We went to a house concert the other night. An old friend from school had called and told us about it. He and his family often got together with mine of an evening and we’d sing folk songs, and the new songs of the, then novel, Texas singer songwriters. It was good getting back together. I enjoyed the music, the musicianship, and the upbeat feeling of it. Mostly I enjoyed the excitement in his face when the singer cranked up an old familiar song with a good rift of the guitar and clever, poetic lyrics that we both remembered from earlier days. I drove Home with my Sallie humming “New Mexico rain” and other old favorites. We reminisced about Sand Mountain, the Checkered Flag, and the Rubaiyat, old coffeehouse haunts of our school days, where we would soak up the magic of Michael Martin Murphy, Diane Colby, Bill and Bonnie Hearne, and Steven Fromholtz. They were our bards, our troubadours. They sang of creeks and gullies, skinny cows, mourning doves in flight, west Texas highways, and pickup trucks. Their songs had the smell of Juniper and dust and “clear mountain mornings.” They distilled our youth, and our parents and grandparents lives, into a lyrical and melodious memory. The unique character of Texas in the drought of ‘57, the muddy rivers, the patch pants cowboys, the yaupon brush, prickly pear, and the Llano Estacado were all there. Like the night I drove a U-Haul truck back into Texas, returning from the military, and through the open window, smelled rain soaked mesquite, while the radio wafted out Ray Benson’s group Asleep at the Wheel singing “I saw miles and miles of Texas”
Category Archives: Stories
Hang’n Out a Rainbow
The other day I was riding a green colt, checking cows, fences, fillies, weeds etc. and a dry “norther” came through. Oh, I got maybe fifteen little raindrops on my old beat up straw hat, enough to make spots in the dust on the brim. The big dark cloud slowly sailed South, showing a clear blue sky, about two hours till sunset. The drop in temperature was noticeable, but not severe. But the slight cool breeze sure felt good. I stroked the colt’s sweaty neck, and stopped on a grassy hill to look to the east and there I saw a huge rainbow. It was vivid, and went from horizon to horizon. It even had a part of a double rainbow above it. Aside from the scientific part about rainbows being reflections of refracted light coming from behind you that causes this phenomenon in front of you, what came to my mind was a song. That’s right, my mind was filled with the voices of the past, the cowboy singing group with the most beautiful harmonies, the “Sons of the pioneers”. The song they were crooning was – “the Boss is hanging out a rainbow! “
Punchy Is, As Punchy Does
Back in the 90s my son was in attendance (sort of) at Texas A&M. He had grown up on the ranch, riding and driving horses, working cattle, and driving trucks (that’s another story) and tractors since he was knee-high to a grasshopper or at least since could reach the pedals. He was outfitted in ball cap, shorts and flip-flops one day, walking along the sidewalk when he came upon a group of students roping (at) a roping dummy, a sawhorse with a plastic calf head attached. They were clipping snuff, wearing big black hats and boots, dressed real “punchy”. As he swung by he asked one of them if he could feel the lariat he wielded. The young man chuckled at the “greenhorn” as he handed over the rope. Now, Bill had grown up around Charros, and had learned a pretty nice “floreo” or rope spinning trick, so he commenced to spin out a little figure-eight and a crinoline. He then recoiled the rope and handed it back to the “cowboy”, who’s mouth hung open! (en boca cerrado no entran moscas – flies don’t enter in a closed mouth). “Nice rope,” he says, and walked on down the sidewalk.
Not everybody who dresses like a cowboy is one; and not everybody who don’t dress like one ain’t. Clothes don’t make the man, the man makes the clothes.
Crabby Cakes For Brunch
Occasionally on Sunday mornings we let out all the stops and go wild for a champagne brunch. The last one was too good to just eat and forget, So I am recording it for posterity, or prosperity, or just downright outrageousness!
We live close enough to the Gulf Coast that we get some really fresh, white, fluffy crab meat (it was so fresh it pinched me!) We cracked four eggs and separated the yolks. Then we whipped the whites to stiffness, and added in one yolk and whipped it a little more. Then we mixed that with a couple cups of the crabmeat, and made patties that we put in the skillet with some butter to fry up golden.Then with the other three yolks we made quick hollandaise in the blender, by adding to them a stick and a half of melted butter, the juice of a lemon, and a teaspoon of really hot New Mexico chili powder.
Finally, we steamed some eggs into just beyond sunny side up, put the crabcake on a plate, shoveled one egg on top and poured the hollandaise over it. We couldn’t call it eggs Benedict, maybe eggs Pancho?
We served it with strips of leftover day old sirloin and scalloped potatoes, and washed it all down with vintage Chandon (Carneros brut 2009).
¡Gritos de alegria!