect homes for the wild bees that inhabit the area. Building their hives here protect  them from most of the animals, including men, that pray on their sweet honey. On top of the canyons, the land spreads out into level meadows, covered with bushes, clovers, and wild flowers loaded with pollen and nectar. These meadows were a perfect place for bees to harvest their needs.

That day we were in one of these meadows called Mud Flats looking for strayed cattle. The old pick-up bounced along the trail that we pretended was a road. Suddenly Uncle Luther slammed on the brakes, and pointed to an unusual looking something hanging from a sumac bush. It was a swarm of wild bees, out looking for another place to build their home. Uncle Luther explained that in spring, when everything was in bloom, and the bees were making lots of honey, the hive would split and the old queen and thousands of bees would leave the group, looking for a new home. In their search they would light on a limb to rest. This is what Luther had found.

There were hundreds of bees flying around and making me a little nervous, but Luther explained when bees were swarming they were very gentle and rarely sting. He got a burlap bag from the pick-up and carefully eased the open sack over the hanging bunch of bees. He closed and tied the top of the sack and had me cut the limb from the bush. Luther then had me take an ax and cut a cedar pole about eight feet long and tie it to the pick-up and sticking out the back. He then tied the sack of humming bees to the cedar pole. We drove hurriedly back to the ranch house and Luther put the bees into a box hive. He said that was what the bees were looking for and would stay there.

The next day Uncle Luther sent me back to Mud Flats to look for those missing cows. I saddled Pacer, a big paint horse gentle enough for a kid to ride. I was excited about the real cowboy assignment. As I was looking for the strayed cows, I spotted another swarm of bees. I remembered how excited Uncle Luther was with the first swarm of bees, I figured he would be proud of me if I brought one in by myself. I rummaged through the saddlebags and found some string and a burlap bag. I held my breath and eased the opened bag up and over the hanging swarm of bees. I tied the top, and cut the limb from the bush and stood there with a hand full of sacked bees. How am I going to carry this sack on a horse? Pacer, my horse looked at the sack and wondered nervously what I was going to do. I cut a stick about four feet long, tied the sack of bees to one end and the other end to the saddle. I mounted the now wide-eyed Pacer and started for home. We were doing pretty well, going down the trail until the stick came untied and swung under Pacer belly. In spite of Luther’s statement that swarming bees are gentle, several bees were able to sting Pacer’s tender underside. I dismounted, very unceremoniously, but was able to grab the sack of bees as Pacer hurried home without me. I needed to walk anyway. I boxed the swarm of bees in an unused hive and they lived happily ever after. Years later, when I was in college, Uncle Luther sent a jar of honey from ‘my’ hive. How sweet it was.

            I don’t know why boys do it.  But on bright, cool, days of late winter we liked to walk in the woods, with no purpose or destination in mind.  We just headed for the nearest wooded pasture and walked for the thrill of being away from houses, streets, and perhaps parents. My friend, Roy Edward and I practiced this pass time often. 

            This particular day the weather was just right, the temperature perfect, and we felt that primeval urge calling from the pastures like Ulysses’ sirens.  With a gentle breeze to our backs we headed for the woods.  We heard a yell. “ Hey guys, where are you going?” a voice called.  It was Donald Guy Hicks.  Donald was an ok guy, but a little round all over and considered a little sissy.  And he was just a kid.  Roy and I were fourteen years old and almost grown, and this boy could not have been much older that ten or eleven.  “We are just going walking,” we said.  “Hey, I want to go too,” Donald said.  With some disappointment we agreed, but he would have to leave that stupid rope.  He said he would walk behind us and be quite, and besides we might find a tall tree to swing from. “Ok, but the first problem you cause, it’s back home you go,” we demanded.

            The pastures, meadows, and woods were particularly pleasant that day.  We walked for some time and came upon an old abandoned quarry.  The scar in the hillside made by the equipment and the cutting of stone had left a jumbled, other world landscape.  We climbed tumbled rocks, and boulders, jumping from one to another with glee.  Exhausted, we found a comfortable place to sit and toss pebbles into the pond of blue green water at the bottom of the quarry.  Hunger is never far from young kids thoughts.  So Roy and I hatched a plan.  We sent Donald back to my house for something to eat.  I wrote Mother a note asking for bacon, potatoes, bread, and a frying pan.  Donald soon returned with the food.  We built a fire, fried the bacon, fried the potatoes, and even fried slices of bread in the bacon grease.  We ate it all.  Like three fat dogs we lay on the warm rocks and talked of far away places, with strange sounding names, and expansive white sandy beaches.

