tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32422859788636627282023-11-24T15:30:29.801-08:00Texas Tabernacle by Jeff ClarkThe Texas Tabernacle contains writings and photos about the people and history of the Palo Pinto River and the Leon River Country, Eastland, Palo Pinto and Stephens County, maybe old friends and detours that will likely occur along the way.
I like to look for the old things...events that happened, or maybe should have. Listen to what they have to say.Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-42988689718141398202019-04-20T12:44:00.002-07:002019-04-20T12:44:33.577-07:00Palo Pinto County 2019<div>
Good morning! </div>
<div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
I’m helping my friends at the Palo Pinto County Historical Commission spread the word about the 2019 Palo Pinto County Historical & Wildflower Tour to be held <b>Saturday, April 27<sup>th</sup></b>.</div>
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Several of these stops are in and/or around Strawn and you’re probably familiar with several of them. </div>
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Attached is this year’s poster. Would you please help us by posting to the Texas Tabernacle blog page? <b><u>To follow are a few highlights we’re requesting be posted along with the poster;</u></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>First Christian Church</b> (Palo Pinto) – Built in 1882, this is the oldest church building in Palo Pinto County with Addison & Randolph Clark (founders of TCU) being two of its early pastors. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>Old Jail Museum</b> (Palo Pinto) – This county treasure contains a wide array of historical artifacts and numerous restored Log-cabins from Palo Pinto County’s frontier days. If you have never seen this great collection, you’re in for a treat.</div>
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<b>Rocker-B Ranch</b> (n. of Palo Pinto) – built on former Dalton & McMurray Ranches, Rocker B has been transformed into a phenomenal Events Center that includes baseball facilities, driving range, pool, lake, tennis and basketball courts and top-notch accommodations.</div>
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<b>Johnson League Ranch, Homestead & Mausoleum</b> (n. of Gordon) – W.W. Johnson was responsible for the discovery of coal in southwest Palo Pinto County, first in Thurber and then in Strawn. This not only led to personal wealth for him and the area but the subsequent coal boom and ultimately, the Ranger oil boom and further oil discoveries across west Texas. Sadly, Mr. & Mrs. Johnson not only experienced life changing wealth but were marred by personal tragedies that make for a fascinating story… Learn all about them and their family when you visit the beautifully restored Johnson League Ranch.</div>
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<b>St. Boniface Catholic Church</b> (n. of Strawn) – When German & Czech immigrants migrated from South Texas in the early 1900’s, they settled on Dodson Prairie and built this beautiful testament to their faith. The church includes stained glass windows that were donated by a church in Weatherford, the original pump organ that is still in working condition and hanging in the belfry is the bell salvaged from the Weimar Catholic church that was destroyed by the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, TX. This is a hidden gem that many people spot from Hwy 16 but have never seen up close. Don’t miss this opportunity!</div>
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<b>Robinson Schoolhouse </b>(n. of Strawn<b>)</b> – one of the last remaining, one-room brick schoolhouses left in Texas. Robinson Schoolhouse has been restored to look exactly as it did when it opened its doors in 1937. A great way to experience yesteryear when the three R’s ruled the day (Readin, Ritin & Rithmetic)!</div>
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<b>Strawn House</b> (Strawn) – Early pioneer and Strawn’s founder, Stephen Bethel Strawn, built this <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 15.3333px;">"East Texas Plantation"</span> inspired home in 1874. Situated on a bluff above Palo Pinto Creek, it was positioned so as to easily spot Indians that would sweep down from the wilds of West Texas and the Indian Territory. Restored in 2017 to its original grandeur, you’ll be impressed not only by the home but by the beautifully landscaped grounds surrounding the house.</div>
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<b>Watson House </b>(Strawn) – Happy 100<sup>th</sup> Anniversary! The magnificent Watson House celebrates its 100<sup>th</sup>year in 2019, the same year the nearby Bankhead Hwy was born. Built on the fortunes made from Strawn’s early coal and oil booms, Mr. & Mrs. Watson drew inspiration for their home from a historic, North Carolina plantation mansion and didn’t spare a dime in its construction. For 40+ years, this building was used as Edwards Funeral Home but in 2016, it was purchased and returned to its former magnificence and is now a Bed & Breakfast and Event site. Stop by mid-afternoon and enjoy Tea and a 1920’s era Big Band.</div>
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<b>Historic Strawn T&P Depot </b>(Strawn) – although not officially on the tour program, the recently restored Strawn T&P Depot will be open to tour and is a short 3-minute drive from the Strawn and Watson Houses.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>Bumper Crop of Wildflowers</b> (Palo Pinto County) – as an added bonus this year, Mother Nature has provided a bumper crop of wildflowers (bluebonnets et al) especially thick south of Strawn (in and around Mt. Marion Cemetery) and east between Strawn and Thurber (Davidson Cemetery Road) and Strawn and Gordon (along Hwy 108).</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Tickets can be pre-purchased at the Possum Kingdom and Mineral Wells Chamber’s of Commerce <b>or</b> <u>ON-SITE </u>at any of the tour locations on Saturday, April 27<sup>th</sup>.</div>
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The weather forecast for the 27<sup>th</sup> is 80 degrees & sunny. We hope you can join us.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-35129479134631958152016-10-05T07:32:00.001-07:002016-10-05T07:32:16.838-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Dodson Prairie Dances<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Tie Old Country to New<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
By Jeff Clark<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a
scene in the movie “Titanic” about the fabled luxury ship’s fateful date with
destiny. The elderly woman in the film tells the story of her own voyage that
tragic night. She looks off across the waves many decades later, visions of a luxurious
whirling ballroom filled with dancing couples coming brightly back into view
inside her memory, inside her words. She makes us see it too. We are
transported.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I met with 95-years-young Lenora
Teichman Boyd last week. I like it when someone I’m interviewing says, “I can
only tell you what happened up until the 1940s.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m wanting to learn about the monthly
Dodson Prairie dances, held about six miles west of Palo Pinto, the town. They
started just after 1910. Lenora is home from the hospital, from rehab after
back surgery to relieve constant pain. She’s sitting in a recliner, enjoying
the unseasonably warm December day. I pull up a chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They had
the dances right out there.” She’s pointing out the window south and a little
east behind this house. The closest public building that direction is in Strawn
or maybe Mingus many miles away. But Lenora sees the old dance hall just
outside, about fifty yards away. She starts talking, teaching. She makes me see
it too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dodson Prairie really was in 1900 –
a prairie, I mean. There might be an occasional small stand of oaks out there,
she told me. Mostly one saw grass, as high as a horse’s belly. The flat prairie
is today covered in cedar and mesquite, flat earth loping west until the ground
erupts skyward into mountains, cleaved in two by Metcalf Gap. Lenora told me
that those early farmers would burn their fields back each year, to invite
fresh grass in the spring. The Comanche did the same, during their turn on this
land.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dodson Prairie was and is a German
settlement. Folks worked hard, mostly farming, raising stock. Lenora’s Teichmann
Family arrived in 1900 from the Schulenberg-Weimar area (before that, from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Germany</st1:country-region> in
1868, landing at <st1:city w:st="on">Galveston</st1:city>).
