Steak and Baloney: The Time Traveler

By Kenzel May

Reaching back from the twenty-first century to a much simpler time, when family was king, Ray Jones travels the dusty roads of Arkansas in 1856. Encountering a number of challenges, as well as a fierce wolf-dog and bear, he wonders how long he will survive and if he will ever return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546216438

Kenzel May

Kenzel May was born in 1946, the son of a cotton farmer and a school teacher. He was raised in the Texas Panhandle town of Sudan. Working on his fathers farm, he gained a great respect and love for the land and the people who farm it. Kenzel graduated from Texas Tech University with a degree in electrical engineering, and then he worked for the electric company for twenty-three years and served the oil industry with his own engineering company for thirteen years. He currently serves as volunteer county jail chaplain and oversees the operation of several cotton farms. He dedicates this book to his grandchildren, with the hope that they will gain love and respect for their ancestors.

Book preview

Steak and Baloney

Growing up in West Texas, I developed a love for steak, especially Angus ribeye steak. But steak is expensive, so I often eat bologna, which I call baloney. With cheap white bread and mayonnaise, baloney is nearly as good as ribeye steak, especially when you are hungry. I am fixing to tell you a story that has some steak in it—and a lot of baloney. It will be up to you, the reader, to determine what is steak and what is baloney.

I want to share with you my family history, as well as some American history. I have always loved to tell stories, but I hate for them to be boring. So, occasionally I have felt obligated to spice up the story. I believe, if you work hard, you will be able to separate the true history from my overactive imagination. Good luck!

Special Thanks To

Bob Campbell, a journalist with the Odessa American newspaper in Odessa, Texas, suffered through my first draft making many corrections and suggestions along with some wording changes.

Sandra Archer, a Lawyer in Austin, Texas, and the wife of my cousin, Richard Archer, proofread my final version just prior to going to print. Her suggestions and corrects were invaluable.

Barry Wilson, a friend of mine since grade school, found several of my stupid mistakes.

Mike Smith, an author and friend since we were 4 years old, proofread the final version catching several errors and making some important suggestions.

Anita, my wife, suffered through a year of my writing and actually laughed at some of my humor.

Chapter 1

A TRIP TO THE PAST

As I stepped into the big machine, the door closed behind me; I sat in the one chair provided. A multitude of small red lights on the control panel began to flash, followed by a loud whirring sound. After about ten minutes, everything began to get dim, and soon it was totally dark. After another ten minutes, I began to see trees and sunlight. The big machine was gone. I was sitting in long grass under a large oak tree. A robin was singing in the top of the oak tree, and I could see white, puffy clouds in a brilliant blue sky. It was a pretty day. A red-tailed hawk was floating gently on the breeze.

I could hardly believe the machine had done its job. I knew I was on the edge of a large woods near a small dirt road. Could it be I was six miles northeast of Coal Hill, Arkansas, on the Old Wire Road? Moving around behind the tree, I hid myself from the road. If it was a new world, I wasn’t quite ready to enter it. The morning breeze was cool but very humid. I was certainly not in Los Alamos, New Mexico, or in Midland, Texas. If everything had worked as it was planned, it was about nine o’clock in the morning on April 27, 1856.

At first glance, that world seemed much like my own world. I would not have been surprised to see a car come racing down the dirt road or a jet plane leaving a long vapor trail in the beautiful sky. But I saw none of that. In the distance, a farmer was following two big mules as he planted one row at a time. Under my oak tree, near a dusty farm road, I was still hidden out of sight. In the far distance, I could see an old wooden wagon making its way toward me, pulled by two shiny black horses. In the wagon was a young couple with their three small children. They looked to be headed south, most likely toward the small community of Coal Hill, Arkansas. Their clothes were very different from the garments of my world. The woman was wearing a plain gray bonnet and a faded blue dress; the man had a white straw hat and striped overalls. Man, everything had changed in 160 years.

Am I going to be able to fit into this world? I thought. The answer would come soon!

After months of research on my part and on the part of many others, I was ready to make a great effort to be part of this world. The styles of my clothes and shoes were as close to this time period as possible, and my hair was cut appropriately. I had been briefed on all aspects of this society. Even my age had been adjusted to twenty-five years, to allow me to be able to stand up to the rigors of farm work. Now it had all come down to this day. I had already stepped out of my world, and I was preparing to step into this one. Who could have ever dreamed this would be possible? But there I was, looking out on what I believed to be my great-great-grandfather Philip May’s farm.