            Suddenly we were aware of the fact it was getting late. We hurriedly scooped up all our stuff and started towards home.  In my hurry I took a short cut close to the forbidding pond.  A sand covered rock, and my hurry caused me to fall into the greenish water, skillet, sack and all.  The walls around the water were all perpendicular and proved impossible to climb out.  I yelled and splashed about looking for a handhold.  Roy was running around the edge yelling.  But Donald coolly uncoiled that stupid rope, tossed me one end and he and Roy pulled me to safety.  That was one cool walk home, but a happy one.  Donald Guy looked a lot older that day, and he wasn’t as fat, or as sissified as we first thought.

            We have a lot of cats.  Well, really they have us.  You see these cats were abandoned on the road that runs by our house and they just naturally take up residence at our place.  We can’t touch them, nor do I want to.  When I holler scat you can be sure they all head for the timber.  All but one.  He is a big black tomcat with a white streak of fur that runs from his nose, down the front of his chest and disappears under his belly.  He has long shiny black hair that gives him a set of wide whiskers that reminds me of an old time banker.  He looks mean.  He doesn’t scat very well.  In fact he looked up at me and said, “What do you mean, ‘scat’?” 

            The first time this happened I was a bit taken aback.  But we soon were on speaking terms, and are now getting along well.  I named him Felix for no other reason than he looks like a ‘Felix’.  Felix refuses to speak or answer me when any other cat or human is around.  That seems to suit us both just fine.

            The other day, when we had a few spring days and the weather was fine, I was sitting, swinging in the porch swing when he ambled up and sat there eyeing me closely.  I spoke to him and asked how his new year was progressing? 

            He licked his paws, preened his fur and replied, “Just fine, as long as you keep the cat food coming.”

            I felt that was a sassy reply, but not surprising.  “No, I mean how do you feel about the financial problems, the wars, the weather, and the new administration?”

            “The finance’s of a person, state or nation is a natural roller coaster ride,” Felix said. “ Most of the trouble is in our attitude towards the problem.  We probably need to be more careful with our spending anyway.”  “As for the wars, you know what the Bible says about armed conflicts. We all deplore them but keep getting ourselves involved in them anyway,” he continued.  “As for the government in Washington, I think the new administration will do about as well as it can.  There are a lot of folks with their hands out for many reasons, some worthy, some greedy, and some down right swindling.”

            About this time a calico cat came upon the porch, arched her back and hissed at Felix.  He took umbrage at the interruption and chased her back into the woods.  He soon returned and lay down and curled himself up as if to take a nap.

            “Hey,” I hollered, “You didn’t say a thing about this weather we are having.  You know it is dryer than I can remember.”

            Felix got up, stretched, clawed the gallery post and said, “You know, you humans must spend a lot of time thinking up things to worry about.”  “You know there has only been one time when it never rained?” 

            Well he had me there.  “And when was that?” I demanded.

            “This time,” he said sarcastically.   “Happy New Year, and don’t forget to get another bag of cat food at Winkley’s Hardware and Feed store.”

            With that he ambled off down the porch and into the woods. 

Hollis Baker  4 January 2009

            The three sisters were busy looking for hidden presents.  It was Christmas Eve and they had not found a single package, wrapped in plain paper or bright tissue and bows.  They had searched the whole house, it seemed.

            “Do you think Mom and Dad have forgotten what time of year it is?” asked the youngest.

            “No, they never forget anything.  You know how our folks are,” the oldest, and leader of the trio said.

            “I know,” the thinker, and middle sister said, “lets look in the attic.”

            In haste the three climbed the dusty, dark stairs to the mysterious room beneath the roof.  The door creaked open.  An eastern window let in what light was left of Christmas Eve.  They spied a single light bulb with a dangling string hanging in the middle of the attic. 

            In a whisper middle sister said, “Turn the light on.”  The room was suddenly illuminated, casting strange shadows from stacked boxes, discarded toys, and baskets of last year’s clothes.   A quick search still found no hidden holiday presents.

            The three sat in the middle of the room in a dejected clump.  Disappointment filled their whispered voices, “I so wanted an I-phone. And I wanted new Nikes. And I need a new Blackberry.” They wailed. 

            Then a voice came from a rolled up carpet, leaning against the wall ”Muffump.”

            “What was that?” they screamed in unison. 

            “Un…roll…me,” the voice said.

            With trembling hands, the sisters undid the tied roll, reveling a tattered, and faded piece of carpet. 

            “You can talk?” they asked.

            “Yes,” the carpet said, “I am old and worn out, but I think I have one more trip left in me.  Climb aboard.”

            With that the three sat and clutched each other as the carpet fluttered, lifted off the floor and flew out the window.

            “Where are we going?” the girls demanded.  “And what are you anyway?”