They’ve been hard at it in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Palo</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Pinto</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
ever since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once a
month area families gave a dance, a get together. There was a public wagon road
when this all got started, leading in from the west. That road is gone, though <st1:street w:st="on">Teichmann Road</st1:street>
remains. Lenora keeps talking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s a black dark Saturday night on
the <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state>
prairie. Coal oil lamps paint pale orange light onto the dusty ground outside
Dutch Hall’s double doors. Saddled horses and mules are tied outside. The creak
of wagons pulled by teams approach from the west, puncturing the stark silence
of this bone cold December. Kids hop out and meet their friends, promise moms
they’ll stay close, then run off to play. “There was a bed in one corner of the
hall,” Lenora told me, “where babies could sleep.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dutch Hall was a tall community
building made of overlapping frame lumber. It might’ve been 30 by 50 feet,
though lonely brown foundation stones and a few wooden pilings are all that
remain. Dutch Hall was used for dances, lodge meetings, and other community
get-togethers. Night school for adults happened here. People came from all over
for those Dodson Prairie dances – from Thurber, Mingus, Gordon, Palo Pinto, even
the country across the Gap west toward Caddo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We start to hear painfully brittle
sounds inside the wood-heated hall – trumpets, sousaphones, a bass drum, and fiddle
strings all looking inside the growing cacophony for a key they can all agree
on. Finally, the band starts playing and the silent prairie comes to life with the
joyous dancing, stomping and hand-clapping of hard-working farm families,
taking a break from their tough frontier. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cap Foreman yells loud across the
heads of couples circling the floor. A square dance is called, couples circle
up, his loud voice centers all:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Meet your partner and meet her with a smile,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Once and a half, and go hog wild.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Treat ‘em all alike,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b> if it takes all night.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Married couples and still-shopping
young singles answer his call, with doe-see-does, and promenade rights. That
morning’s broken plow and the calf that ran away fade in importance to these
farmers and their wives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lenora’s father C. A. “Charlie”
Teichmann led the Dodson Prairie Band. He taught friends and relatives to play
brass instruments, and in one case a drum. At <st1:time hour="0" minute="0" w:st="on">midnight</st1:time>, the wooden dance floor is cleared and large
tables are spread deep with fine native foods prepared by the Prairie’s
Germanic mothers and maidens. Families gather into Community here, from the
oldest great grandmothers to the youngest newborns, rock fences built to keep
in cattle, not to keep people out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dodson Prairie families were in
many cases only one generation removed from their European homelands. The Herman
Riebe family came here along with Joseph and Carl Teichmann, then the
Ankenbauers, Bergers, Beyers, Dreitners, Holubs, Kainer, Kaspers, Nowaks,
Popps, Schlinders, Telchiks, Thiels, and others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One time “wild cowboys” interrupted the dance’s
fun after one too many snort from the bottle. Poor planning on their part became
apparent as lawmen were in attendance. The offenders were congratulated, then handcuffed
to oak trees outside until morning. As the years progressed, fiddles, guitars
and banjos replaced the brass-centric nature of Teichmann’s original Dodson
Prairie Band.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I asked Lenora about moonshine,
knowing it flowed liberally (I’m sorry, “freely”) to the south of here. “There
was no moonshine,” she tells me, and I believe her. “Well, there might have
been wine,” she finally admitted, these being upstanding Germans after all. I’d
been told elsewhere that no one partook inside. During breaks men might wander
outside for some light inebriation, I mean conversation. Many of these German
families had their own small vineyards at home, home grown mixed with wild
grapes from Lake Creek thickets down the hill. Do the math.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When the dances were over late on
star-speckled nights, Lenora’s family would walk through the dark about a
quarter mile to their home. Lenora remembers being carried. She couldn’t have
been more than three. Lenora remembers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Was
downtown Dodson Prairie right here back then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, it was
spread out. St. Boniface was to our south. The first schoolhouse to the south
of that, then the new schoolhouse was built north of the church. Over toward Highway
180 there was a cotton gin, west side of the road. Past that fell the store, the
post office inside. The Poseidon post office. And a filling station. The county
farm (poor farm) on the east, but that came later.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Teichman
Family (the second “N” dropped through the years) came from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Austria</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Germany</st1:country-region> to <st1:city w:st="on">Galveston</st1:city>, then to central
<st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state>. They
must’ve scored down there, because they bought two full sections of land when
they reached this prairie. They paid between $2.50 and $4 an acre.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why did
they buy here?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because it
was for sale,” Lenora answers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It might have been because the
black soil at Dodson Prairie mirrors that found where the Teichmans farmed down
south, her son Charlie later tells me. Clearing these wide fields of rock, they
built stacked, drift rock fences by hand. The two fences I saw to the southeast
were two to three feet thick. A vintage photo shows another farther east rising
in height above a horse’s head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dances
moved to the “new” schoolhouse around 1950s. They occurred off and on there until
four or five years ago. The bands finally got too expensive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Lenora
was born in 1915 Woodrow Wilson was president. The Ranger oil boom was still
two years in the future. Dodson Prairie was a thriving, peopled settlement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to
that German factor I mentioned earlier. Son Charlie and his friend Ann kindly loaded
me in their pickup to show me around the Prairie. I’d made a quick tour before,
not finding a lot. I wasn’t looking close enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though
their early houses were mere box houses (no internal framing), both original
Teichman brother’s homes are still standing. From around 1900. One is being
lived in, standing in proud testimony to the hard labor and attention to
quality that these men and women nailed into place. The old school house, the
new school, several thick rock walls, the church, and several county poor farm
buildings are all standing. Those Germans built straight and true, though their
local population continues to wane.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teichmann
and Schoolhouse Roads are two of the few roads in this area one can still
travel down and read many of the same family names that settled that land 100
years ago. This too, is changing. If you stand respectfully in a quiet spot out
Dodson Prairie way, I have to believe the old dance is still being held.
Couples twirl, long lost love still beating hard and true. Invisible dance
floors and <st1:time hour="0" minute="0" w:st="on">midnight</st1:time> dance callers
invite the distant past into the prayed-for future. If you stand quietly. If
you believe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Special thanks to Lenora Teichman Boyd,
Charlie Boyd, Ann Mixon and Gloria Holub. Jeff may be reached at <a href="mailto:jdclark3312@aol.com">jdclark3312@aol.com</a>.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-60082501978691246162016-09-27T10:03:00.001-07:002016-09-27T10:03:50.518-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">My Daddy wouldn’t let that happen<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">The Tudor Community speaks<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">By Jeff Clark<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m sorry I haven’t written in
awhile. It’s been a tough year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I went to see <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chrystal</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Falls</st1:placename></st1:place>
last Friday. Several had pointed me in her direction, once they learned I was
interested in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Tudor Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
in the now-vanished Tudor-Gourdneck Community.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mrs. Falls was born a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jackson</st1:place></st1:city> in 1917, at the
foot of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Knob</st1:placename></st1:place>, a landmark mountain hugging the
eastern boundary of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Her older brothers
walked to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tudor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place> all the way from
the Knob. Her daddy later bought a closer place, on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Tudor Road</st1:address></st1:street> when she was six-years-old. He
didn’t want six-year-old Chrystal to have to cross the creek, on her way to
school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She thinks the Tudors or Mitchells might
have owned their farm first. You remember me telling you about that fine rock
cellar at the turn in the road? That cellar was already there when they moved
in. As was the house, also still standing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The one room <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tudor</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
sat by the cemetery, opening its one door as far back as the 1870s. Some called
the place Gourdneck, don’t ask me why. The school cistern, located off the
corner of the school building, still waits out there in the woods. Mrs. Falls
attended first through sixth grade, the year the school closed down, the first
year of the Great Depression for most – 1929.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Her family shopped in Strawn and
Mingus. Mrs. Falls’ mom liked cornbread and there was a corn mill in Mingus at
the time. They shopped for groceries at Watson Brothers in Strawn. That was an
all-day trip back then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mrs. Falls was the only student in Tudor’s
first grade. There was another girl in third grade. Miss Vivian was her
teacher. Also Walter Michell’s wife, Mabell. She was of the Pope Family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That old wooden building hosted school
during the week. Saturdays were for Easter egg hunts, picnics sometimes. Sunday
was for church. Fourth of July was ice cream, turned by hand in a wooden ice
cream freezer – one of her favorite days, she recalled with a smile. Everyone
from the community was there –maybe fifty, maybe 100. Mrs. Falls graduated from
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Strawn</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">High School</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Whenever there was a Tudor Community church
revival, the minister stayed at the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jackson</st1:place></st1:city>
house (her mom cooked). Her Dad was a Baptist. <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Tudor Road</st1:address></st1:street> used to continue on straight
into Strawn, she said. I’d wondered if maybe it ended at Peter Davidson’s first
place, between Strawn and Thurber (neither town was there in 1856, back when he
first landed on the banks of Palo Pinto Creek).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mrs. Falls dad was Willie Jackson
(William Henry Harrison Jackson), who married Nora Gailey. Mr. Jackson was a
fine man, one of four children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Willie’s dad abandoned the family when the boy was small, up
in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Arkansas</st1:place></st1:state>.
