I’Ll Get By: The Best of Harry Marlin, Volume I

By Harry Marlin

Author Harry Marlin met everything in life head on. This collection of his writing explores a lifetimes experiencesgrowing up in tiny Blanket, Texas, during the Great Depression; flying combat missions over Germany during World War II; and managing lifes perplexities.

Called the Will Rogers of Central Texas, Marlin wrote a weekly column for the Brownwood Bulletin for eleven years. Ill Get By presents the first volume of compilations of his best stories taking a humorous look at a plethora of topics.

The Barbecue Smokes, but the Customers Cant explores the ins and outs of the Texas tradition of barbecuing. In Where Summers Lovely Roses Still Bloom, Marlin reminisces about the dreadful summers spent picking cotton. The Place They Didnt Catch Clyde Barrow describes how the news of Bonnie and Clyde running rampant in 1934 took the edge off of an otherwise depressing existence.

Colorful and witty, Ill Get By provides insights into life in rural Texas during the Great Depression and shows that humor can provide relief in many challenging situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426994975

Harry Marlin

Harry Marlin spent his childhood in Blanket, Texas, and matured during fifty combat missions over Germany. He was a steel guitar musician, photographer, police officer, columnist, and author.

Book preview

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTHING COMMON ABOUT THE COMMON COLD

MAMA KNEW LITTLE, BUT SHE KNEW IT ALL

MEMORIES ON A DIRT ROAD

A BAD LANDING IN NAPLES 1945

MISSING A BIG NIGHT OUT AND A FREE GOURMET DINNER

SPEAK SOFTLY BUT CARRY A BIG STICK

LIVING IN A HOUSE AT THE END OF THE LANE

GOOD BOOKS, GOOD WRITERS AND ESCAPE FROM A COTTON PATCH

THE BARBECUE SMOKES BUT THE CUSTOMERS CAN’T

TAKE YOUR MEDS BUT DON’T DRINK THE WATER

A LITTLE SOMETHING ABOUT FIGHTING A WAR

ON BEING UGLY AND TELLING IT LIKE IT WAS

THE BANKS OF BLANKET CREEK

FAT FREE CHILI IS NOT FOR ME

WHERE THE BLUE BELLS BLOOM

MOVIE MAKING AND DANCING WITH REBA

POOR PEOPLE ARE STILL WALKING, DISABLED OR NOT

HIPPOCRATES, MECHANICS, AND OATHS

HANGING AROUND AND LEARNING A LOT

FIDDLIN’ AROUND IN THE THIRTIES

COOKING CHILI AND GAWKING MIGHT BEST BE DONE AT HOME

LIFE’S NOT A BOWL OF GRAVY, BUT A LITTLE BIT HELPS

MAYOR PROCLAIMS SEPTEMBER 1 AS APPRECIATION DAY

IF YOU HAVEN’T HEARD IT BY NOW, YOU DON’T NEED TO

NEWS STORIES THAT INTRIGUED ME

HOLSTEINS, HORMONES, AND JACKRABBIT CHILI

OLD HOUSES, OLD MEMORIES, AND SLEEPING IN THE YARD

FREE ICE IN THE WINTER AND GOING BROKE IN THE SUMMER

NOTHING IMPOTENT HAPPENED TO ME UNTIL I REACHED 65

A PRESIDENT I ONCE KNEW

LEARNING IS ONLY A MATTER OF LISTENING

A LITTLE MEMORY IS FINE, BUT A LOT COULD CAUSE TROUBLE

DEPRESSION IS A STATE OF MIND

IT’S NOT A MODEL, IT’S A BAD EXAMPLE

SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION

WE ARE WHAT WE ARE TODAY, NOT WHAT WE WERE YESTERDAY

NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FEAR ITSELF AND WE HAD IT

THE TRAIN PULLED OUT AND TOOK OUR BOYHOOD WITH IT

WHICH CAME FIRST, AND WHAT WENT ON LAST?

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

HORACE, COCA COLA, AND PLANTERS PEANUTS

MAKING MOVIES IS UNPREDICTABLE, AND SO IS DYNAMITE

A BLOW-UP DOLL AND A PICTURE OF JESUS ON THE WALL

WE CAN HELP, OR WE CAN’T, BUT WE CAN ALWAYS TRY

THE LAST CREEK IS HARD TO CROSS

THE PATHS WE TRAVEL ARE NOT ALWAYS OURS TO CHOOSE

HAM HOCKS AND BUTTER BEANS

DON’T SHOOT UNTIL THEY BEAT YOU HALF TO DEATH

OLD MAN CURRY’S PECANS

FIDLERS AND HOUNDDOGS

HOT SAND, GRASSBURRS, AND HIGH-TOP BUTTON SHOES

WE ARE HERE, AND WE ARE TEXANS

NOT MUCH USE IN GOING HOME

STUFF

WHERE SUMMER’S LOVELY ROSES STILL BLOOM

SWINGING ON A LOWER VINE

THERE WAS NO GOLD, SO I WENT FOR THE PLUMS

WALKING AFTER MIDNIGHT ON DIRTY WOMAN CREEK

PINK ARMADILLOS, TURTLES, AND TRANSPLANTS

LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE

WALKING ON THE EDGE

TIME WILL TELL, OR SOMEBODY WILL

LUCKENBACH, WILLIE, AND THE FOURTH OF JULY

POLITICIANS AND VIBRATING BEDS

DON’T DROP THE DUCK-BILLED DINOSAUR, SAM

BLANKET, TEXAS, THE TOWN I KNEW

SPRING IS HOPE ETERNAL

RODEO COWBOYS AND LEARNING TO SMOKE

I’VE HEARD IT ALL—MAYBE

UGLY IS IN THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

LOOKING FOR THE REGULAR DRUMMER

YUPPIES AND TERLINGUA DUST

IF I BEAT YOU TO THE UNDERPASS, I WIN

FREEDOM AND THE GREAT DEPRESSION

GEORGIA ON MY MIND

TEXAS BLESSED BY GOD

FRESH STUFF CAN RUIN YOUR IMMUNITY

1997, THE YEAR OF THE BUGS

TWO PEARS AND A PECAN DIDN’T MAKE A FULL JAILHOUSE

HEMINGWAY HAD TROUBLE TOO

ARMADILLOS AND LAWYERS

IF I GOTTA GET DRUNK, I SURE DO DREAD IT

IT’S BETTER TO LIGHT ONE FART, THAN LIVE IN DARKNESS

MEALS ON WHEELS, OR HELL ON WHEELS

DON’T MAKE A MOVE, I’VE GOT A CATTLE PROD

OSCAR, ERNEST, AND WATERED DOWN MILK

ICE ON THE MOON, BUT NONE IN MY REFRIGERATOR

BEATING THE MORTALITY TABLES

MOSES AND THE CATFISH

WHERE DID MY HEROS GO?

WHITE NOISE

FAT, NUDE, OR TOTALLY NUDE

HAND ME MY RAZOR, BILL

FIDDLE PLAYING AND EGGSUCKING HOUNDS

THE DAY RAQUEL WELCH DROPPED HER PANTS

MODEL T’s, HORSES AND BROKEN ARMS

SLIPPING AROUND IN PEORIA

PICK THE PICKERS

OUR WAR HERO NEVER FIRED A SHOT

CALL 911 FOR A PLUMBER, WHY NOT?

THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF—

TURN OUT THE LIGHTS, THE PARTY’S OVER

SHIP OF FOOLS OR SHIP OF STOOLS

STANDING ON THE PROMISES

TAKING IT SLOW ON AUSTIN AVENUE

CASEY JONES, I WASN’T

REPUBLIC HAS A NICE SOUND

SEND TUMBLEBUGS TO WASHINGTON

RELIGION ON DEMAND IS BETTER THAN NONE AT ALL

THE SANTA FE WAS THE ONLY TRAIN WE EVER HAD

SAUCERED AND BLOWED

A CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF A DIFFERENT KIND

SCREEN DOORS, FLIES, AND ACUPUNCTURE

SEEING IS BELIEVING, OR IS IT?

SHAFTED BY AN ELEVATOR

THE CAR THAT BROKE THE MOLD, AND A LOT OF ARMS

LOUD TALKERS, ENGINE RACERS AND DOOR SLAMMERS

VIEWING THE SNAKE

AN ODE TO SUMMER

TALENT WILL GET YOU NOWHERE

TERRITORIAL BEHAVIOR? YOU CAN BET ON IT

CATFISH AND TIME

INTO EACH LIFE, SOME HAIL MUST FALL

A TRIBUTE TO MY AMERICAN HERO

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

THE TURKEY LADY

MY GOLDEN YEARS ARE A LITTLE UNSTABLE

VOLKSWAGEN MEMORIES

SOME DOCTORS I ONCE KNEW

WHEN ALBERT WAS PRINCE, AND TIME MEANT NOTHING

MEMORIES THAT COME AND GO

LYNDON IS GONE, BUT JOHN’S STILL HERE

ROMAN CANDLES AND FREE BANANAS

BARS, HONKYTONKS AND TEXANS

THE PLACE THEY DIDN’T CATCH CLYDE BARROW

GRAPE WINE, GRAPE JELLY AND CLIMBING SALT MOUNTAIN

SHORT-TERM, OR LONG-TERM, SOME MEMORIES ARE GOOD

BURNING OUR BRITCHES BEHIND US

BROOMWEEDS AND BOY SCOUTS

A DRINK OF WHISKEY AND A HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL

MAY COOLER HEADS PREVAIL

THROWING ROCKS FOR LIBERTY— OR WHATEVER

SOMEWHERE IN THE WEST

LEAVE THE CHAT ON YOUR DRIVEWAY

CHEESE FOR CHRISTMAS, 1944

IT TAKES MORE STUFF FOR FREEDOM THAN IT DOES FOR CHILI

A VISIT WITH A GREAT LADY

THE LOSERS WERE SOMETIMES THE WINNERS

PAINT THE BATHROOM, OR SEE PARIS IN APRIL

THE DAY THE EARTH DIDN’T MOVE

FISHING IN COW TRACKS AND TRYING TO BEAT TIME

A CREDIT CARD CAN TAKE YOU A LONG WAY—IN DEBT

RATS AND MICE DON’T PAY TAXES

A NINE POUND HAMMER AND DIRT IN MY GAS TANK

THE RETURN OF THE DIRT DAUBERS

WE PASSED OUR GRADES, AND PASSED SOME GAS

ENTERTAINING THE ENDANGERED SPECIES

WE’RE BRAIN DEAD WHEN THE FAT LADY SINGS

BLANKET IS NOT A FITTING PLACE TO FIGHT

THE FIRE-BUILDER

WALKING THROUGH THE FLOWERS WITH MAMA

PUT THE FODDER WHERE THE CALF IS

WE HAD A PEE IN THE COTTON PATCH

COMO ESTA FRIJOLE OR WHATEVER

RUBY RED WON’T GET A MAN TO TEXAS

GIVE GONZALES THE BALL

FOR THE GOOD TIMES

WHO, OR WHOM, SPLIT MY INFINITIVE?

WE LEARNED A LOT AT GRANDDAD’S, BUT NOT ENOUGH

GOD BLESSED TEXAS

GROWING UP AND LEARNING TO CUSS

FORGETTING THE WARS, AND EVERYTHING ELSE

THE HARD TIMES ARE GONE, BUT THE MEMORIES ARE BACK

IT HAPPENS

HIKING UP MOUNTAINS, AND EVERYTHING ELSE

HOOVER DAM AND HOOVER BICYCLES

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

MAGNETIC IMAGING AND MEALS READY TO EAT

GROWING OLD AND GETTING INVISIBLE

WE HAD IMMUNITY, BUT NOT MUCH ELSE

SKILLSAWS, JOGGING, AND COUNTRY BANKERS

EITHER RATTLE OR BITE

DOCTORS, POLITICIANS, AND KIDNEY BEANS

SHED ROOMS, BISCUITS AND GRAVY, AND KINFOLKS

HENRY FORD AND LEVI GARRETT

WATCH OUT FOR LOOSE STOOLS

THE SCENT OF A WOMAN, OR WHATEVER

REMEMBERING MAMA

BREAKING UP—OR OUT—OVER MEATLOAF

MEN GET LOST, WOMEN ASK DIRECTIONS.

WE WON THE WAR WITH LAUGHING GAS

DON’T PUT IN TOO MUCH WATER, MR. ALLEN

IT’S YOUR MOVE; BUT DON’T CALL ME

TOYS, GIRLS, AND MOTHER NATURE

SLOW DOWN AND SMELL THE ROSES WHILE YOU CAN

THE OIL BOOM THAT WASN’T

GIVE ME MORE TIME AND I’LL TRY TO DO BETTER

I MISSED THE RUNNING OF THE BULLS AGAIN

I NEVER STOLE A CHICKEN, OR MET BONNIE PARKER’S SISTER

WHEN THE LORD MADE TEXAS

STIR WELL WITH A PICK-AX

DID MY YOUTH GO, ALONG WITH GREEN PINTO BEANS?

THE POKE SALET WAR

A LITTLE BIT HIGHER

A PORK CHOP MIGHT SETTLE THE WHOLE THING

TRAFFIC LIGHTS, FOUR-WAY STOPS, AND KILLER BEES

THE PRINCESS NEVER HAD A BEAN UNDER HER MATTRESS

MORE THAN ONE WAY TO READ A BOOK

WHY THE RABBIT DIDN’T CROSS THE ROAD

READ IN THE THIRD GRADE? WHY NOT THE FIRST?