            “We are going east, a long way, and back in time, a long way back.  And if you must know I am a carpet, a tired, but Magic Carpet.”

            Soon the carpet slowed, flew lower, made a wide circle around a small village whose streets were filled with people, and carts, and animals.  The carpet flew, slowly down winding streets, and alleyways, and then stopped at a barn like shelter.  Inside were donkeys, sheep, and a few cows.  From a corner of the barn a bright, shimmering, glow of light illuminated the shelter. In a manger lay a newborn child.  The parents huddled closely in the cold of the coming night.  The children watched in awe as a group of shepherds, in their tattered garments,  knelt at the borrowed bed. Then came three richly dressed men upon handsome steeds bearing gifts.  The glowing light brightened as singing voices lifted to fill the area with music.

            The Magic Carpet said, “We must go.  I feel week, and my strength is ebbing.”

            The sisters tarried, in wonder.  “Quick, we must go,” he insisted.

            Suddenly they found themselves sitting on a tattered, and worn piece of carpet in the middle of the attic.  Their voices were muted, and their eyes misted with tears of joy.  Filled with a newfound wisdom the girls filed silently down the stairs.

            “Girls,” their Mom said, “what have you been up to while I was gone?”

            In unison they said, “Mom, we have just seen the Magic of Christmas.”

            Our parking area for Alice’s car is about 125 feet, up hill, to our front door.  That is a pretty good stroll getting to and from the car.  When Alice goes grocery  shopping, carrying those bags to the house is quite a chore.  Being the great sport I am, I decided to help the little woman with this task.  I bought her a little red wagon.  Now she could load the sacks and packages into the wagon and pull them up to the steps.  Then she could take the food, two sacks at a time, up the steps, through the front door, and back to the kitchen.  Alice did not like that idea much especially after the dogs helped her unload some of the sacks while she was in the house.  A better solution was needed.  I found a used golf cart Alice could afford, and I bought it for her.  Now she drives the golf cart to the car, loads the groceries into the cart, and drives to the back kitchen door, away from the dogs, and unloads them with ease.  I got several “attaboys” for that cleaver move.  In fact the golf cart adds some class to these acres.  I never tell the folks I don’t play golf, and Alice won’t tell, I hope.

            In fact the thing is fun to drive around the place and I have found it useful for many tasks.  Like going to the mailbox, which is a couple hundred yards from the house, at the road.  And I have found it works well for moving dirt and rocks.  I just hitch that little red wagon to the golf cart and away I go.  The grand kids liked it for a while, until they were old enough to drive a car. 

            I try to be around now days when Alice comes home from the grocery  store.  I make it a grand and gallant thing pretending to be of help.  What I am doing is enjoying driving the cart from the car to the back door.  Some times, when I am in a hurry, I drive to the front door, park on the walk-way and carry the groceries in from there.  The other day I did just that.  I stopped, grabbed two bags, and headed for the steps.  I thought I heard something behind me.  I quickly glanced around, and to my horror, saw the golf cart rolling backwards down the walkway and gaining speed, headed straight for Alice’s car. Do you think an eighty-year-old man can’t run?  Hoo-boy, this one did.  The cart was about half way there.  I dropped the sacks and ran just like an Olympic sprinter, and managed to grab the stirring wheel and turn it, just missing the car.  

 I held on to the cart as we made a quick turn, running across Alice’s prize iris bed, and came to rest against the trunk of a live oak tree.

            The doctor says my scraped and bruised elbow will heal pretty quickly.  The eggs and milk-splattered walkway will clean up easily with a little soap and the water hose.  Meanwhile I have had my golf cart driver’s license revoked until further notice.  Alice said I could use the little red wagon.   

            I don’t like okra.  I don’t like it stewed, fried or in gumbo.  It doesn’t appeal to my sense of smell or to my sense of beauty.  However, this year, I planted about 100 okra seeds in the garden.  Each seed came up, and I fancy some of them came up twice.  They each grew well and vigorously.  In a very short time the garden was full of okra that had to be harvested daily.  Not only now but also tomorrow, and on and on.  A family can consume only so much okra.  Neighbors will only take so many parcels of the foodstuff.  Few friends further and further a field, will admit to wanting a sack of okra.  My freezer can just hold so much okra.  It has reminded me of the old joke about the city cousin visiting the county cousin.  The country cousin takes his city cousin to town, to show him off to his friends.  As they get out of the pick up he locks his truck doors.  The city dweller is surprised that he locked his doors here in a country village.  Country cousin explains that this time of year you always lock your vehicle doors to keep the gardeners from leaving a sack of okra in your truck.  There is a lot more truth than poetry in that old worn joke.