Just up and left. Eventually those four kids were taken away from their mom by
some judge. Willie remembered seeing his mother sob as the kids were removed
from their home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So this is the part I was telling you
about, when someone you’ve never met teaches you something. Just like he’s
standing right there in front of you. Willie talked about being hungry as a
child. You don’t hear that from folks, not in this country. Not today. He never
forgot that. But listen to this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After the judge took Willie from his
mom (and his siblings, who were separated), he ended up with the Vaught Family
in Desdemona. I’m not sure if Willie was adopted or just taken in. They worked
him like a slave, beat him even. This became his life, for awhile. One Saturday
that family hooked up their wagon to go to town, gave him a long list of chores
to do “or you know what’ll happen to you”. Then they left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Eleven-year-old Willie took off,
escaped, wading up the middle of Hog Creek so they couldn’t track him in the
water. The Vaughts later seined their tank, thinking maybe he’d drowned himself.
Think about that for a minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Willie went up the creek, then took
off north and a little east, cross country, through the brush. After many, many
miles of up and down valleys and desolate wild country, he ended up at the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Gailey Place, east</st1:address></st1:street>
of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Tudor Road, south</st1:address></st1:street>
of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tudor</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Willie had never seen the
Gaileys before in his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He knocked on the Gailey’s front
door. Grandma came to the door. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Can I do some work?” The
Gaileys fed him, took him in, and raised him like one of their own. Willie
worshipped Grandma Ada Gailey, the only mother he’d ever known, since being
taken from his own mom’s wing so young. Willie lived in the Gailey house with
the kids. He was the one who wrote out the verse that’s on Grandma Gailey’s
tombstone in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tudor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>: “She was a kind
and affectionate wife, mother and a friend to all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The Vaughts didn’t find Willie until
many years later. Grandpa Gailey told them they’d better just leave the boy be.
That struggle made Willie a better man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As an adult, Willie rode to work on
horseback at the Number One Thurber mine, digging coal. He was devastated when
the mines shut down. There’s a picture of the Number One mine in the Thurber
museum, I’m told.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Willie also farmed and ranched. The
family planted a garden – did okay. “We were never hungry. Daddy saw to that.
He’d never let that happen,” Mrs. Falls wanted me to know. They didn’t have
electricity down Tudor way until after she married.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Some names I heard, but don’t yet
know. Dutch and Walter Mitchell (brothers), the Popes, the Gaileys (Mrs. Falls’
mom Nora was the oldest).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mrs. Falls moved away when she was 24
(marrying <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">George</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Falls</st1:placename></st1:place>). They traveled all over the world,
after a childhood of staying close to home. The Falls’ trip to the <st1:place w:st="on">Holy Land</st1:place> was a “trip of a lifetime,” she told me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Times are hard right now, in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>, all over really.
Picking up the newspaper, watching the evening news can be the toughest part of
the day. There was a time, not so long ago, when survival grew from the sweat
of one’s brow. When folks had problems, they prayed, usually together. When young
Willie Jackson showed up hungry, what he asked for was work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“We were never hungry. Daddy saw to
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">I hope things are good with you. Please take care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: double windowtext 6.75pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: thin-thick-thin-medium-gap windowtext 6.75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: thin-thick-thin-medium-gap windowtext 6.75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="background: white;">Jeff Clark is the author of "Tabernacle – The <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Back Road</st1:address></st1:street> to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alameda</st1:place></st1:city> and Cheaney," writes about lost <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state> places and
characters for <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>
newspapers, and is a senior citizens’ insurance agent in Central and <st1:place w:st="on">West Texas</st1:place>. To pass along story tips, please email </span><span style="background: white;"><a href="mailto:jdclark3312@aol.com">jdclark3312@aol.com</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-28963236985636874722016-09-22T08:15:00.001-07:002016-09-22T08:15:18.948-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;">County Poor Farm<br />
A Little Girl in the Woods</span></b><br />
By Jeff Clark<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We may
lose everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There's a
depression heading our way. That's what the newspapers tell us. The economic
kind. Here in Weatherford. Nibbling around the edges of our little town -
taking its first taste.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Millions
of everywhere-but-here folks have lost their jobs already. Swept away by the
same tidal wave. Whose shadow we don't yet see. Most in this nation, in this
town, live three paychecks from the abyss. It will frost my britches, if my parents
were right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A family
doesn't need nice cars, a big house. You don't OWN anything. You can't DO
anything. Why, your father and I made do with so much less. We didn't have to
worry about tomorrow. We didn't have to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then a
little girl calls out to me. "I survived," she whispers. "So
must you."<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That
young girl's childhood, remembered by her through a prism of almost eighty
years, haunts me this day. She was my storyteller. I didn't see it at the time.
I visited her home expecting a Great Depression story of hardship and woe. That
cup was handed back to me, overflowing. But in the midst of today's woe, her
small farm girl's smiling stories keep bubbling to my surface. In the swirl of
terrible suffering, humiliation, of death, there had been joy. I pull out my
notes from our visit. I listen to her words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> Commissioners bought land for the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Poor Farm</st1:placename></st1:place>
in 1883. It operated until about 1946. The county still owns the site, about
three miles south of town. A few of its buildings, along with its lonely pauper
cemetery still wait out there. <br />
Individuals and families deemed insolvent were "sentenced" to live
there, many decades ago. When neither family nor neighbors would take them in.
Many were old. Were infirm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pride
still governed our society back then. These folks weren't happy to be out
there. They weren't looking for a free ride. Weatherford resident Nila Bielss
Seale remembers those times as a girl. Remembers those people. Her parents, Mr.
and Mrs. Alvin Bielss were the Poor Farm's caretakers. Hired by the county from
the late 1920s through the early 1930s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"It
was like a big home," she said. "All the people there were like aunts
and uncles. My mother and dad took care of them. They were doctor, nurse, and
psychologist".<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm consisted of two 160 acre tracts of land. The superintendent and his
family had a home out there. The house still stands, barely. There was a
barracks-like dormitory across the road from the family's house. Each Poor Farm
resident had a room off its center hallway. The dormitory had a large porch
across the front where the residents would often gather. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm's large barn, smaller outbuildings, and a water trough inscribed by Nila's
daddy in 1923 also still remain. There's also a shack of a house off by itself,
being eaten alive by a tree, shared back then by a blind man and the farm's
Delco electrical system.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Joe C.