WE EITHER RECOVERED FROM IT, OR GOT OVER IT

WE LOST OUR YOUTH IN THE RENFRO DRUG STORE

A SACKFULL OF JAWBREAKERS

SAMPSON MISSED THE GOOD HAIRCUTS

SAND-FLY FEVER AND STEALING CHICKENS

SATURDAYS ARE FOR DRINKING BEER

WE GASSED THE GERMANS IN WORLD WAR II

OLD MAN PINKARD AND ARLIE SIMPSON

SERIOUS SITUATIONS

SLOUCHY IS AS SLOUCHY DOES

IF IT SMELLS GOOD, IT MIGHT BE GOOD

SODA WATER, SALT, AND CORNBREAD

FLYING IN THE BUFF CAN GET A LITTLE ROUGH

OLD BEER JOINTS NEVER DIE, THEY JUST SMELL LIKE IT

SQUEEZING WHAT I COULD OUT OF LIFE

LISTENING TO A DIFFERENT DRUMMER

COMPUTERS, SUCKER RODS AND WINDMILLS

DOGS WILL HITCH A RIDE WITH ANYBODY

THE SURVIVALISTS

THE SURVIVORS

TABERNACLES AND SUMMER REVIVALS

WAGON RIDES AND SCARS

TALENT IS INHERITED, LOGIC IS LEARNED

TALKING DOGS, AND TALKING TO THE DOGS

SWEET POTATOES AND KIND WORDS

THE LYRIC WAS MORE THAN A THEATER

THE NOT SO DULL THIRTIES

TIME’S FUN WHEN YOU’RE HAVING FLIES

GOOD RECIPES ARE BORROWED, THE BEST ARE STOLEN

TRACKS IN THE SANDS OF TIME

SIN IS A THREE LETTER WORD

NOTHING USED ABOUT A CAR DEALER

A MEMORY OF YOUTH

THE VOLKSWAGEN THAT REFUSES TO DIE

BAD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO CAN’T WAIT

BLOWING OUR COOL AT WALMART

MORE IN A NEWSPAPER THAN A PAPER SACK

HELL WAS SIX MILES HIGH

HOW TO GET IN AND OUT OF A TEXAS HONKYTONK WITHOUT HAVING TO PARK IN A HANDICAP SPACE THE REST OF YOUR LIFE

WATCH OUT FOR THE WHIM DRIVERS

WHERE THE WHISKEY BURNS ALL THE WAY DOWN

THE SUMMER TEMPERATURE NEVER FALLS, IN WICHITA FALLS

OUT STANDING IN A FIELD, AND WRITING A COLUMN

OPENING THE GATE TO A CERTAIN AGE

SURVIVING BACTERIA IN THE NINETIES

IF YOU HAVE TO GO, DON’T CATCH A PLANE

DON’T BOTHER GOD, UNLESS YOU HAVE TO

AS THE TWIG IS BENT, SO GROWS THE TREE

WHEN COTTON WAS KING

LITTLE BOY BLUE, DON’T BLOW YOUR HORN

A CREEK, MEMORIES, AND A WASH ON THE LINE

TOADSTOOLS, ASPARAGUS, BLACKEYED PEAS, AND CABBAGE

POKE SALET CURED OUR DEPRESSION

A WHIMSICAL DAY IN SPRING

FLYING BATHROOMS AND CARWASHES

UNTIL THE NEXT TIME I FALL

THE CRANK THAT A GENERATION FORGOT

DON’T BURY YOUR GOLD, BURY YOUR COMPUTER

DRIVING MY LIFE AWAY ON I-35

THE DULLEST, OR THE GREATEST GENERATION

EINSTEIN NEVER DROVE IN BROWNWOOD

BUILDING FENCES AND DRINKING WINE

A TIME TO HOLD AND A TIME TO FOLD

THE BLANKET GANG WARS OF 1936

GRANNY AND LEVI GARRETT AND US

SWINGING BRIDGE AND THE MURDER OF SILENCE

NATURE MAY BE OUT TO GET US

THINGS YOU’LL NEVER HEAR

HOG KILLING TIME IN TEXAS

A LITTLE HOG LARD GOES A LONG WAY

WHAT YOU GET MAY NOT BE WHAT YOU WANT

INVESTIGATING THE COMMON AND UNCOMMON

BLOW IT OUT YOUR CUSHION

RUN JOHNNY RUN

J.W. AND THE 1935 CHEVY

TALKING TEXAN AND LOOKING FOR RAIN

OUTLIVING OUR LEFTOVERS

THE LIVING LEGENDS OF COUNTRY MUSIC

LET’S NOT DO IT

I, AND YOU, AND THEM, AND US

STRIKING A BLOW FOR LIBERTY

IF A MACHINE ANSWERS, HANG UP

BEYOND MATURITY, THE ROAD GETS ROUGHER

APPROPRIATE AND INAPPROPRIATE ACTION

YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

NEVER LOOK IN A MIRROR WITHOUT A SWEET-TATER

FLYING, LIKE SMOKING, CAN BE HAZARDOUS

WINNING THE O’HENRY AWARD

COOKING CHILI AND OTHER STUFF

PAIRING UP WITH THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

SALMON PATTIES AND HOUNDS UNDER THE PORCH

A BABY RUTH AND A GIRL IN A PORCH SWING

PROGRESS—WHO NEEDS IT?

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO RANDOLPH SCOTT?

DOING RESEARCH, OR STRETCHING THE TRUTH

ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH

THE NIGHT WILLIE CAME TO TOWN

A LITTLE SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT

A LITTLE SHOWER IS GOOD FOR THE LAND

A HOUND DOG MAN AND A BANKER WITH A HEART

TORNADOES AND CHICKEN THIEVES

A GOOD THUMP CAN CURE ANYTHING

BUILD THEM AND THEY WILL COME

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE TREE HOUSE

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE—RARELY

SINGLE MAN’S GUIDE TO COOKING

TWINKIES, BURRITOS, AND MOON PIES

THE ULTIMATE DRIVING MACHINE THAT WASN’T

UNCLE WILL HAD A GOLD TOOTH

ALL OF OUR MOVIE STARS HAVE DIED

CRIME IN THE FIFTIES, SOLVED, AND UNSOLVED

WASHPOTS, HOMINY, AND LYE SOAP

INTERPRETING SIGNS THE HARD WAY

KEEP YOUR WEEKENDS FREE—GET SICK ON MONDAY

A TEXAN’S GUIDE TO GOOD WINE

WORLD WAR TWO, WHO WON IT ANYWAY?

EXCUSE ME, I THINK I’M IN THE WRONG ERA

ANTIQUES AND OLD HOMEMADE WINE

STRIKE TWO, AND THE MAN IS OUT

WE WILL DRINK NO WINE UNTIL IT’S TIME

THE ANTS AND THE GRASSHOPPER

SHADE TREE MECHANICS, BLOWOUTS, AND FLAT TIRES

ORANGE JUICE, LARD BUCKETS, AND FARM HANDS

THE BUCK STOPS IN ARIZONA, OR NEVADA

CHRISTMAS IN THE THIRTIES

STALKING THE ELUSIVE CARRION

DIRT RUNWAYS AND TALKING TO AIRPLANES

TIMES CHANGED, FOR BETTER, OR WORSE

CHAPPED LIPS AND THE HIGH PRICE OF GASOLINE

WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN, WE CODDED IT

COOL IN COLORADO AND HOT IN TEXAS

LEARNING THINGS

IN TEXAS, IT EITHER RAINS, OR IT DOESN’T

DEAD PRESIDENTS AND BLAZING PURSES

JUMPING HIGHER, DIVING DEEPER, AND COMING UP DRYER

DRINKING NEXT TO THE HANDLE

PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS AND COUNTING OUR BLESSINGS