            I was sharing my problems with Troy at the Information Center.  He had no solution for the predicament I have gotten myself into.  But it raised a subject for the sweaters sitting around the place to rag on for a while.  There were several suggestions, but none of them wanted to take any okra home with them.  Donald Berry asked the question  “ Have you ever seen any “Longhorn Okra?”  “No,” I said, “But it might be an interesting thing to see.”  Donald invited me out to his place to see his garden and stand of “Longhorn Okra.”

            In a few days I went out 1869 to see Donald and Linda’s, his wife, place.  Wow, what beautiful acres they have.  The Texas flag waved proudly at the gate, which he had left open for me.  The place is well fenced, mowed and trimmed to make any landscaper proud.  His shop is a well-built structure with all the tools in their places and is as clean as a pin.  Donald has the reputation of being one of the best trim carpenters of the area.  Troy says he is the best in the state.  Out back is the garden.  He still has tomatoes, which are blooming, peppers that are loaded, and a stand of most unusual okra.  All okra, if you don’t pick it regularly will grow to large, and tough to eat.  This okra, when young looks and taste just like the regular vegetable. However, “Longhorn Okra” keeps on growing, longer, and longer.  The pods, growing longer each day, have a pleasing curve that reaches sixteen or more inches.  They look just like a longhorn’s horn.  Donald explains you can’t buy these seeds from a catalog, and you must get the seeds from friends and neighbors.  He is growing this crop for his neighbor and friend, Butch Floyd, just for the sake of keeping them available.  He doesn’t have to find a place to get rid of the stuff.  He is just growing okra seeds.

            On the way home, that gave me an idea.  I’ll just grow “Longhorn Okra” seeds, and I will never have to pick it or find someone to give it to.

            In the 1920s Andy Mather sat in a ladder-back, rawhide-bottomed chair on the front porch of his town home in Liberty Hill, Texas reading the Williamson County Sun newspaper.  He spoke to the few folks passing in buggies or the new fangled Model-T Ford cars, while getting all the news of the day.  Most people called him Uncle Andy, but he was really Capitan Andrew Mather, retired Texas Ranger and Indian fighter. 

   He leaned the chair back and hung his spurred boot on the banister, his black Stetson shading his face from the morning sun.  His saddled horse was tied to a limb beneath a live oak tree just west of the house.  He was ready to ride if the need should arise. 

            But the need rarely came any more.  On these quite mornings the old Indian fighter’s mind drifted back to the days of action, when this area was hot with outlaws, renegades, army deserters, and Indians on the warpath.  One encounter came fresh to his mind when he was a young sergeant in the Rangers.  He and an Indian met face to face on the trail and both emptied their guns shooting at each other.  The Indian wheeled his horse and headed for high timber with Andy in hot pursuit.  Andy roped the fleeing Indian with his rawhide lariat, jerked him from his pony, killing him in the fall.  But another vision of other days crowded the roping incident from his mind.

            When Andy was only 12 years old on August 15^th 1863 the Woffard Johnson family had been making syrup at a neighbor’s house near Hopewell, and returning home just at twilight, were attacked by a band of Comanche Indians led by Chief Big Foot.  The family raced for home.  The father and their son were killed quickly.  The mother, with a daughter riding behind her and a baby in her arms was mortally wounded.  The girl slipped off the back of the horse and fled into the cedars, making her escape.  The mother, in desperation, tossed the baby into a clump of low cedars.  The mother died soon after.  The older daughter made it to Capitan Jeff Maltby’s house and spread the alarm.  At daylight the posse began tracking the band of Indians.  They found the baby, scratched, frightened, but alive and returned her to a neighbor’s house.  The wily Big Foot made good their escape.

            When Andy came of age, he joined Capitan Jeff’s Ranger company and began his colorful career.  Nine years later, Capitan Jeff Maltby, sergeant Andy Mather and the Ranger company tracked Big Foot way out west, past Brownwood, in Runnels County.  A fierce battle ensued with the Rangers killing Big Foot and all his band of Indians.

            Today you can see Capitan Andy Mather’s newly remodeled town house, on the south side of Ranch Road 1869, just east of the railroad tracks in downtown Liberty Hill.  And while you are downtown, stop by Troy Joseph’s Information Center and see a 1908 painting of Capitan Andy Mather sitting tall in the saddle.  If you are lucky, as I was the other day, you may get to meet James Mather, a Great, Great, Grandson of Uncle Andy.

Chris, thank you for all the work you have done.  I will mess with the different things I can do with this format.  Any suggestions will be welcomed.

The picture is of Alice and I were dating in the early 50’s

I also need to know who and how much I need to pay.

This is my first  post as you can see, so away it goes…

Hollis