Moore was one of the early Parker County Commissioners. He reflected on the
court's thinking in starting the poor farm, in a Weatherford Weekly Herald
story September 21, 1911: "Editor: I desire to answer some of your
questions as to why the county poor farm was purchased, how used and what
revenue it produced. About 1881, soon after A. J. Hunter was elected county
judge, B.C. Tarkinton, Joe C. Moore, Frank Barnett and W. A. Massey were
commissioners. After an investigation, this court found that other counties had
farms that were a source of good revenue, a large savings to the taxpayers, and
a good thing in general."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on">Moore</st1:city> says there were then thirty-eight people on the county
indigent list who were each receiving $3 - $10 monthly. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
spent about $3,000 annually on its poor, back then. So the county bought this
320 acres, he said.<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"George
Abbott and wife were employed to superintend the farm with instructions to feed
and clothe well all inmates of the farm, and to give each of the inmates a task
according to their fittedness or ability." <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The farm
was free and clear of debt after only three years. The commissioners additionally
used jail inmates to work at the farm. They received credit against their
sentences.<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
All
thirty-eight paupers under the county's financial support were then notified of
the day and time to assemble, to be taken to the Poor Farm. Steaming Nazi
locomotives pulling wooden-slatted cattle cars pop into my imagination as I
write this. Though that's probably not fair. I'm sure some thought, in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
back then, these people must've brought it on themselves. They had it coming.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Apparently
only about half showed up, Mr. Moore tells us, "showing that the county
had been paying out money to those who had other means of support." No
such testing goes on today. Far as I know.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm usually had between fourteen and twenty people living there at any one
time. Those that were able worked in the fields, gathered eggs, raised hogs and
cattle, milked or helped cook and clean back at the dormitory.<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Aunt
Mary, one of the residents there, was a cook while the Bielss Family lived
there. The woman showed kindness to young Nila. "Aunt Mary made the best
tea cakes," she remembered. Once Nila's pet goat Billy, who followed Nila
everywhere, somehow got into Aunt Mary's room when the little girl was
visiting. Though Billy created quite a mess, Aunt Mary, known for her
organization and cleanliness, acted like nothing had happened. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Aunt Mary
grew tired in her later years and decided she was not going to help out around
the farm any longer. Her back was bothering her, she said. She could no longer
get around, she told some others. One afternoon, Nila's dad came up to the
dormitory's porch, where Aunt Mary was still feigning illness. He let a
harmless snake loose that promptly sought Aunt Mary out. Terrified of snakes,
she leapt from her chair and took off, promptly cured of her affliction.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"We
were almost totally self-sufficient," Nila said. "The people there
were very busy people. My mother and dad alternated each month in buying
groceries. Mother would get mad if the grocery bill was over twenty dollars for
the month (for about eighteen people). My dad butchered hogs after the first
cold spell and cured the meat. The cellar was full - the walls were lined with
fruits and vegetables my mother put up." <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
During
harvest season, when they would thresh the wheat, county commissioners would
pay people from Weatherford one dollar a day to work (during the Great
Depression). And people from town would come out, to help out - to get paid. <br />
Nila's dad would salt meat and hang it from the rafters. When Poor Farm folks
became ill, her mother or dad would sit up all night with them.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila had
a horse as a little girl. The commissioners apparently had confiscated the
animal from someone, to stop its abuse. "The horse wasn't quite
right," she remembered. "He would be perfectly sweet and
normal, then all of the sudden just go crazy for a little bit." Nila loved
that horse. One day she was riding him up by the big barn, through some old
tree stumps. The horse had one of his episodes. Threw her through the air and
onto the ground. Her dad was nearby. Thank goodness. Made sure she was okay.
She remembers this part. He told her to get right back up on that horse. So she
did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm owned a few other horses to pull the plows and wagons, even a couple of
Percherons at one point. Nila remembers her dad being partial to mules. These
teams would take corn to the gin in Granbury in a wagon, and would help harvest
the wheat. When it was ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila's
father often woke up at <st1:time hour="3" minute="0" w:st="on">3 a.m.</st1:time>
to begin his endless work around the farm. Near the end, most of the farm's
residents were advanced in age. Were not a lot of help.<br />
"Daddy liked to whistle," Nila told me. "He was known for that.
You could hear him, even at three in the morning, out there whistling." He
was a deacon in the local church, where her mom taught Sunday School and played
the piano. Before they were married, Mr. Bielss had to sell his beloved horse
Penny. He needed the money. He wanted a proper wedding ring. He sacrificed.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila's
folks were good people, were hard workers. Nobody helped them out much except
for Moses, Mr. Taylor, and sometimes Aunt Mary. "Mr. Taylor, who was
blind, would want to help out more, but we were always afraid for him, when he
got around the big saw," Nila told me. He was a nice man, she said. Mr. Taylor.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila remembers
her family having a small record player. One day she and her brother Eldon were
playing "He'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain" so loud that her mother
could hear it down the hill. They got into a storm of trouble. Before
electricity was common, the farm had a Delco unit powered by a windmill to run
a few things, like the single bulbs that hung from a few of the ceilings. The
Delco was located in same little house that Mr. Taylor lived in. The blind
gentleman.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Poor Farm
residents washed their clothes in big black number five wash pots. The man
named Moses kept pecans in a Maxwell Coffee can. He cut those pecans into
laser-perfect halves. Moses did. Moses was paralyzed on one side. Had a peg leg
that he made himself.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila told
me about Mrs. Baker, who'd been addled after being struck by lightning. It
stayed with her. Mrs. Baker. Whenever a storm approached, Nila's parents had to
comfort her fears.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila told
tales of a happy childhood at the farm. At the Poor Farm. Where her parents
took care of so many. Nila never lacked for anything, she wanted me to know.
Nila bottle fed her goats. Had a menagerie of livestock to keep her
entertained. She listened to Little Orphan Annie on the family's radio.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Around
1946 the dormitory building where the residents lived was moved to the 100
block of Throckmorton in Weatherford. It there served as a home for the aged.
The move was the end of the true operation of the Poor Farm. The building was
later relocated to <st1:street w:st="on">Rusk Street</st1:street>,
where it still stands. <br />
I drive past it. Often. Though I've never ventured up to it. Wouldn't be
polite.<br />
After World War II, the federal and state governments increased social services
for the poor and the elderly. For the nation. Not just <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm pauper cemetery still sleeps off in the woods. The place was forgotten
until the early 1980s, rediscovered by a group of hunters. It appeared to have
about forty adult graves. And one child's grave. No one knows for sure.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
earliest documented burial was 1904. The lonely site had no fence. At that time
the county commissioners were considering selling the farm. The Parker County
Historical Commission persuaded commissioners to let them restore the dignity
of the cemetery. This, they did.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Later in
1986 a historic marker was awarded by the state, now visible from <st1:street w:st="on">Tin Top Road</st1:street>. A
right-of-way was established from Tin Top to the cemetery. The Parker County
Abandoned Cemetery Association continues to maintain the cemetery, with the
help of donations. They do this, to this day.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I need to
finish this story. There's much to do. To prepare for. I feel nauseous. Unsure.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I need a
snake to scare me off this porch.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One man
living at the Poor Farm was insistent that he not end up in the pauper
cemetery. When the time came, Mr. Bielss buried him off in the woods. Wayne
Thompson, who ran a dairy on the property in the 1950s remembers three lone
graves off together near a lone tree, about a half mile away. This man's
presumed to be one of the three. But I'm not sure.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
J. G.
Godley's death was particularly tragic. Godley died of suicide <st1:date day="11" month="11" w:st="on" year="1929">November 11, 1929</st1:date>. Nila
recalls that Godley was once a wealthy man (related to the family that started
the Godley community to our south). He was divorced, was 87 at the time of his
passing. He apparently squandered his fortune and died a pauper at the farm. He
was always very bitter and depressed, Nila told me. Many times he pleaded with
her dad to kill him. <br />
One morning the Bielss Family was having breakfast. Before sunrise. The cows
down the hill started bawling. Her dad got his lantern. Said he'd better go
check on what was wrong. On what was the matter.<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mr.
Godley had cut his throat inside the farm's two hole privy. In the Poor Farm's
out house. He lay dead on the floor. The county death certificate lists no relatives
and no birthdate. The <st1:date day="12" month="11" w:st="on" year="1929"><st1:date day="12" ls="trans" month="11" w:st="on" year="19">November 12, 19</st1:date>29</st1:date>
Daily Herald obituary shows one daughter in <st1:city w:st="on">Austin</st1:city>. I never found her.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nila
remembers Mr. Godley being buried outside the paupers' cemetery fence by her
father. County records show his final resting place as <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Oakland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
in an unmarked grave. Stories about Mr. Godley conflict around this town, even
today. I believe that little girl, though bottom line, Mr. Godley is lost as
well.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm Cemetery has one of the highest ratios of unmarked graves in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
Out forty known graves, only one had a marked headstone. There is a newer
granite marker listing the people who died at the farm, but were buried in
other locations. The Abandoned Cemetery Association did that.<br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Association
members Mary Kemp and Billie Bell spent long hours going through records trying
to learn the names of those interred at this cemetery. Mary helped me with this
story. Nila was its ringside witness.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I don't
know how this story comes out. The Poor Farm. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
The American nation writhing in doubt and uncertainty. Today's headlines could
be an echo to that earlier time.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We could
be in for the surprise of our lives. <br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Poor
Farm woods south of Weatherford probably hold this nation's answer. The souls
in that graveyard. The whispers in those trees.Those times seem so foreign.