RUNNING THE BELT LINE AND CATCHING THE ELUSIVE SNIPE

WATCH WHAT YOU EAT, OR WATCH WHO YOU MARRY

FIRE ANTS, HORNED TOADS, AND BEER JOINTS

FLOUR SACK UNDERWEAR AND A BIG FRONT PORCH

DRINKING COFFEE WITH THE OLD GEEZER’S CLUB

DON’T BE IN A HURRY, HELL IS ONLY HALF FULL

A BOWL OF CHILI AND A HANDFUL OF CRACKERS

HANGING OUT IN WORLD WAR II

A BED AND BREAKFAST, IT WASN’T

INDIANS, ROCK FIGHTS, AND PROGRESS

IF YOU DON’T HAVE IT, GO OUT AND LOOK OR IT

JAMAICA GINGER AND LOOKING FOR SHADY REST

GET A GOOD START WITH A HAMMER

CAMP BOWIE DAYS—AND NIGHTS

COLD WIND FROM CHAPPAQUA

TELL ME WHERE SUMMER WENT

HIGH WATER PANTS AND CONCRETE COLUMNS

LEARNING STUFF, AND LOOKING FOR ROY AND DALE

MACARONI AND CHEESE AND THE BOOK I LOST FOREVER

LARRY McMURTRY AT THE DAIRY QUEEN

MEMORY PILLS, RATS, AND HARMONICAS

A NEW CROP IS HARD TO COME BY

WET DOGS, COLD COWS, AND WEATHER PREDICTING

OLD CARS, OLD MEMORIES, AND GETTING RIPPED OFF

ONE LAST RIDE WITH A FRIEND

YOUTHFUL YEARNING AND USELESS LEARNING

THE PHILADELPHIA POOPING PIG

PLODDING AROUND IN THE SEVENTIES

BULL RIDING AND POLYPOP DAYS

PORTA-POTTIES, PAY TOILETS, AND OLD COWBOY BOOTS

ROADKILL OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

THE HIGH PRICE OF SALT PORK MAY BE CHEAP

ARMADILLOS, HIGHWAYS, AND SAUSAGE

SCRATCHING OUT A LIVING, AND OUTLIVING THE SCRATCHING

EASY IS GETTING HARDER EVERY DAY

TV ADS MAY BE DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH

WILLIE DOESN’T PLAY THERE ANYMORE

A CASE OF SHINGLES, BROKEN WATER PIPES, AND A NEW PRESIDENT

LORD OF THE FLIES

ALL DAY SINGINGS AND CHOCOLATE CAKE ON THE GROUNDS

SLIDING INTO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

SLIPPING A TWIN-ENGINE PLANE IN FOR A GOOD LANDING

NO SNIVELING AROUND HERE

BE CAREFUL OF THE SEVENTIES, IF YOU REMEMBER

TEXAS CHILI

A HAIRY TIME IN THE THIRTIES

TOMCATS NEVER WOBBLE HOME

THE FOOD WASN’T MUCH BUT THE DRINKS WERE GOOD

THE END IS NOT IN SIGHT, BUT THE SIGNS ARE GOOD

GRABBING A HANDFULL OF LIFE

AGE OF ACCOUNTABILITY AND UNCLE BUD’S FARM

WHEN GOD MADE TEXAS

BOLL WEEVILS, CORN BORERS, AND MODERN TECHNOLOGY

WHISTLE BLOWING AND PUSHING FOR EDUCATION

THE BREAKFAST CLUB

CORNBREAD AND THE WINNING OF THE WEST

THE ILL WINDS OF YONDER

A LITTLE YOUNGER IS ALL WE WANT TO BE

RELIEF WAS JUST 30,000 FEET AWAY

BED AND BREAKFAST AND AN ANTIQUE HAIRCUT

THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE

BOB WILLS DAY IN TURKEY, TEXAS

MARGARITAS, MUSIC, AND TUMBLEWEEDS

BURY ME WITH MY BOOTS OFF

BRISKETS AND ROADRUNNERS

HAIR IN THE BUTTER AND SPOTS IN THE EGGS

COOKING CABBAGE, DEPRESSION STYLE

ROMAN CANDLES, BABY GIANTS, AND A FEW BANANAS

A HOUSEBOAT ON THE ARKANSAS RIVER

COUNTING OUR ONIONS IN AN OVERCROWDED WORLD

DOGS NEVER GO ON CRUISES

FOOTPRINTS ON THE SANDS OF TIME, OR WHEREVER

DELVING INTO THE PAST, BUT NOT TOO FAR

TURKEY IN THE CREEK, OR MONEY IN THE BANK

WIND THROUGH THE CRACKS, AND WIND IN THE BEANS

RUNNING OF THE TOURISTS

LOST IN THE WILDS OF FLORIDA

FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

TAKING A GOOD SWIPE AT TOILET PAPER

WHICH CAME FIRST, SHOES, OR PANTS?

GREASING THE WHEELS OF COMMERCE

ALL BALED UP IN A HAY BALER

FEED THEM, AND THEY WILL COME

THE BACK SIDE OF JOLE BLON

ONE LAST PUFF BEFORE I GO

WHEELBARROWS, LAWSUITS, AND PRESCRIPTION MEDICINE

THE SOUNDS OF A LIFETIME

THE TRUTH WILL OUT, BUT A GOOD LIE MAY BE BETTER

HIDE THE BEER

USING IT, OR LOSING IT

A LITTLE LOVE FOR LOVING COUNTY

ONE MONGOOSE TO GO

A MOUTHFUL OF BUTTERMILK

TROOP TRAIN TO SOMEWHERE

NOTHING TO FEAR BUT LIFE WITHOUT CHILI

WE MADE OUR OWN AMUSEMENT PARK RIDES

HOME IS WHERE THE HOUSE IS

LOOKING OUT FOR THE DUKE

OLD TIMES AND OLD ACTORS ARE

NEVER FORGOTTEN

OUTLAWS, THEN, AND NOW

DROPPING A PICK, AND PICKING UP A ROCK

DON’T RECALL MY PICKUP, RECALL ME

HOW THANKSGIVING GOT ITS NAME

CHASING A DREAM AND BEING CHASED

A RUB BOARD STOMACH AND KICKING SAND

PROGRESS STILL HAS A WAY TO GO

DON’T BUY IT IN TOWN, IF YOU HAVE IT AT HOME

THE DOCTOR IS IN BUT THE COMPUTER IS OUT

WEST TEXAS AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

OF MICE, MEN, AND RABBITS

WE LEFT OUR YOUTH ON THE CORNER OF CENTER AND BAKER

TWO LONGS AND A SHORT, OR TWO SHORTS AND A LONG

THE PRIME OF LIFE, MAYBE

MY WAR AND GENERAL SHERMAN’S WAR

WATCH THAT DRIVER, HE MAY BE SOMEBODY’S FATHER

REMEMBERING A BEAUTIFUL LADY

THE HOUND DOG MAN WHO SMELLED GOOD

SNIFFING OUT A GOOD STORY

THE BEST OF BEANS, AND THE WORST OF BEANS

THE GREATEST GENERATION? NOT MUCH DOUBT

IF A STRANGE VOICE ANSWERS MY PHONE, THAT’S ME

SOMEBODY SHOULD BE WATCHING THE STORE

THE TIE THAT BINDS

TURNING OVER A FEW ROCKS

AVOIDING A TURNIP WAR IN 2001

TURTLES ON FENCE POSTS AND LOGIC

SHUFFLING OFF TO TUSCANY IN A FLAT-HEAD SIX

WINNING TWO BATTLES AND LOSING THE THIRD

A BICYCLE AND AN ICE CREAM CONE

STICKS AND STONES, AND BEING A WRITER

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harry Marlin met everything including life head on. He spent his childhood in tiny depression-ridden Blanket, Texas, and matured during 50 combat missions over Germany. His thinking and personality were forever colored by both experiences. Opinionated, blunt and uncompromisingly candid, he was talented beyond belief. He was a Steel guitar musician, photographer, Police Officer, Columnist and Book Author. Harry could be humorous, hauntingly profound and compassionate, all in the one paragraph. He was one of a kind and we can all be thankful for that.

Referenced as the Will Rogers of Central Texas, Harry Marlin wrote a weekly column for the Brownwood Bulletin over a period of 11 years. This book is a compilation of his best stories which take a humorous look back at growing up and facing life’s challenges through every generation.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to the nice folks at the Brownwood Bulletin for printing my columns since 1997.

