Hollis Baker’s Blog

Some wag once said, “God gives us our kinfolks, we can pick our friends.” Well it looks like you folks did well on both counts. Do you have a family? Most of us do and we are very thankful for that fact.
Families are the building blocks of civilization. Without the structures these blocks build, society would cease to exist.

You and I are fortunate to live in a time where we have a close association with our families. We have the means of having family in or going to see family, regardless of how far away they live. It has not always been that way.

John Webster came from Virginia in the 1830’s and fought in the Texas War of Independence. He was given land just west of here on the San Gabriel River for his services to Texas. In claiming his land, Webster encountered a band of Comanche Indians. He and all his men were killed, and his wife and children were taken captive. Mrs. Webster was able to escape, and carrying her 4-year-old daughter walked over 200 miles to San Antonio. The child grew up, married, had a family and built the village of Strickland, on her father’s land, on the banks of the North San Gabriel River. That is an example of how strong the family is.

Then more settlers came to this land walking, and in wagons loaded with homebuilding tools. They found the land fertile and well watered. With their families, they built the towns and villages of Central Texas, almost with their bare hands. Together they fought weather, Indians, and desperados. But the families held firm and made this land into a productive and safe place to live.

Our families are the building blocks of our society. As strong as these building blocks of family are, there is another ingredient. It is friends that make the mortar that binds the stones of family into a strong structure. It was neighbor friends that came in the dark of night when some dire sickness stalked the land. It was friends helping each other’s families that made it possible to build the houses, and build the barns. It was friends that came in time of plenty, and a time to celebrate that made life worthwhile.

And today, we celebrate our ease of life, knowing whatever we decide to try to accomplish, we have family and friends to lend a helping hand, and cheer us on.

This past weekend Georgetown held it’s annual “Red Poppy Festival.” A grand parade, with all the pretty girls, handsome men, prancing horses and, marching bands, were there to stir the spectator’s hearts. An old fashioned street dance was well attended and enjoyed by all.
The festival was a great success, a little damp Sunday morning, but still a great success. Food is always popular at any celebration such as this, and there was plenty available. Guest could eat “off-a-stick, or sit down to gracious dinning.

A “Miss Georgetown” pageant was held, and no more beautiful ladies could have been found anywhere. Picking a winner must have been a difficult, but pleasant task.
Guitar Hero competition was open to youngsters, as well as adults. Looked like all had fun: those in competition and well as those in the audience. A 5-K walk-run was held and attracted many participants as well as cheering crowds. One celebration I was able to avoid was the “Bike Ride.” Even the shortest ‘ride’, only 14 miles, would have gotten me into a rocking chair for weeks. However many entered the 30 mile, 45 mile, and even the 62 mile event. I trust all had fun peddling around our beautiful countryside.

Wolf Ranch had a showing of the classic movie, “Casablanca” under the stars. It was a beautiful setting, and a most entertaining way to watch a most delightful movie from years gone by. I hope you had the opportunity of seeing “Bogie and Lauren” again.
If you were looking for one word to describe the “Red Poppy Festival,” this year you would pick, MUSIC. Music was everywhere, and all kinds.
Bluegrass, Jazz, Latin, and Swing music was provided. Countrybilly, Classic Country, and Western as well as symphonic music were available. In the music category we must mention Ballet, Square Dancing, Folk Dancing, as well as Cloggers. There was something for everyone’s taste.

The “Car Show” attracted a lot of visitors. There were old classics as well as many new, fancy, cars for the guys and gals to view. Some were even full of gasoline, which is becoming a show all by its self.

I got to wondering about a poppy festival here in the middle of Texas. How did this come about, I mused. I ran into John Steel down town yesterday and asked him. He said that during World War I Henry Compton, from Georgetown, joined the 36th Army Division and was sent to France. There he was in the thick of the battles in and around Ypres, France. In spite of the carnage he experienced Henry was impressed with the fields of red poppies in the area. A major, John McCrae, had written the soon to become famous poem, “In Flanders Field” about the poppies. Henry gathered a Bull Durham tobacco sack of the poppy seed to bring home. Henry gave them to his mother who lived at 507 East 7th street, in Georgetown. Mrs. Compton sowed them in her yard, and they flourished. She shared the seed with neighbors, friends and anyone that wanted them. From that beginning, the Texas Legislature has since declared Georgetown the,” Red Poppy Capitol of Texas”, and you and I can enjoy the fun, food, and games of the “Georgetown Red Poppy Festival.” And we may also enjoy the many yards, and fields full of beautiful red poppies.

I once wrote a book designed to help young writers with their compositions. Well, that is not exactly what happened. What happened was I told a large group of people that I had written a book to help young writers with their compositions. Neither of these statements were correct. Both were bald-faced lies. And that is how I got into trouble with a friend.