Listening to that little girl. To the slip-sliding past. Our future's out
there. A cradled secret, walking around in the faded front overalls pocket of
another time. But those folks aren't talking. Not today. Not to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Jeff Clark is the author of "Tabernacle - The <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Back Road</st1:address></st1:street> to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alameda</st1:place></st1:city> and
Cheaney," writes about lost <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>
places and characters for <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>
newspapers, and is a senior citizens' insurance agent in Central and <st1:place w:st="on">West Texas</st1:place>. To pass along story tips, please email <a href="mailto:jdclark3312@aol.com"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">jdclark3312@aol.com</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-29945756597452052082016-09-13T11:43:00.001-07:002016-09-13T11:43:19.142-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><b>Black</b></st1:placename><b> <st1:placename w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></b></st1:place><b> Forges <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Two Communities Into One<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
By Jeff Clark<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Race riots may be
coming to Weatherford. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That was the talk
around town. Images of angry police dogs, fire hoses and bloodied protestors across
the <st1:place w:st="on">Deep South</st1:place> paraded across <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">TV</st1:placename></st1:place> sets in the early
1960s. Some feared a repeat performance here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When Weatherford
schools opened that first 1963 day of integration, all was quiet. The reasons
are both simple, and complex.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Our mystery begins
in church. Two years after the Civil War ended, blacks organized the Prince
Memorial Christian Methodist Episcopal Church on <st1:street w:st="on">Oak Street</st1:street>. This oldest “still in business”
church in Weatherford was named after the Rev. A. Bartlett “Bart” Prince, its
first elder (as is <st1:street w:st="on">Prince Street</st1:street>,
near the first black public school). The church’s building went up in 1871, and
was modified in 1912. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The “<st1:stockticker w:st="on">CME</st1:stockticker>” sign in front meant “Colored Methodist
Episcopal” until the 1960s, when it changed to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Christian</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Methodist</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>. It’s believed to
be the second oldest <st1:stockticker w:st="on">CME</st1:stockticker> church in
the nation. There’s no Texas Historical Marker here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Within this pioneer
church’s walls, black students received their first education, until the county
built them a schoolhouse. Smythe’s 1877 “Historical Sketch of Parker County” lists
thirty-seven county schools that year, each tied to a geographic “community”,
save one: School No. 33 – The Weatherford Colored School. Seymour Simpkins
taught thirty-nine “colored” students. Prince Memorial pillars Willis Pickard,
Rev. Henry Johnson and Rev. Prince served as trustees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Colored</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>” gets mentioned in the newspaper
off and on down through the years. In 1887, land just south of West Oak and
west of Prince was purchased for $200, its schoolhouse built in 1917. A brick
school house replaced that structure in 1927. Today that forgotten brick
schoolhouse stands proudly among the weeds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The <st1:date day="8" ls="trans" month="9" w:st="on" year="19">September 8, 19</st1:date>33 <i>Weatherford Democrat</i> lists five ward
schools that year, plus the “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Colored</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>”. Tillie Woods was
principal and Ella Varnel was the teacher. The “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Colored</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>”
taught Cub Young, who pitched against Satchell Paige in the Negro Baseball League.
Weatherford’s Negro League team played where <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Weatherford</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">High School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Leonard Smith
entered first grade at <st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city>
in 1939, three years after it was renamed the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
The school’s two classrooms taught nine grades then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Most black
students walked to <st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city>
from four Weatherford neighborhoods – The Flat (First Monday Trade Day Grounds
area), The Hill (<st1:street w:st="on">West Oak Street</st1:street>
area), <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sand</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place> (near Akard & Sloan) and The
Neck (near <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cherry</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Black and white
kids played baseball together, had rock fights, and cut up like children still
do. Raymond George and some of his white friends walked to school together in
the late 1940s. When they reached the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Stanley</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
the white boys went inside. Raymond kept walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s just the
way it was,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city> was a two room school, several
grades in each classroom. Florine Roddy taught in the southern room, when Raymond
was a student. The northern classroom was Lucille Rucker’s. Outside sat two
outhouses and a water well whose pipe led over a trough. “One kid pumped while another
drank,” Raymond told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Raymond remembers
there being about fifty students, though that number swelled when migratory
families came to town with the railroad or picking cotton. Raymond’s teachers (1946-1953)
included Ella Varnell, Lucille Rucker and Mrs. Roddy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Lucille Rucker
built the foundation beneath those black kids’ sense of respect,” Raymond said,
“respect for others and for themselves.” Not only was she a good teacher, she
was highly regarded by whites and blacks alike. Rucker made the boys play out
back and the girls play out front during recess. “She taught us to treat the
girls like ladies. Because of her, my generation of students stayed married,
kept one job our whole lives, and successfully retired from those same jobs.”
Still, when <st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city>
closed, Mrs. Rucker was forced to do odd jobs to survive. “She wasn’t taken
care of,” he reflected sadly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Wilson Hall was
added to the northwest edge of the <st1:city w:st="on">Mount
Pleasant</st1:city> campus around 1944. Named after Superintendent
Leonard B. Wilson, it was a barracks-like building used for classes and
assemblies, with a stage on its west side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city> sits high atop the western
skyline of Weatherford, looking down on the Courthouse to its east. Below its
majestic perch, blight stares back from where working black families once
raised families. “Wood-burning stoves sat in the corners of each classroom,”
Charlie Simmons told me, “replaced by gas heaters.” Flue holes still puncture
the school’s two chimneys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Each large
classroom had wood floors and large windows along two walls. One can see
daylight looking up through fourteen foot ceilings to the sky. “These
classrooms were filled with little desks,” Charlie told me. “There were kids
everywhere.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Every morning all
the kids would walk out here, to the flag pole,” he said. “Say their Pledge of
Allegiance and sing a patriotic song.” The flag pole base remains. He showed me
where the swings were, the slide, the concrete front porch to Wilson Hall. “We
had more fun than you can shake a stick at.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The schoolhouse road
entered from <st1:street w:st="on">Prince Street</st1:street>,
rising up the hill then circling the school. The old schoolhouse sits on
private property, contiguous to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Love</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Street</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
on its west.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
This was a time of
separate white and black drinking fountains in our city. Blacks couldn’t enter
white restaurants (unless they worked there) or attend most theaters. Blacks
could buy Texas Theater tickets, as long as they sat in the balcony. Raymond
remembers walking through the Texas Café to the kitchen out back as a little
boy, wanting to spin the bar stools around. He couldn’t since the place was whites
only.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Weatherford had black
churches, a black tabernacle, and a two-story black Masonic Lodge on <st1:street w:st="on">Fort Worth Highway, east</st1:street>
of the courthouse. There were few black businesses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
If black students
aspired to go to high school, they were on their own. Raymond and Leonard went
to <st1:city w:st="on">Fort Worth</st1:city>’s
I. M. Terrell High School. Most of these kids didn’t have bikes, much less cars
to make the thirty-one mile journey each way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Raymond’s dad John
Lorenzo “J. L.” George stepped up between 1953 – 1963. He left his upholstery
shop twice a day to drive black students to Cowtown in his Ford station wagon at
his own expense. Local businessmen later chipped in to buy gas. When J. L’s car
got too crowded, a bus was finally supplied. J. L. spent five hours a day toting
school kids, losing this time at his store.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Mitchell Rucker
was another pillar of the black community here, born in 1899. “He was respected
by the white community,” Raymond told me, “but held at a distance.” In the white
community, Rucker was employed at the M & F Bank as a janitor. In the black
community, he was superintendent at Prince Memorial for over fifty years, taught
classes to Senior Citizens for the WPA in 1944, taught soldiers at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Wolters</st1:placename></st1:place>
and was a board member at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Texas</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city w:st="on">Tyler</st1:city> for forty years.