To Laura and Jimmy, my two oldest offspring who laugh at my columns and to Ken, my youngest who happens to be a computer engineer who built my computers and cures them when they get sick.

To my faithful readers who read my columns and buy my books while overlooking my frequent, outright murder of the English language. As my friend Charles Stewart said, I try to Put the fodder where the calf can get it.

To Bernell and Carla who always help me when I need help as I often do.

With age comes knowledge somebody once said. If I’m allowed to stick around a little longer, I may find out what in hell I’m doing.

Anyway, I’m still wondering whatever happened to Randolph Scott.

To all the good old boys and the good old girls I met along the way, and to the good people of Blanket, Texas, who during my formative years during the Depression, taught me honesty and integrity, and to my parents, Jesse and Myrtle Marlin who taught me love and compassion and that no mountain was too high to climb, or no river too deep to cross.

To my teachers in the Blanket School System, who did the best they could with what they had.

To the Good Lord, who lacking enough talent to go around, gave me what he could.

To the staff at the Brownwood Bulletin who printed my columns and to the late Shelton Prince who hired me. To columnist Mary Ficklen, my most severe critic who helped me over the humps.

To the great Texas writers who influenced me to take up writing years before I started. Writers Larry L. King, formerly of Putnam and Scranton, Texas, and now of Washington D.C., Bud Shrake of Austin, Texas, John Graves of Glenrose, Texas, Elmer Kelton of San Angelo, Texas, and Larry McMurtry of Archer City, Texas.

My thanks to Charles Chupp of the Messenger magazine at DeLeon, Texas, and Bud Lindsey of The Old Sorehead Gazette at Stanton, Texas, both of whom printed my stuff when probably nobody else would. To Dr, Charles A. Stewart of Taos, New Mexico, who helped me keep the faith.

TRUTH

Truth is what people believe, or want to believe.

Like cheap underwear, it can be stretched considerably.

Everybody knows that if you wear a size 36, buy a size 34,

Or, they’ll be falling down in a week.

I always try to tell the truth, but on occasions,

I may be telling somebody else’s truth,

Which may, or may not be the truth.

The stories and events covered in this book

Are true to the best of my knowledge,

But, remember about that cheap underwear

Harry Marlin, 1997.

This is not a serious book. People are mostly too serious about things anyway.

There are two things that will cure most of our ailments— sunshine and laughter. The more we laugh, the better we feel. People falling on their butts, or breaking wind in church is always good for a laugh. We never do either intentionally. Maybe that’s what makes it funny.

I once heard a story about an elderly woman on her way to mass. She was running late, and about a block from the church, she missed a step getting on the sidewalk, and down she went.

She was attempting to get up just as a small boy happened by. Worrying about being late, she asked, Is mass out son?

No, he replied, but your stockings are tore and your hat’s on crooked.

Harry’s first published article as a contributing writer for the Brownwood Bulletin—printed Friday, January 3rd, 1997. It started an 11 year run for the newspaper and provided a weekly opportunity for Harry to share his humor on life.

NOTHING COMMON ABOUT THE COMMON COLD

After recently doing my civic duty which involved being cooped up with some more good citizens in a little room with poor ventilation, I caught a cold. I hardly ever have a cold. Not being familiar as to what to do about it, and hoping to save Medicare several hundred dollars, I elected to buy the popular over the counter cold remedies.

I was not aware that currently, there are several thousand such remedies on the market, all of which cost more than having the freeze plugs replaced in an F-16 fighter plane. Since I seemed to have had a rather severe case, I bought two kinds.

The first mistake I made was reading the fine print, with my trusty magnifying glass, of course. The first one said in bold letters, Alcohol Warning. If you consume more than three alcoholic drinks per day, do not take this medication without first consulting your doctor. Where, I wondered, would I find a doctor who would be a party to such shenanigans?

I marked that one off my list and carefully examined the other. I was confronted with even worse instructions. It said, in part, If you have a persistent cough, such as caused by smoking, emphysema, bronchitis, or if you have a thyroid condition, diabetes, high blood pressure, or difficulty in urination due to an enlarged prostate, do not take this medication without first consulting a physician.

I haven’t the faintest idea about most of this stuff, not having been checked for it lately, but any male over 60 who has not been living under a rock for the last 30 years knows that it is now considered normal to have an enlarged prostate, if one is present at all. The prostate gland, along with the duodenum, is two of nature’s biggest mistakes. Both problems, according to some scientists, are caused by walking upright, instead of on our all-fours, as nature intended. Strictly a matter of opinion. I’ll continue to walk upright and suffer the consequences. One pair of shoes is all I can afford.

Of course, I had a cough, along with a runny nose and chest congestion, none of which, as far as I know, were caused by the long list of ailments listed on the packages I so foolishly purchased. I had a cold. A plain run of the mill cold.

Considering the current prices of those over the counter remedies, and considering the statistics on the number of people who come down with colds every year, I would assume that in the event the common cold virus was someway conquered by medical science, the entire economy would suffer a total collapse within a week. Wall Street would look like Main Street in Boquillas, Mexico.

At least, we’d all feel a lot better and Medicare wouldn’t go broke, and I could have all of those ailments listed on those cartons, and even take three drinks a day, if I wanted to, without consulting my doctor.

MAMA KNEW LITTLE, BUT SHE KNEW IT ALL

When I was growing up, back during the Depression, what mama told us was accepted as fact. After all, mama had been around a lot longer than we had, being born before the Wright brothers flew their plane, and as far as we knew, before Benjamin Franklin flew that kite and discovered electricity

Actually, we never thought about it, one way, or the other. She was there when we arrived, and as fate would have it, we were there on the sad day when she left us. During our time with mama, we believed what she told us. If she said a cyclone was imminent which would blow us all to kingdom come, we headed for the cellar.

There were no tornadoes back in those days—only cyclones, according to mama. She often told us stories about the bad cyclone that had practically wiped out the small town of Zephyr, blowing roosters into jugs and wheat straws into telephone poles. We had absolutely no doubts about it.

If mama told us that cornbread and turnip greens was what the rich folks ate every night of the week in Chicago and New York, we believed it. After all, on most nights, that’s all we had for supper on that little farm Northwest of Blanket. It did, in a way, make us feel a little better about it. Maybe because we had no inkling of where Chicago and New York was. We weren’t even sure where Zephyr was.

Mama had never known the good things in life, having been born in the wrong era. It never seemed to bother her much. Happiness to her was an inner feeling that seemed to radiate to those around her, and like mumps, or chickenpox, we all caught some of it.

Mama had never been anywhere outside Brown County, or Hamilton County, where her folks had migrated from. She always expressed a desire to see the ocean before she died. In her later years, my brother and I, along with our wives and kids, loaded mama up in the car and took her to Corpus Christi to see the ocean. Any large body of water bigger than Lake Brownwood, to her, had to be the ocean. The Gulf of Mexico was a good a substitute as any.

She was ecstatic about the deal. As night approached, we started looking for a Tourist Court, as they were called then, to spend the night. In those days, the tourist court business was bad and the owners stood out by the road to entice the few tourists to stay in their place of business.

A man approached our car and mama rolled the window down and inquired, How much are your cabins? Well, He said, I’m gettin’ eight dollars a day. Mama gave the man a good country stare and said, Son, the day is gone. What we need is a place to spend the night. The puzzled man showed us to a cabin where we could spend the night. The man didn’t know mama—but we did.