It is a little painful, even today, to tell, but I must finely be honest. I was asked by a group to favor them with an after dinner entertaining speech. I thought it would be a lark to kind of pull their collective legs to fabricate this imagined book that was entitled, “The End of the Tail.” I stated that writing a book is easy to start. One just describes the setting of the world the imagined characters live in. Then you get them into some trouble and worry them around the countryside for a while. Now this is where the young writer gets into trouble. How do you end the story? Never fear, my neat little book comes to the rescue. The book is chuck full of endings of stories. Nothing else. Just story endings. For instance, “John leaned down from his faithful horse, Painter, kissed Rose lightly on the cheek and road off into the sunset.” (Westerns, Love. Pg. 167). You see how easy, and useful this could be? One just looks for an ending that fits the story you have written, tack on the handy, “End of the Tail,” and bingo, you have a prize winning book. The endings are entered in the book both by alphabetical, and by subject. Easy to find, easy to use, and solves a great dilemma in book writing I told them.

I guess I did a better selling job than I thought I was capable of. And that is where I got into trouble. My friend Ruth was in the audience, and she bought the whole story as the truth. She never thought her friend would lead her down the primrose path of fabrication. Ruth hurried home and sent her husband, Fred, out to buy a copy of my, soon to be, best seller. Fred drove to every bookseller in Austin, but could not find a copy of my book. They must have flown off the shelves, he thought. He tried to order a copy, but none could find where to order the famous book. Fred came home empty handed, which did not set well with Ruth. She called me. I confessed. “With a candle lit steak dinner, and a bottle of expensive wine at Hill’s Restaurant I was finely able to regain their friendship.” (Friends, Lying to. Pg. 290)

I was out in the pasture, a few days ago; looking at the few bluebonnets we have this year. I suppose the dry spring was a little hard on our favorite flower here in central Texas. While on my scouting trip I noticed many other wild flowers in the area. Indian paintbrush, verbena, blue-eyed grass and evening primrose were all in bloom, but shy in abundance. One flower left me puzzled. It had a leaf arrangement similar to our bluebonnet, with kind of purple blossoms, but with smaller “bonnets.” I did not find this plant listed in any of my “flower” books.

The best solution I have found with these sorts of problems is to call for John Steel. Well, you can’t “call John Steel” for the old man doesn’t have a phone. I left word at Winkley’s Feed Store, which is just about as good as a phone, to have John stop by when he could.

Sure enough, in a few days I saw John’s pick-up, with him and that old spotted dog, coming up our lane. I showed John the mystery plant that had me stumped. He looked at me as if to say, “where have you been all these years Baker.” He was kind enough not to rub my nose in my ignorance. “Baker,” he said, “this plant is a scurvy pea, sometimes called buffalo peas.” “The Indians used this plant to cure all kinds of sickness that befell them.” John went on to tell me the Indians shared their “medicine” with the white man on the frontier. They made teas, and poultices of the leaves and ground the roots and seeds for placing on wounds and boils. “Did it work John?” I asked. “Sure it did, and it still will if you stay in the pasture and out of the drug store. I suppose you can guess I got a pretty good lecture on folk medicine and how I might live forever if I would pay attention.

I suppose that lesson would still be going on if Alice had not interrupted it with a welcome glass of iced tea. And the tea was from Lipton’s I might add. Now I take John Steel’s knowledge about the world and all that is in it, as near to gospel as you can find. From now on, when I find that plant I will instantly know it is “scurvy pea, or sometimes called buffalo peas.” However, the next time one of the grandkids comes by here, I am going to ask them to Google that for me.

On the west side of the square of my hometown, sandwiched between Butch Riggs barbershop and Bill Hanes boot shop, was S & Z Feed store. Earl Sawyer and Guy Zimmerman ran an emporium designed especially for the farmers and ranchers of the area. They stocked, of course all kinds of feed, as well as supplies and medicines for the farm trade including a place for the men to gather and swap tall tails of daring do. The feed store also bought most all of the produced and raised by the farmers and ranchers.

I was proud to work for these gentlemen. My job was to keep the brass disk embedded in the sidewalk in front of the store polished to a high luster. Among my other duties were, testing cream, counting eggs, weighing hides, stacking hay and shoveling oats and corn into bins. But my main, and most important task was polishing the brass plaque. I polished it the first thing each morning and the last thing at night. On muddy days it often got an extra rubbing during the day. In the center of the round disk was a large engraved “X”. Around the perimeter, in bold capitol letters were the words, CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. I knew it was the truth. I could stand with both feet planted on the disk, my eyes closed, arms extended and feel the world, the heavens, and all the universe swirl around me. Mr. Zimmerman told me in strict confidence, one could start from that brass plaque and go anywhere in the world or universe. I believed him.

Finally I grew up, left home, went to school, and opened a shop of my own. We didn’t cater to the farmer; I had other clients. But in those years I often felt uneasy. Things didn’t quite fit. I remembered the brass plaque. Perhaps that was it. I was living in an exocentric world. I resurveyed the universe. Sure enough, just as I suspected, the center was a little off from my youth. I found the center to be right in the middle of my shop. I embedded a brass disk of my own, with a “X” and everything.

I did feel better. For a while. But the uneasiness crept back into my tortured soul. I sold the shop and moved to Liberty Hill. I was relieved for a while. But I needed to know exactly where the starting place was. Where was the “X”? With much trepidation I again began surveying of the universe. I used Polaris as one benchmark and Scorpio as the second. For the third point of reference I found a USGS mark out past Llano. With lot of stake driving and chain dragging I worked many long hours. Each day I felt better. Success must surely be just around the corner.