Rucker was one of the main conduits between Weatherford’s white and black
communities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Pappa Ike”
Simmons was another black leader. He attended school at Prince Memorial, before
<st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city>
was built. “Pappa Ike was more of a politician – he knew everybody, running
that mouth 100 miles an hour,” Charlie told me. Ike and brother “Uncle Charlie
Simmons” each raised families off shining shoes at the Palace or <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state> theaters and at
barber shops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Many prominent white
families had black nannies, butlers, and groundskeepers. There was a parallel
but unseen black society here, one from which trusted black men like Rucker,
Pappa Ike and J. L. George could communicate informally with the white
establishment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Equally important,
several white leaders reached out to the black community – Jack Borden, Borden
Seaberry, the Cotton Family, and James and Dorothy Doss, among a few others. Respected
whites and blacks interacted, albeit at a distance. Though not treated equally
by any means, attacking one group would’ve meant attacking their own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Mary Kemp
remembers when the integration meetings took place in the third floor study
hall of the old <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Weatherford</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">High School</st1:placetype></st1:place>. “It was a
great time for all, very peaceful. I remember thinking, ‘This is a great
historical time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Charlie Simmons
was one of the first black students at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Weatherford</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">High School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in 1963. He did well, as hundreds of other black students had before, riding atop
the shoulders of <st1:city w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:city>’s
teachers and black leaders. “It was a simple transition,” he said. “Nothing
happened.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
This would be
another “happily ever after” Weatherford story, save one omission. Unlike so
much of this great town’s heritage, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
hasn’t been added to the roll call of hallowed historic touchstone sites in our
town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Raymond George tried
to ignite a movement to get <st1:city w:st="on">Mount
Pleasant</st1:city> a historical marker some years back, maybe
have the site turned into a museum or park. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
site and several surrounding acres can be accessed from the city’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Love</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Street</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> and four city streets.
The old school’s roof stopped turning back the rain many years ago. This
historic place is not long for the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mount Pleasant</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place> marks a chapter in Weatherford’s
history where two communities became one. Unlike much of the South, this town
pulled it off peacefully and with respect. As I put my camera back in its case,
I noticed graffiti on the wall of Miss Rucker’s last classroom:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
“Hold
on to the ones you love,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
cuz
you never know when you’ll lose them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-42760531414503450732016-08-23T09:25:00.002-07:002016-08-23T09:25:13.037-07:00First Peoples<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>First Peoples<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
The
Tabernacle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Ken</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Falls</st1:placename></st1:place>
grew up in the Lone Cedar – Merriman area. His family has solid <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> roots going back to the 1800s.
More importantly (at least to me), Ken worked for many years as a pumper for
oil companies. His laser-like interest in the study of American Indian cultures
and artifacts, combined with a job that took him onto private property all over
the region, destined Ken to be the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
– Cheaney area’s greatest expert on Native societies. Ken’s lifetime of field
work lays a solid foundation for the future study of prehistoric <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city> and Cheaney.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
When the whole Indian thing came up,
Ken counseled that I should keep an open mind. He knew I’d run across white
settler stories detailing long years of Indian – Anglo conflict. He also knew
more than one flavor of Indian had lived in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ken has a twisted sense of humor,
once you get to know him. Most of Ken’s best stories I can’t include, knowing
mom will read this someday. During his decades as a pumper, stomping around the
pastures and creek beds of rural <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>, Ken <o:p></o:p></div>
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discovered
artifacts. He was able to construct an important map detailing twenty-five
Native American camps within the county, based upon these discoveries. Ken
catalogued what he found through the years, creating a rich historical Native
American tapestry fueling this chapter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To protect the integrity of those
sites, many of which are still relatively undisturbed, their locations are only
described in general terms. They all fall with the “<st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city> – Cheaney Box” detailed on Map I,
however. Rather than recite a long list of amateur finds by Ken and others, I
include only those which document certain time periods and cultures.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sparse archeological study in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> flows from little invasive land
development and a suspicion by local landowners that control of their hard-won
real estate holdings might pass from their hands. Except for some sporadic
surface collection by deer hunters or pre-WWII school kids, whatever the Indians
left out there, still awaits collection and interpretation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city> – Cheaney Native peoples date to <st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place> era man, 13,000 years ago. He walked the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> in fairly large
numbers. Though rough country, these hillsides supplied water, game and because
of the thickness (then) of the Texas Cross Timbers, offered refuge from other
tribes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The dense Cross
Timbers barrier was quite striking for westbound Anglo explorers who had just
crossed a wide open Blackland Prairie, covered with chest-high <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
native grasses. Most of these
travelers recorded this radical change, giving us first hand accounts of what
this country looked like. Randolph Marcy traveled this country extensively
when, saying, “At six different points where I have passed through [the Cross
Timbers], I have found it characterized by the same peculiarities; the trees,
consisting principally of post-oak and black-jack, standing at such intervals
that wagons<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
can’t without difficulty pass
between them in any direction. The soil is thin, sandy, and poorly watered.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
George Wilkins
Kendall with the Texan Santa Fe Expedition of 1841, called the Cross Timbers
"almost impenetrable" and "full of deep and almost impassable
gullies. The ground was covered with a heavy undergrowth of briers and thorn-bushes,
impenetrable even by mules, and these, with the black jacks and post oaks which
thickly studded the broken surface, had to be cut away, their removal only
showing, in bolder relief, the rough and jagged surface of the soil which had
given them existence and nourishment.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Josiah Gregg
(1844) ascribed the forest’s density to fires, natural or started intentionally
by Indians. “Most of the timber appears to be kept small by the continual
inroads of the 'burning prairies for, being killed almost annually, it is
constantly replaced by scions of undergrowth; so that it becomes more and more
dense every reproduction. In some places, however, the oaks are of considerable
size, and able to withstand the conflagrations. The underwood is so matted in
many places with grape-vines, green-briars, etc., as to form almost
impenetrable 'roughs'.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
If a band of
Native peoples were looking for a place in which to disappear, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> would have been hard to beat. The
northern end of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place> and its Colony
Creek tributary cuts through rougher terrain, more cut up with low mountains,
rock outcroppings, hollows, winding creeks and streams. As you move south down
the <st1:country-region w:st="on">Leon</st1:country-region>,
getting closer to the mid-point of the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
– Cheaney Box, the valley widens to a smooth, gentle swale. Cliffs resurface on
the western side of this valley (Reid Ridge), just above <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
continuing south to Nash Creek. Below
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> hill, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place> are within sight of each other on
a broad, flat delta studded by giant pecan trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place> is punctuated by
several deep, rock bottomed “holes” where water would have stood for months
after rains ceased. Numerous springs (Duvall Springs, Young Springs, Winsett
Springs, Ellison Springs, McGough Springs, Nash Springs, Blackwell Springs, and
others) offered passing Native travelers cool, clear water during arid months.
Indians could hunt game that wandered up for a drink. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Many think of <st1:place w:st="on">Central Texas</st1:place> as a land with plentiful lakes, reservoirs
and stock tanks. The vast majority of these are man-made, and those pretty
recently (1950s on). Before the impulse to impound runoff water for future use
began, large bodies of water like <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> were rare. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bill McGough
refers to Mansker’s waters as “the lake” from a distance of ten miles away as
late as the late mid-1800s. These peaceful waters were known to ancient <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
people, and were returned to often.