MEMORIES ON A DIRT ROAD

There were some good times and some bad times back in the thirties when I was growing up. I remember a lot of both. I remember a place and a time, so far in the past that both should have, long ago, been erased from my memory. On occasions, when I drive down a dirt country road Northwest of Blanket, the time and the place flood my memory and brings a sadness that I can’t explain, maybe because I want to go back, but cannot go back, and should not go back.

I remember walking down that dirt road at the age of six years, with my striped overalls on, maybe on my way to Blanket, or to visit my sister who lived in an old unpainted, lead-colored house. The old house was aged, as she was, both by the weather and the hard times of the Depression, at a time when both houses and people sometimes fell apart.

I would stop at a small creek, bordered on both sides of the road by tall willows and cottonwood trees. I would throw rocks in the stream, and maybe try to catch a frog. I was in no hurry. Youth, as I knew it, was everlasting.

When tired of my diversions, I would continue my journey down this dirt road, which to me seemed as endless as my youth, until I passed the Frank Lappe Place. Frank was a farmer who owned a Model T. Ford that was as black and shiny as the day he bought it. He never drove the Ford when it was raining, or when the roads were muddy, and it was only used to go to Blanket on Saturday, or to church on Sunday.

Frank and his wife have been gone for many years now and the house in which they raised their family was torn down long ago. The only remaining reminder that this was once a prosperous farm is the old windmill, standing lonely and in total defeat over the well that once furnished water to sustain a generation who fought the Great Depression, and won, only by dying.

This dirt road has changed little since that March day in 1930 when my uncle John hauled my brother Earl’s homemade coffin on the back of his flatbed truck to the Rock Church cemetery, where he remains forever fourteen years old.

It was on this same country road, ages ago, that I rode in the back of our wagon, on our way to Blanket, for a Saturday in town, to see the only half-way marvels of civilization that we knew.

Mama would shop, with the little money she had, and dad would bolster his spirits with a chew of Brown Mule, talk to the other farmers, and maybe see the banker about a new crop loan, or about renewing the one he already had, normally long past due.

There are some good memories on this road, along with some sad ones. It was on this road that my family went to Rock Church each Christmas for the annual community Christmas, tree, a high point in the lives of those of us who were born during the worst period of our country’s history when everybody was poor in resources but rich in spirit.

We had some hard times on those farms back then, but others had worse times. The road they traveled sometimes led nowhere, but our dirt road led to home, and to a loving family. Together, we fought a good fight, and in the long run, we won.

A BAD LANDING IN NAPLES 1945

The last time I flew on a B-17 bomber was sometime in April of 1945. I had finished my required 50 missions and was packed up and ready to leave Italy and go to that magic place called home, some 4000 miles away.

Along with about 15 other veterans, all, to borrow an old expression, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, were loaded into an old B-17 for the 90 mile flight to Naples where we would catch a boat to Boston, and then home.

The first thing we noticed was that our two hot-rock pilots who were flying the plane both had what we called a fifty mission crush in their caps. We all knew then we might be in trouble.

We made an unusually low approach to the Naples airport, barely missing some buildings. Then, our pilot put the plane into a steep bank and side-slipped it in, landing about half-way down the runway.

The first thing any good pilot learns is that the runway behind the plane is no longer usable. He did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He put his full strength on the brakes causing a tire to blow, and the B-17 to start making short circles on the grass by the runway at about a hundred miles an hour. The German Air Force would have been proud of him. He almost killed us and they couldn’t.

It took some restraint on our part to walk away without first impaling the pilot on the propeller of the number four engine, or any of the other three. There is and old saying that any landing you can walk away from is a good landing. Forget old sayings. That was a bad one.

We were then transported to a replacement depot operated by the infantry to await our trip home. The reception we got was about as bad as the landing. The infantry hated the Air Corp. They claimed we slept in warm beds every night, ate gourmet food and were entertained by dancing girls between missions.

We were immediately put on guard duty or KP even though our rank should have exempted us. They showed no mercy. I was given a rifle and a specified area I was to guard. Just what I was guarding, I was not sure about.

Shortly after reaching my post, the officer of the day, an infantry major came by. According to military protocol, I was to present arms when he approached. I had no idea how. Being friendly, I said, How’re you doing? All he said was Damned Air Corp and stomped off.

I was placed in a tent with a black fellow. This was long before the military desegregated. I was not bothered and we quickly became friends. I had never in my entire life mastered tying a tie. He taught me how in about two minutes. I have never forgotten when, and how I learned, or who taught me.

Finally, we were put on a floating crap game called the USS Mariposa and after going through the Straits of Gibraltar, we sailed to Boston and from there to Texas, our Promised Land. As we passed the Rock of Gibraltar, I remembered hearing that it was occupied by the British, a colony of large apes and the Prudential insurance company.

I didn’t see any of those things.

MISSING A BIG NIGHT OUT AND A FREE GOURMET DINNER

Just last week, I received an invitation in the mail to attend a complimentary gourmet dinner at Anton’s Restaurant, established in 1960. Of course, along with the complimentary gourmet dinner, I was to listen to a lecture by a fellow who was going to make me independently wealthy. I guess he was paying for the gourmet dinner.

It sounded interesting to me, considering the fact that a big night out for me is when I get to wear my shoes to a Dairy Queen.

I wondered how my name and address was obtained. Had someone stolen my identity? Stealing my identity would be comparable to burglarizing a trailer house in Study Butte, Texas.

There was one hurdle I would someway have to overcome to attend this big event. Anton’s Restaurant is located at 1628 Battleground Avenue in Greensboro, North Carolina. Are they reading my columns in Greensboro?

I figured that by the time I bought gas for my pickup and even with bedding down in Motel 3, it would cost me five or six hundred dollars to attend. If I stayed in Motel 6, it would cost even more. By the time I got there, any money I had to invest would be gone.

I was asked to be sure to call within 24 hours as seating was going fast. The literature did look good though with those senior citizens eating big steaks and drinking fine wine. I was really sorry I couldn’t make it.

I must have missed out on a lot of gourmet meals in my lifetime and didn’t have to drive 900 miles to do it. When I was a kid, we never ate out at all. In fact, we didn’t have a gourmet dinner when we ate in, which was all the time.

There was one small restaurant in Blanket and it specialized in chili and stew at fifteen cents a bowl. A steak could be had for around a dollar. Even at those prices, it was beyond our financial means. We were all on the famous Hoover diet, beans and cornbread for dinner and swell up for supper.

By the time I was a teen-ager, there was a café down on highway 67 where a good hamburger could be had for a quarter. I had a paper route then and I could afford it. They also had a juke box and a small dance floor. A pretty girl from Oklahoma taught me how to dance to the music of the Ink Spot’s Java Jive and Bob Will’s San Antonio Rose.

I’ll always have a warm spot in my heart for the Ink Spots and Bob Wills, sort of like a hot bowl of cornmeal mush on a cold morning.

I guess, like we say in Texas, the Ink Spots, along with Bob Wills, have passed away. I still wonder what happened to her. Maybe she too was invited to the gourmet meal in North Carolina and I missed it.

Anyway, like Sam Goldwin, a famous Hollywood movie mogul who was also famous for his anomalies said, We have passed a lot of water since then.

With a little luck, we’ll all pass some more.

SPEAK SOFTLY BUT CARRY A BIG STICK

It seems that nearly every county in Texas has one of those state operated prisons. Some are run by private companies. Most stay filled to capacity. The purpose of these prisons is to relieve the overcrowding in the State Penitentiaries and county jails.