I bet you can guess where I found the CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. Yep. You are right. Downtown Liberty Hill, Texas. I feel great! And if you get to feeling a little uneasy, nauseous, frustrated, just go downtown, stand on the brass plaque, close your eyes, extend your arms and feel the universe swirl about you. That is guaranteed to make you feel great.

Frank Edward “Pete” Ebeling, a life long rancher of Burnet County died February 26, 2008. Pete was born April 4th, 1922 at Shovel Mountain Community in southern Burnet County. Pete is survived by his wife of 53 years, Leta Ebeling. His sons Don, Mark and his wife Stephanie, Steve and his wife Julie, and daughter Marianne Ebeling also survive him. Pete and Leta have 9 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren.

Family and friends, we are here to celebrate Pete Ebeling’s life. Pete’s life was full and varied and he pursued it to the fullest. To quote a fellow gardener friend of his, Gary Rowland, “Pete Ebeling is what makes Burnet County unique.”
Pete was a rancher, farmer, gardener, student, and romantic. He was an adventurer,
philanthropist, athlete, collector, and most of all a dreamer.

Pete enjoyed ranching and seeing his goats belly high in grass and about ready to give birth to a new kid. Pete almost lived with his animals during that time of year. He always had a small length of rope in his pocket to pull a kid if needed. Once on the road to Mason to a goat show, with Leta, Buck and Robin, he spied a young heifer in a field, having trouble calving. Pete stopped, climbed the fence and pulled the calf with his trusty rope, then went on to the show. Later Pete was sorry he had not left the rope on the calf’s leg just to confound the unknown owner of the cow and calf.

Pete loved farming and planting his fields. He planted acres of peas, okra, and turnips. I don’t think he wanted that many vegetables, he just wanted to see if he could grow them and give them away. Leta said he once planted 10 acres of okra: they harvested the first fruit and then Pete turned his goats into the field. The goats harvested the rest.

Pete’s garden was a pleasant place to visit. It contained many of the plants listed in the seed catalogue, and grew with abundance. If you visited his garden you could not leave without an arm full of produce. With Leta’s help, there was always one row of zinnias blooming their heart out. Pete loved all the flowers.

Pete studied everything. History perhaps was his greatest interest. He went with Lewis and Clark all the way to the Pacific and back….several times. And he shared his wonder of that journey with us all….several times. But all category of books caught Pete’s mind. Medicine, adventure, humor, as well as pleasure.

Pete was and incurable romantic. That old man you ask? Emphatically yes. He loved to watch the coming of spring, the gentle rain on the tin roof, as well as the billowing of summer clouds. But he especially watched, in spring, for the first daisy blossom to take to Leta. In the dusty dryness of fall he might take Leta a bouquet of dry weeds. He was likely as not to have left a note on the table for Leta before he went to the pasture.

The open road was an adventure to Pete. On a trip to anywhere Pete might turn off the route and take a side trip just to see what lay over that hill or string of trees. And there is where he found many new lands and new people. One grand adventure was the buying of the old steel bridge that spanned the Colorado River at Kingsland. Pete hauled it to the ranch and has used the steel for all kinds of construction.

The word philanthropist usually means a lot of money: not this time. This time it means Pete’s generous heart. He gave to all the fruit, vegetables, and flowers from his fields and gardens. Should a passer by want to buy a bushel of peas, they always got two bushels. And if it were near mealtime he would insist they stay for dinner. Leta said she has cooked for people from around the world.

Pete excelled as an athlete. He was careful which sport he played. To Pete burning prickly pear was not a job, but a sport. Burning pear he once conjured up a lightening storm that lasted for days. Pitching washers was a game he enjoyed. He could sink a washer into the hole at 30 feet often enough to win most of his games. He once said “Its to bad the Olympics did not have a washer pitching contest. But Pete’s greatest sport was the game of “42”. I think he enjoyed playing 42 more that eating dinner. He often traded a few dominions with Alice just for the heck of it. He won some, and he lost some. The last time we played 42 with Pete, he drew 4 consecutive “84” hands. That pleased Pete. We even won some of those hands.

Pete collected things. Like old worn-out cars and trucks. He even managed to drive some them way past their prime. But what Pete really collected were friends. His neighbors, the Duncans and the Mannings were not neighbors, but rather friends. Some one once said if you walked down Park Road 4, you were in mortal danger of being fed and made into a friend. Pete has friends scattered in all points of the compass. And we are all pleased to be counted in that group.

Pete dreamed of many things. Pete dreamed of having a beautiful farm. A farm with more dirt than rocks. Pete dreamed of a soil that was deep and rich and could support any crop. Pete dreamed of living where it rained on time, and the sun shone just the right amount. He dreamed of a land where the breezes cooled his back, but the wind rarely blustered. He dreamed of a growing season that was gentle to crops as well as kind to the animals. Pete dreamed. Perhaps he has now found that land he dreamed of.