After getting to my feet, I walked to the Old Wire Road and began to make my way north to the small road that led up to a log cabin about a quarter of a mile west off the main road. According to records in the Johnson County Courthouse, that log house had been built in 1850 by Philip May. I surely hoped he was the man plowing in the field.

As I approached the house, I saw three children playing in the yard. A dark-haired girl seemed to be caring for a small cotton-headed boy. A younger girl was in one of two large oak trees to the east of the house.

The older girl shouted, Who are you looking for?

Your dad, I responded.

He’s there in the field, was her answer. The slender man in the field was just turning the mules around. I waved and walked quickly toward him. He dropped the reins to the ground and walked toward me. He looked to be a little over fifty years old, about the right age. His hair was thinning and slightly peaked in the front, much like mine. He stood about five feet eight, was muscular, and walked with a quick gait. His blue eyes were sharp and looked directly into mine.

Can I help you? he asked.

I could hardly get the words out.

I need a job so I can get enough money to continue my trip to Tennessee, I said.

Standing quietly, he looked me over and asked, Ever worked with mules?

Growing up on my father’s cotton farm about fifty miles northwest of the West Texas town of Lubbock in the 1950s and 1960s was not going to be much help in that situation. All we had was one tractor—no mules, no horses, no cows, and no pigs. Working behind a desk as an electrical engineer for about thirty-six years would not help, either. I was thankful I had spent some time riding horses and herding cattle on my father-in-law’s ranch just south of Tarzan, Texas, in Martin County. That was the only thing that might help me.

Finally, I answered the farmer’s question: No, sir.

Well, walk with me for a couple of rounds and see if you can get the hang of it, he said.

The two mules seemed to be well trained and well mannered. The farmer’s rows were as straight as a string, just like my dad’s. The farmer gave a loud cluck and snapped the reins. The huge mules leaned forward and strained against the yokes around their necks. The plow began to turn the rich black soil.

After two rounds, he stopped, laid the reins on the ground, and asked, Are you ready? I did not want to tell him I was not ready. There was one major problem though: he was not riding but walking behind the two mules. John Deere would not develop riding farm equipment until 1863. I had already made plans to correct that problem. He was waiting for my answer.

Yes, sir, I responded, and the farmer handed the reins to me.

Was he actually turning the mules over to a stranger who had just admitted he had never been around mules? Well, I guessed it was more like a trial run. I gave the mules a loud cluck, snapped the reins, and off we went. Trying to plow a straight row was much harder with mules than with the steering wheel on my dad’s 1948 G John Deere tractor. And then another problem presented itself: how was I going to be able to turn the mules around and start a new row in the right place? I should have visited an Amish farm and practiced. At the end of the row, I pulled back on the reins, and the mules stopped. They were patiently waiting for something. Finally, I remembered to pull the lever and lift the plow and planter. Immediately the mules began to turn around. They lined up perfectly with the new row, leaving me shocked but much relieved. I dropped the plow and planter and away we went. That was very different from the air conditioned, sixteen row, GPS guided tractors of my world that could plant 160 acres in a day.

The farmer was waiting at the other end and said, Your rows are not very straight, but I think you can improve. Go ahead and finish the day and then bring the mules to the corral. Was he really going to hire me without even knowing my name? This world was very different from mine.

The day turned out to be a long one! Finally, just before dark, I heard the man call, Bring them in. What a relief! I was totally worn out. Apparently, I was not quite ready for this kind of life. I finally figured out how to disconnect the mules from the plow and planter, and then I drove the mules to the corral.

In the corral, the mules stood patiently looking at me; they wanted the harness off. I sure wanted to take it off of them but was not sure where to start. Into the corral came two more mules, driven by a muscular, middle-aged, six-foot black man. He stopped his mules and looked at me.

Do you know how to remove the harness? he kindly asked.

No, sir, I do not, I responded. He walked over and in two minutes had the harness on the ground. The mules immediately walked over to the water trough and stuck half of their muzzles into the water. The black man removed the harness from his mules and told me to follow him. I grabbed my harness and followed him into the red barn, where we hung the harnesses on the wall. He then asked my name.

My name is Ray Jones, and I’m from Texas, I responded. I was going to Tennessee and ran out of money. The farmer is going to let me work some.

Well, you couldn’t find a better man to work for than Mr. May, he said. I could not believe my ears; I was really in the right place. I asked the black man his