1977 Jamie, the Aftermath

In 1977, I had gotten a divorce and was living with my mother in Maine.  A good friend was living in Dallas and I decided to visit her, and then go see my grandparents in Vernon.  My German Shepherd, Jamie, (now called Haus) was in relatively good health, though he was 11 years old by then.  I was very nervous about seeing him after 8 years.  Would he remember me?  Did I want him to?  In a way, I didn't.  It would be easier for both of us if he didn't.

When I arrived, Haus was sitting on the back porch.  My uncle Bill met me at the car and told me that when I entered the gate, Jamie would come barking and he would be ferocious.  Haus had quite a reputation as a guard dog.  Once someone had been verbally abusive to my Grandma King and when Haus heard the raised voices, he actually grabbed one of the men by the arm and started pulling him.  Bill said to just stand my ground and he would be right behind me in case Haus got aggressive.  

I opened the gate and Haus came running (as fast as he could, though he was obviously showing his age).  He was intimidating, with his hackles up and his deep bark.  But then, when he was a couple of feet from me, I forgot what Bill told me and just knelt down and said "Jamie, Jamie!"

He stopped and looked at me and I could almost see the recognition in his eyes.  He looked blank, then all of a sudden he was all over me, licking me and almost knocking me down.  Later, Bill said he was scared to death when he saw Jamie stop, because he thought he was about to attack me.  But I saw his eyes and I knew he wasn't.

I spent 2 days there, and it almost broke my heart.  Jamie was torn between his job of guarding Becky and wanting to be by my side.  I remember how his breeder, Mrs. Lochner, had told me one of the reasons she decided to let me have him so young was that puppies create their strongest bond at around 5 weeks.  That bond was deep enough to last 7 years and still be true.

Jamie died less than a year later.  He is buried on what used to be my grandparents' farm that he protected so well.

1932 Horsefly

When my dad, Travis, was just a sprout, he desperately wanted a horse, but my grandmother Mary kept saying no, it was too dangerous.  Finally though, when he was 11 or 12, she agreed.  She told Earl what she expected and one day Earl came home with a horse trailer containing Travis's horse.   He was large, and a mangy white color.  Travis was not particularly impressed, but he was a horse, his own horse.  

After a few days, they got to know each other well enough, and he decided to set out for town to show his friends.  Off he went that morning.  Then, couple of hours later, Mary saw him walking back down the dirt road, dejected.  

When he got home, she asked "Where's the horse?  Did he throw you?"  "Of course not" Travis replied.  "He dropped dead right in the middle of the road!"  

My grandmother Mary felt so bad that she let Earl pick the next horse.  This one was black, and apparently very nasty.  He bit everyone and kicked everything.  His name was Horsefly.  He was impossible to ride, or even approach.

Finally, after Travis had been thrown several times, they all agreed that going from one extreme to the other was not a good idea.  This time, they would let Travis make the choice. 

They sold Horsefly and Travis found a little 2-year old filly that he named Pony.   She was a pretty girl, sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail.  My dad was the one who broke and trained her. I loved her.  She died at age 30, in 1952.

1955 Summer in Texas, the Hancocks

Earl loved to sit and chew the fat with his buddies. One of those was a fellow farmer and close friend named Jess Hancock, who was in the world famous Santa Rosa Palomino Club.  Earl would take me with him to Jess’s farm and Jess would get his Palomino out, saddle him up, and hoist me up there.  I would ride around the pasture while Jess and Earl discussed the problems of the world.  I loved it.    

When Jess would come visit Earl, they would sit around the table in the breakfast room and argue about cars.  Earl was a GM guy.  He drove Buicks and my grandmother mother drove Cadillacs.  Jess was a Ford guy through and through.  They would sit for hours, smoking like chimneys, arguing about the cars.  I was totally fascinated.  

Mary would take me with her when she went to visit her friend Madeleine Hancock.  She would get me dressed up in a pretty dress and put bows in my hair.  I would sit in the living room and read while they played their bridge.  

Going to the Hancocks was one extreme or the other.  Needless to say, I much preferred going with Earl.

1955 Summer in Texas, Working in the Fields

One of my grandmother Mary's favorite stories was about when she was driving home from bridge club in town and saw her two globetrotting granddaughters in their nightgowns chopping cotton  out in the field with Otha and the rest of the black field workers.  We also would go out and pick watermelon and cantaloupe.  Earl got in a heap of trouble over that.   We, however, loved doing it.  We had just returned from Australia.

1951 Hanging Out with Earl

My grandfather Earl and I would sit and watch Westerns on TV at night, me sitting in my little rocking chair that had a dark green leather seat.  We would sit and eat ice cream from the carton, which drove my grandmother Mary crazy.  "Earl, for heaven’s sake, get the child a bowl!" she would say.  

One of my favorite horses, Trigger

I would go with Earl to feed the cows in the pastures by our tank stocked with catfish.  

He was very very tight with a penny.  I remember Mary would have to give him every cent of change whenever she did errands.  We would get cards from them for birthdays and Christmas with a $5 bill inside, with the notation always, “Enclosed from Grandma King”.  I’m sure he never knew. 

He was an old codger, a curmudgeon, but I worshipped him my Grandpa King.  He was tall and thin, and he always wore overalls, usually the striped ones.  When he had to wear a suit you could tell how much he hated it.  His hands were knobby and always covered in dirt and grease.  He would sill in his recliner and smoke away.  

That farmhouse in Vernon (actually on FM 1763 on the way to Oklaunion) was something I always kept in the back of my mind during our worldly travels.  I knew it was the one place where I would always return, and that it would always be mine.  It was our land forever.  Unfortunately, that did not turn out to be the case.   

1951 Pony, Junibug, and Little Hairs

The summers in Texas were magical for me, on the farm, with my dad's old horse Pony, and the two German Shorthaired Pointers, Junibug and Little Hairs.  

Pony was so old she had barely any teeth and I wasn't allowed to ride her, so she was like a very large dog.  She followed me everywhere, always nosing at my pockets.  She was lame but she was game.  I would take her into the barn and get corn for her and it would fall out of her mouth.

Junibug and Little Hairs were great.  I was particularly smitten with Junibug.  She had big patches of brown, she wasn't ticked like Little Hairs.  She also had a long tail.  I wonder now if she was more English Pointer than GS Pointer.  Little Hairs had the docked tail.  Junibug was more mellow.  She was always within touching distance.  Little Hairs was more inquisitive, always running ahead, scouting out the trail.

Every morning, I would set out with Pony and the dogs, with my double holsters and my silver guns, and my red cowboy boots, and a lunch packed by my grandmother.  There was a small canyon behind the house with a bunch of vines and cacti, etc.  We would go hang out down there.  I can't believe I was never bitten by a snake, actually.  Of course the dogs would have warned me.   I did have multiple encounters with cactuses though.

Pony died in 1956 at the age of 30 when we were in France.  My dad and I both cried when we found out.