Being somewhat older than rope, I remember when county jails served the purpose of keeping crime down. Most were rather old structures and not built for comfort. They had none of the amenities found in county jails today. There was no TV, no weight rooms and no law libraries.

Also, most of the time, they had few occupants. Nobody wanted to be there.

I knew a fellow here who was either bad about drinking or good about bad drinking. Anyway, he was arrested for DWI and placed in the old Brown County jail. He told me about the only two other occupants he described as just plain mean.

I didn’t sleep a wink at night, afraid they would kill me. I don’t know what they were in for, or how long but they seemed to have been there long enough to have tenure as they practically ran the place.

One of them weighed about 300 pounds and carried a big club which appeared to have been made from an axhandle. He threatened me with it the whole time I was in there. He said.

The fellow told me that when he finally got out, he totally and absolutely quit drinking.

The last time I saw him, about 15 years ago, he was still sober as a judge.

Comfort, as our modern jails prove, doesn’t stop crime. Neither does TV and weight lifting. Neither does lengthy confinement. Most prisoners when released go back to their old ways, using new techniques they learned while being confined, or possibly while watching TV. Felony Convictions don’t help on job interviews.

Back in the thirties, the State Penitentiaries were a lot tougher than they are today. Larry L. King wrote about a letter his Dad received from an uncle who was confined in one. The uncle wrote, Dear Clyde, I wisht you’d try to get me out as I’m not-a-tall satisfied down here.

I don’t think anybody else was then. Nobody wanted a confinement in what they called Uncle Bud’s Farm. They worked long hours doing farm labor and picking cotton. No TV, no weight rooms or law libraries.

I heard a story one time about a prisoner who failed to pick his daily quota of cotton and received a dose of a blacksnake whip. After about the fifth whipping, he told the guard, I’ll tell you one thing. If that cotton is out there tomorrow, I’ll get it.

That big club the fellow had in the Brown County jail seemed to work well too but due to various do-gooder organizations we have today, it wouldn’t be permitted. I assume that nobody has ever burglarized their offices or shot one of their employees.

Crime today is more prevalent than it ever was. I still remember when the Brown County sheriff had only two deputies. The county had one constable, one Justice of the Peace and one prosecuting attorney. No more were needed.

Most of the crime can be blamed on drugs and the people who use them. It seems to be a never ending battle to get rid of it. As long as there is a market for it, somebody will sell it.

Teddy Roosevelt said, Speak softly and carry a big stick. It might work.

LIVING IN A HOUSE AT THE END OF THE LANE

When I was a kid growing up, or trying to, in the middle of what was called The Great Depression, we always lived in a remote area at the end of a lane. The lane was usually a rough wagon road and not well suited for cars. Not many people owned cars anyway and we seldom saw one.

Sometimes the Raleigh man would make it, trying to sell his wares. About once a year, the banker from Blanket drove his old 1928 Chevy out to check on his crops and livestock, all mortgaged to the bank. He was always interested in any new calves we had on the place as the mortgage always included cows and increase.

If the mortgage was not paid, or renewed at the end of the year, the bank owned everything but us. Of course, Dad always managed to either pay or renew the mortgage but there were times when I wondered how.

I also wondered why we couldn’t live on a road at some time in our lives where we could see somebody now and then.

It got awful lonesome living at the end of that lane. Sometimes late in the evening we might hear the distant sound of a car passing on the county road at the other end of the lane. I would run out and look down the lane but hardly anybody ever came.

About once a year, usually in the fall, Mama’s brother and his brood would show up and stay a week or so. He had an old Dodge flatbed truck equipped with sideboards on which they hauled all the kids and mattresses to sleep on. They lived at a place called Quitaque, somewhere on the plains. One of his kids told me the place was named by the Indians and meant Buffalo Chips.

His boys told me a lot of things I didn’t need to know and tried to teach me things I shouldn’t know. There were two or three boys in the bunch who dipped snuff and could spit in a horned toad’s eyes from 20 feet.

I’m sure all of the horned toads on our place left when they heard the truck coming.

Our old Mule, Pete, could open any gate on the place and he left too, shortly after the horned toads. Dad usually took his hounds and left with Old Pete and the horned toads. He was never fond of Mama’s kinfolks.

Since they lived on the plains, the kids were not familiar with trees and they climbed every tree on the place, leaving a trail of broken limbs in their wake.

I knew a fellow several years ago who built mobile homes which were sold all over Texas. They were delivered using a special short-bed truck which pulled the trailers. He had a hard time keeping drivers and he had one driver who as they say here in Texas drank a lot.

One day, he told me, he got a phone call from a sheriff somewhere up on the plains. We’ve got your driver in jail up here. What did he do this time? The fellow asked. Well, The sheriff said, Besides being drunker than Cooter Brown, he drove his truck, trailer house and all into the only damn tree in the county.

Finally, when the gravy started getting thin and the biscuits getting flatter, they loaded up the old Dodge truck and either went back to the plains or on down the road to visit more kinfolks. Old Pete came home, the horned toads returned and the trees put on new limbs.

It was still lonesome living at the end of that lane.

GOOD BOOKS, GOOD WRITERS AND ESCAPE FROM A COTTON PATCH

Whitney Peeling, publicity director for Public Affairs Publishing Company in New York recently informed me that Larry L. King’s new book, In Search of Willie Morris, was released on March 1. Better yet, being informed by Larry King that I wrote a column, he sent me a copy of the book.

I am somewhat familiar with the writing of Willie Morris, having read North Toward Home some thirty years ago. He was the editor of Harper’s magazine at age 32, taking it from near bankruptcy to be the top magazine in the country.

Like other writers of that period, he had some problems. Often talent and various excesses go hand in hand, getting him fired from Harper’s. Larry King, in the book, covers it thoroughly, warts and all. Larry, having worked with him on Harper’s and being a long-time friend, knew him probably better than anybody.

I have known Larry for several years, thanks to my friend Bud Lindsey of Midland who introduced us. We both of us grew up in similar circumstances during what folks called hard times. He grew up on a farm near Putnam, Texas and I grew up on a farm near Blanket. Willie Morris, in Yazoo City, Mississippi, was not far behind us.

At an early age, we all had seen the elephant and heard the owl. Willie and Larry both achieved literary fame and I escaped from a cotton patch but never got far away from one.

In Search of Willie Morris is a good book, written about a good writer by another good writer. To use an old Texas expression, Larry puts the fodder where the calf can get it. In Texas, we don’t settle for less.

I have been reading everything I could get my hands on since I first learned to read. I read every book in the Blanket school library by the time I was twelve. They gave me gold stars until they ran out.

When I was a kid, we lived in various old farm houses, always looking for a better place. The old houses were built as cheap as they could be, using one by twelve boards with cracks in between. No double walls back then.

To keep out the cold northers, Mama, lacking the money to buy wall paper, used old newspapers. I read them all, over and over. When we had guests for dinner, which was rare, conversation was at a standstill while everybody read the walls.

She tried to change papers about every three months so we wouldn’t get behind on world affairs if there were any back then. The best I remember, nobody was protesting anything and we had more oil than we needed.

I am sure that my reading over the years furthered my education, helping me to obtain a good job and put the cotton patches behind and live in a house that was not papered with newspapers.

I know that there are a few cotton patches where I spent my childhood still out there. Sometime back, I was returning from Midland and somewhere near Sweetwater, I observed prisoners in white coveralls from a State Jail Facility in a field picking cotton.