Its shorelines may have even been fought over, with the fallen dead buried in
the east-facing cliffs nearby (this Native gravesite long since desecrated).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Native peoples
visited <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> in waves. People capable of
recording Native presence (French or Spanish explorers, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Republic</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Texas</st1:placename></st1:place>
soldiers, early ranching settlers) didn’t hit this broad area of <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state> until the
mid-1700s. There are no known eyewitness sightings of Native Americans in our
specific <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> area recorded
until Big Foot Wallace explored just to our east in 1837. From that date until
1874 when the Indians disappeared to reservations or were killed (or driven
underground in at least one Cheaney case), few written accounts fail to mention
Native Americans, usually Comanches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The natural food
basket that Natives sought was found in this stretch of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The valley is filled with giant
pecan trees (“protein that won’t run away,” my new friend and Comanche
ethnologist Linda Pelon reminds). The presence of deer, large panthers and
bears are recorded by early settlers (McGough and Mrs. Jim Hart). Corn would
have grown in these fertile bottoms without the need of soil preparation. Older
interviewees report a greater presence of walnut trees than is found today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bison would have
been hard pressed to get into this rough-terrain valley in large numbers, though
McGough reports them seven miles to the west. Big Foot Wallace also reports
bison near present day Victor, ten miles to the southeast. Either site is well
within the known range of Indian hunting parties. Theoretically, the McGough
Springs <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
bison to the west of Alameda could
have been herded to the Reid Ridge cliff on the western side of Alameda, and
driven over its edge into the fast moving waters below (like Natives did at the
Bonfire Shelter in Val Verde County…a similar, seventy foot high cliff). The
writer was unable to access the Reid Ridge land, to explore this theory, though
the topography, archeology and the nearby presence of bison fit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
If
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>’s human clock started 13,000 years
ago, more than 600 succeeding generations of people could have lived here
during that period of time. Hunters and gatherers looking for food and water,
would have found a sure supply, unlike other inland <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state> areas. We cannot know for sure “who
these Indians were”. We cannot give those peoples definite names, like we later
can the Comanches, at least not yet. Additional investigation could fill those
voids.<o:p></o:p></div>
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All
these “could have” theories would have remained conjecture. That’s where <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Ken</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Falls</st1:placename></st1:place>
and others came to <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>’s
rescue. Ken and I built a ladder of civilizations
together, driven only by the nature of artifacts found. Those artifacts become
markers for amazing periods of civilization in what is now sparsely settled
farmland. Additional hard work by citizens of the City of <st1:city w:st="on">DeLeon</st1:city> corroborated our story.<o:p></o:p></div>
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DeLeon is a bustling town of 2,424 people, located 16 miles
south of <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>.
Amateur and professional archeologists made tremendous progress putting their
Indian puzzle together. The preponderance of DeLeon’s Indians are thought to be
<st1:city w:st="on">Wichita</st1:city>,
divided into the <st1:city w:st="on">Waco</st1:city>
and the Tawakoni. Their culture was a mix of Caddo to the east, <o:p></o:p></div>
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and Great Plains Indians to the west. They farmed a little,
but made frequent hunting trips to the plains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Indians
would have been on foot until the later arrival of the horse-borne Kiowa and
Comanche. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place> bottom, cleared of
underbrush by seasonal flooding, would have been a clear thoroughfare to camps
above and below <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
and DeLeon. The water would have drawn game, just as it drew human life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
If Natives
preceding the Comanches also used smoke signals, smaller hilltop smoke sites
along its course could have reached the major Jameson Peak and Ranger Hill
regional smoke sites easily (a hilltop above Jim Neal Creek, the Schmick Ridge
below Alameda and the Staff (“Round”) Mountain sites all fit subsidiary smoke
signaling location profiles. Physical evidence was found at two of these sites.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Linda
told me to look for Indian footprints along paths of least resistance, when we
first met. She said that many settler roads (even a few highways) follow
prehistoric paths created by Native peoples. Plotting Mr. Falls findings, then
cross-referencing his work with the earliest known detailed road maps of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> (1888 and 1917), yielded a
surprising breakthrough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A north-south
roadway recorded on a 1917 U.S. Soil Conservation Map implies an ancient
roadway connecting several Indian campsites, dating from the Archaic Era, 8,000
years ago. That same route was widely used as a public road until late 1878 by
settlers and travelers, when a new county road was built to its east, on higher
ground. This <st1:street w:st="on">Old Alameda Road</st1:street>
forms the spine of much of this region’s early history, though it is now
largely invisible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bill McGough
(1859) places the intersection of the two overland Comanche War Trails a mile
and a half east of Desdemona, beneath the most important Native regional
mountain landmark, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jameson</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>. This seems to be
roughly corroborated by the 1839 “Map of Texas Compiled from Surveys on record
in the General Land Office of the Republic”, by Richard S. Hunt and Jesse F
Randel. The 1839 map shows a Y intersection that the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city> – Cheaney Box lies completely within.
It is likely the Comanches were not the first to travel this well-defined
migration path, as earlier peoples were also always on the move. This
intersection is eight miles from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>, if McGough is
correct. The 1839 map plots it farther west. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The writer will
only identify the more stirring marker artifacts found, mostly arrowheads,
spear points and mano/metates, that suggest the timelines of the peoples who
left them behind. This discussion is informed by the extensive archeological
study undertaken around DeLeon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b>The Clovis Culture</b> of Paleo-Indian
presence begins with two <st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place> points, found
inside the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
– Cheaney Box. Nearby Native fire pits have not been carbon dated. <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>’s Clovis Man
lived for around 800 years, beginning 13,000 years ago. These <st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place>
points were found near the Rock Ledge Shelter Camp. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place>
points were used on spears, lances and darts – weapons used to “stab” their
prey, not be thrown or shot. These first Paleo-American Stage Indians hunted
the now-extinct camel, the prehistoric horse, four-horned antelope, mastodon
and the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
mammoth, though the mastodon is the
only ancient megafauna whose remains have been found in this valley (to this
writer’s knowledge).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
These early
Paleo-Indians are not thought to have been shelter builders. They might have
lived in the open, in trees, or beneath rock outcroppings. These outcroppings
are an easy walk from the Rock Ledge Shelter Camp site. Earlier shelter
outcroppings could have been softened or eroded away through the years by the
seasonally-flooding <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place> and other man-made
alterations to this river’s nature. Caves lie at the western edge of this site
in two locations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b>The Folsom Culture </b>(9,000 – 8,000 B.
C.)<b> </b>hunted now-extinct ancient
bison, much taller than the animals alive today. These later Paleo-Indians were
slightly more sophisticated in their tool making than the <st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place>
peoples. Folsom tips were found in the same area as the <st1:place w:st="on">Clovis</st1:place>
tips, suggesting the site’s ongoing desirability, or perhaps even a linking
thread between the two people. When I later talked to Comanche Nation
representatives, they told me that their people believe that all Native peoples
share an eternal core linkage. Though it sounded like mystical allegory to me,
a part of their cosmic belief system, the Comanches’ spiritual legacy might
also literally explain the evolution of Native peoples at one location through
time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The
Plano Culture</b> is represented by <st1:city w:st="on">Plainview</st1:city>
points, found at the Upper Leon Fulcrum Camp. This culture’s population lived
from 10,000 - 8,000 years ago. The sheer number of these people is thought to
be greater, as many more artifacts have been found. Metates show up as early as
this culture, but were used constantly until early <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Historic
times. The Fulcrum Camp peoples widely roamed this
valley as flint scraping tools, several manos and metates and stone cleavers
have all been found as far south as the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>
vicinity. An additional cleaver was found on the <st1:street w:st="on">Hamilton Place</st1:street> near <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jim</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Neal</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Creek</st1:placename></st1:place>, ironically, near the site of the
valley’s first Anglo settler foothold. Paths of least resistance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on">Plano</st1:city> artifacts tend to
concentrate at Fulcrum Camp, but scatter liberally at multiple sites along <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jim</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Neal</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Creek</st1:placename></st1:place>, Colony Creek and
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place>. These people’s population grew
through time. The end of this Paleo period is thought to be the
Altithermal Period. Average temperatures rose markedly. Rainfall decreased
6,500-7,500 years ago, producing punishing droughts. Large game like bison
would have suffered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
A large year-round inland lake like <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> would have been necessary for
survival, attracting refugees from the <st1:place w:st="on">Great Plains</st1:place>.
