Finding Von Dreizenberg

By M. Ellis Herschel

An intriguing novel exposing sacred and profane aspects of small town life on the Texas plains of the 1960s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HEM BOOKS
• Release date: Nov 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393098577

Book preview

Finding Von Dreizenberg

M. Ellis Herschel

Published by HEM BOOKS, 2020.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

FINDING VON DREIZENBERG

First edition. November 26, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 M. Ellis Herschel.

Written by M. Ellis Herschel.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Finding Von Dreizenberg

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About the Publisher

To George Eliot

I

If you would look down from heaven, O God, on that highway walked every morning by one man, ragged in apparel, bearing, and brain, you would surely in mercy perceive his treading and see his battered house behind him, hanging, as it were, like the head of Christ where two roads cross. And you would move within and without, O Creator, to make something new.

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II

Will Vonn left his slightly faded Austin-Healy Sprite at the curb and walked into the drug store, his straw hair blowing where it wished.  As far as the people in the little Panhandle town of Sinclair, Texas were concerned, the diminutive boy, in his sport shirt, pleated pants, loafers, and sun glasses could as easily have come from Paris or the moon as from Houston.

Do you know where the Dreizenberg ranch is? he asked the girl at the counter when she brought his cherry coke.

What kind of burg? asked Joyce with a wrinkled nose.

Dreizenberg.

I never heard that name before.  An’ there’s mostly farms right around here. There’s the Clearwater Cattle Company up by Texhoma. And there’s some folks over by Avon that raise registered Herefords. And a’course there’s all those south of Dunsan. Curious, she asked, Are you lookin’ for that Dry - whatever guy?

Not exactly. He’s probably dead. He was my grandfather.

He’s your grandpa, and you don’t even know if he’s dead or alive?

Nope. I never knew him. He was supposed to’ve had a ranch up here, but I guess nobody knows anything about it.

Wow. That’s cool. Maybe Doc knows, but he’s not here. Then she added with a knowing grin, You’re the new guy at school, aren’t you?

He confessed.

What’s your classification?

Junior.

You sure don’t look like it. You look more like a freshman. Getting no response, Joyce went on. I graduated this year, but I heard we had a new student comin’. Must be a bummer, moving to a new place halfway through high school. Did your dad get a job out at the plant or something?

No. My dad died last year. I just came up here to live with some friends of his.

Oh, gah!  I’m sorry. About your dad. After what she judged an appropriate pause, she continued, I didn’t think you came from around here, though. Where are you from?

Houston.

Houston! Gah!  It’s hot down there, idn’ it?

Yeah. Most of the time.

"I mean, it’s hot here, too, but it’s dry. Down there it’s hot and humid, she pronounced authoritatively.  Is that a bleeding Madras?" referring to his faded plaid shirt.

Yeah. You been to Houston?

"Heyull, no! she said, exaggerating her Texas twang. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that town. Hot and humid!  And the traffic’s terrible!"

Yeah. I guess it is. But here it’s the wind, said Will.

That’s why everybody wears short hair, Joyce explained, glancing critically at the boy’s tousled mop. The wind can’t mess up a flat top.

You’re not wearing a flat top, Will grinned.

I’m a girl. Joyce grimaced and rolled her eyes. She moved to the other end of the counter to wash Coke glasses, and the conversation was dropped until Will stood at the cash register.

D’you think they’re really gonna build a building down there big enough to play football in? Joyce asked with obvious doubt.

I thought it was for baseball.

It is, but it’s for football, too. Gah! You don’t know much about Houston for somebody who lives there.

Go figure.

What?

I don’t know.

They’ll have to make a rule against puntin’ or they’ll be breakin’ lights and everything, the former cheerleader said with amazement at the stupidity of such a project.

You got me, said Will, trying to shrug off ages of contention between rural and urban Texas.

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III

On a hot August evening, exactly eleven months after Will Vonn walked into Sinclair Drug, a wall of clouds gathered on the western horizon, dimming the atmosphere of the northern Panhandle. About a dozen men, most leading dogs on leashes, gathered in a pasture outside of Prairieview, Texas, about thirty miles northeast of Sinclair. The youngest in the group was Phain Leon, but at six three and dressed neatly in a white T-shirt, starched jeans, and cowboy boots, he was not one to be intimidated by the shabby lot