I don’t know what they were serving time for but whatever it was, their punishment probably fit the crime.

I know because I’ve been there.

THE BARBECUE SMOKES BUT THE CUSTOMERS CAN’T

I barbecued a brisket for Memorial Day. This is sort of a Texas tradition. You have to do this on Memorial Day and the 4th of July, or move to Vermont. I think, also, the barbecuer is either supposed to drink a lot of beer, or pour it on the meat, or both. I don’t do either, but I have no objections to anybody else doing it.

I don’t claim to be an expert in the field of barbecuing. I do, however, have a friend who is. He writes a column on the internet on the finer points messing up good meat, which all of us novices usually do. He recommends various rubs and mops and what kind of wood to burn to get the proper smoke.

I pay little attention to him. I just throw on some mesquite, or oak, or pecan, or whatever I have the most of. I had a neighbor once who used elm. The reason he did this was because I had an old dead elm in my back yard and I wouldn’t give him any of my mesquite. Being born sometime after WWII, he was not well versed in much of anything.

He was not aware of what we called elm back when I was a kid. Everybody in Brown county called it piss elem. Nobody back then ever dared to even put elm on a campfire. It smelled like a number of people had just peed on the fire with a full bladder. I’m sure it still does.

Actually, my philosophy on barbecuing is that when it’s brown, it’s cooking, and when it’s black, it’s done. As long as I can eat it and it tastes good, there’s no use making a big deal out of it. Food, after all, is not to be fawned over, or written about, or discussed at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. The whole purpose of it is to eat. Nothing else.

A couple of years ago, a bunch of newspaper writers boarded a bus to pick the best barbecue in Texas. They, as a general rule, didn’t know a brisket from a Big Mac. I was once passing through the town where the place they picked as the best was located. I decided to try it.

First of all, they wouldn’t let me smoke in the place even though the smoke was thicker than it was at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. I was required to go outside to smoke, even though the highway adjoining the place was nearly blocked by smoke. I’m a law abiding citizen who helped win WWII and I figure I can smoke where I want to. I can even eat where I want to. I won’t eat there again. Their brisket was no better than what I cook in my own backyard, and I can smoke there. Or fart, or do anything else.

The whole bunch of reporters failed to recognize the best barbecue in Texas, located at Lockhart. I would give the name of the place, but I can’t spell it. Those folks who have been in business since the late 1800s know barbecue. Their barbecue will make a freight train take a dirt road, and if one has an urge to smoke there, one can.

Now, I never smoke when I’m eating, but I don’t want anybody telling me, a paying customer, that I can’t if I want to. That’s an outright violation of my First Amendment rights, and maybe two or three more. Besides that, it irks the hell out of me.

Considering all the rubs and mops being used these days, I asked the folks at Lockhart what they used on their meat. Nothing but salt and pepper, They said. I’ll go for that.

Just don’t go to Lockhart on Sunday expecting to eat. On Sunday, they are closed.

TAKE YOUR MEDS BUT DON’T DRINK THE WATER

According to a news article I read by the Associated Press, we are taking too many pills. In fact, in a test of water supplies for 62 major metropolitan cities, 24 showed a level of drugs including antibiotics, hormones and mood stabilizers. They report only minuscule amounts were found. A minuscule here and a minuscule" there and before you know it, you have a good dose of something you didn’t take, or need.

The drugs get in the water supply of various cities through the sewage treatment plants which dump the water in rivers and lakes where the cities get their water. People’s bodies don’t absorb all the medication they take which is flushed down the toilet. This is known as toilet water. Water treatment plants do not remove the drugs from the toilet water.

Since I don’t drink water, I’m only getting the drugs I take. I can’t stand the taste of water. The only water I can remember that I liked was from an old vinegar jug wrapped in wet burlap and left under a tree at the end of a row in the cotton patch where I labored when I was a kid.

Like everybody else over the age of 70 and who regularly see a doctor, I take drugs too. I take a blood thinner 7 days a week. For whatever reason I don’t know, my blood is thicker on Mondays and Wednesdays and I take a whole pill. The rest of the week, it gets thinner and I take a half pill. None of the pills go in my water that I know of.

Judging from the number of ads I see on TV for drugs, there must be thousands on the market. One of several drugs which are advertised several times a night is apparently used for snake bites as they frequently mention getting reptile dysfunction. At least, that’s what it sounds like to me but my hearing is slightly impaired. Whatever it is, I don’t want it.

Another drug frequently advertised for lowering cholesterol is something called Lipitor. ABC News recently reported that a number of patients taking Lipitor and related drugs reported memory loss. Now the ad agencies can say, Ask your doctor if you’re taking Lipitor.

When I was a kid, back in the dark ages, we had to get by without pills with the exception of one called Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Finally, the FDA made the drug company change the name to Carter’s Pills as they had no effect on anybody’s liver and an investigation revealed that nearly everybody had big livers anyhow.

There was no way that Carter’s pills could get in our water which came from windmills on 200 foot deep wells. Anyhow, there wasn’t a thing on the place that would flush.

Since the amount of drugs going into drinking water is not under any control, medical experts are worried that the amount of antibiotics and other stuff may lead to overexposure and an inability to fight infection or the ability to cure snakebites. That worries me. A man never knows when he might get a snake bite.

Wildlife too may be affected, get hooked and start breaking into drug stores at night. Already, it has been reported that male fish are taking on female characteristics, causing reproductive problems due to the hormones in the water. Wait until you see an alligator on steroids.

I really don’t know what we can do about this situation and I have plenty of other things to worry about.

Like reptile dysfunction.

A LITTLE SOMETHING ABOUT FIGHTING A WAR

Back in 1944 and 1945, I was flying missions as a ball turret gunner on a B-17 bomber along with a bunch other good old boys in the 414th squadron of the 15th Air Force. At around three in the morning, a rather unpopular fellow rousted us out of our cots to go somewhere and drop a lot of bombs on the Germans.

After a breakfast of powdered eggs and whatever—mostly whatever, we were loaded into trucks and taken to briefing. At the briefing, held in a large cold building, a major, standing in front of a map of Europe, using a long string, told us where we were going and what to expect. The string was stretched from where we were, near Foggia, Italy, to our destination somewhere in Germany or the Balkan countries.

The longer the string, the more apprehensive we became. Our B-17s held 2880 gallons of gasoline. Sometimes, depending on the distance, our gasoline was stretched pretty thin. The major who did the briefing didn’t worry about it. Following the briefing, he was going back to the sack.

Then, we were transported out to the airfield where our planes, fully loaded with bombs awaited us. Somewhere, the Germans were also waiting. We stood around the planes waiting for the signal to go, which depended on the weather over the target. A green flare meant the weather was fine and we were going. A red flare meant that for one more day, we were safe from harm.

The stress of waiting always brought on an urge to pee. In every direction, somebody could be observed wetting down the Italian countryside. It was always a good idea to pee all one could. Once we reached our bombing altitude, there was really no place to pee. The relief tubes which the Boeing Company thoughtfully provided became useless in the 65 below zero temperature.

In my ball turret, hanging out below the plane, with my feet usually higher than my head, and wearing long underwear, a heated suit and a heavy flying suit, peeing was out of the question anyway. As far as I know, the two waist gunners above me just broke it off and threw it out the open windows.

They possibly may have injured numerous people on the ground with pee icicles. They didn’t worry any more about that than the major did back at our base. The Germans meant to kill us all anyway and it was our intention to do them some harm too.