The Antithermal may have made <st1:place w:st="on">West Texas</st1:place>
uninhabitable, scientists believe. If the Antithermal caused bison to
disappear, Indians would be forced to retool, to hunt smaller game along wooded
river bottoms, like rabbit, turtle and deer. This <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>’s native pecan, walnut and
several seed-bearing plants surely added to Alameda-Cheany’s allure. Its
desirability probably produced conflict.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The
Archaic Stage</b> began about 6000 B.C. – 200 B. C. A Bulverde
Point from the Early Archaic Period (3,000 – 2500 B. C.) was found at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> many years ago. A Trinity Tip
was also found farther north at the cornerstone Fulcrum Camp. More paths of
least resistance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
Native’s weapons transitioned to airborne delivery (arrows are shot, not
jabbed). Black-scarred middens begin to appear. There is no evidence of farming
at this stage, or constructed shelters, but again, cliffs and caves are
convenient to both sites.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Middle Archaic Period </b>(8,000 –
1,000 B. C.) announced cooler temperatures and more rainfall. Bison returned to
the recovering grasslands to the west. Pedernales points were found just north of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The</b> <b>Late Archaic Period</b> brought a marked growth of population and
intense interaction. These folks gathered berries, roots, nuts, pecan and the lemon
size bur-oak acorns. They hunted deer, small game, and bison. Refuse mounds
filled with discarded bones, shells, and broken hearth stones formed the “rock
middens” of <st1:place w:st="on">Central Texas</st1:place>, found in two places
within the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
– Cheaney Box. The dart was their primary weapon. They developed a wooden
device called an atlatl to increase the power of their throwing arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pottery
began to be made during this time, as well as organized agriculture. The bow
and arrow replaced the atlatl. The arrow points were much thinner, smaller and
lighter. Though Ruth Terry Denney mentions pottery in her well-written 1941 <i>A Short</i> <i>History of Ranger</i>, the writer did not interview anyone who found
Native pottery within the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>
– Cheaney Box. Anecdotal stories reported pottery finds on the upper <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jim</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Neal</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Creek</st1:placename></st1:place> and also southwest
of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Neither were confirmed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The</b>
<b>Late Prehistoric Period</b> <b>(A. D. 600 – A. D. 1600)</b> fully embraced
the bow and arrow, and pottery. Caddo and Plains Indian cultural influences
meld in this period, just prior to the first Spanish and French ventures into
this part of <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state>.
Perdiz points found at Fulcrum Camp could point to a wide time frame, from the
1800 Historic Period as far back as the Late Prehistoric Period. Alba Points found at Fulcrum seem to better anchor the Late
Prehistoric I Period (1250-750 BP). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on">Fresno</st1:city> points confirm man
a short distance to the northeast, at the large Colony Rock Mountain Camp.
There are Washita Points from this same site, and also farther south along the
Jim Neal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>HISTORIC PERIOD (AD 1600 – Present).</b> The Wacos seem to be in abundance in DeLeon, driven out
later by Lipan Apaches. The points found in the <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city> – Cheaney Box support DeLeon’s
discovery of a sizable <st1:city w:st="on">Waco</st1:city>
civilization. Any Wacos left behind were surely eliminated by the Comanches,
beginning around 1740.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Indian campsites around DeLeon seem to be of two types –
the first contained flint arrow points. The second contained large spearheads,
hand axes, points with corner tangs, and grinding manos or “squaw rocks”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where the Leon and Sabanna merge south of DeLeon (eighteen
miles south of <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>)
a large “war camp” was found. “It was in blow sand that was originally about
two and one half feet deep but has since exposed eleven small fire place mounds
about two feet in height and three feet in diameter at its base.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The major site of the second type was located east of De <st1:country-region w:st="on">Leon</st1:country-region> on the
west bank of the <st1:country-region w:st="on">Leon</st1:country-region>.
It covered an acre of ground and was a small hill so littered with mussel
shells as to resemble one of the shell heaps common on the coast. This site
produced a great many drills, mortars and manos, arrowpoints, large
spearpoints, hand axes and flint scrapers.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two professional digs near DeLeon found “Central Texas
Aspect” <st1:city w:st="on">Clifton</st1:city>,
Scallorn, Granbury and Perdiz points. A second division of the Neo-American
Stage called the Henrietta Focus found Harrell, <st1:city w:st="on">Fresno</st1:city> and Young Points. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Edwards</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Plateau</st1:placename></st1:place> aspect of the Archaic Stage
found Pedernales, Martindale and Darl points. In rough terms, DeLeon’s
prehistoric history seems to mirror <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>’s,
a short distance to its north.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ruth
Terry Denny believes that various flavors of Caddo were pushed into this area
from <st1:place w:st="on">East Texas</st1:place> during this period by early
Anglo settlers. Earthen berms visually consistent with Caddo mounds were
observed at two sites in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
both on land the writer could not access. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Denny
tells us “the Indians inhabiting the central part of
the State when (the) white man was moving West were, for the most part, these
speaking dialects of the Caddo language. They were the Caddos, Wacos, <st1:city w:st="on">Wichitas</st1:city>, Keechies,
Andarkos, Tejas, Ionies, Adaes, Bedias, Ayish, Towash, Tawakanas, and the
Nachodoches. These tribes were builders of permanent homes, and cultivated
corn, melons, and vegetables for their <o:p></o:p></div>
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own use. Those inhabiting the North Central part of <st1:state w:st="on">Texas</st1:state> were the Caddos,
Wacos, Keechies, Witchitas, and Towash tribes”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Denny offers fascinating clues. “The meal bowls, pestles,
stone-hoos, and most of the flint artifacts found in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
were left by the Caddos and kindred tribes. The meal bowls vary a great deal.
Some were made of thin rock which required experienced and skilled hands in
shaping them. Perhaps these were the ones taken with them when they moved camp.
Others have been found which were too heavy to have been moved any considerable
distance. Some times round holes about the size of post holes were found in
large sand rocks or in limestone boulders which seem to indicate the site of a
permanent camp. Some camp sites have been found where it seems that those bowls
were purposely broken. This is thought to have been done to prevent their
falling into the hands of their enemies. Arrowheads have been found in many
sizes and types. Tomahawks vary so much that hardly any two are very much
alike.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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When French, Spanish and Anglo explorers hit this land,
Native fortunes declined rapidly, on several fronts. Though scattered battles
killed both Indians and European explorers, the disease the fair-complected men
brought with them turned out to be their most effective weapon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The introduction of the horse by the Spaniards near <st1:city w:st="on">Taos</st1:city> and the rifle by the
French and Spanish helped the Apache and Comanche grow to dominate the region’s
more peaceful Caddo. Comanche hegemony continued to grow to the south,
eventually beyond the <st1:city w:st="on">Rio Grande</st1:city>
into <st1:country-region w:st="on">Mexico</st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Comanches probably beat Anglo covered wagons to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> by no more than
120 years (1740 versus 1859). The Comanches are thought to have swooped down
from the north (Native roads tend to run north to south, unlike Anglo east to
west paths). Some Native historians believe conversely that earlier peoples
were mixed into the Comanche population. Either way, the Comanches (and Kiowas)
were operating full bore in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eastland</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> when the first
Anglo settlers arrived at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> and Blair’s Fort to
its east. <o:p></o:p></div>
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First hand, written reports from this fated meeting
punctuate the beginning of <st1:city w:st="on">Alameda</st1:city>’s
recorded history. Though written in heroic language, and clearly from the Anglo
writers’ sole perspectives, they offer a look at this valley that is hard to
imagine today. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Pre-Comanche First Peoples arrived at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mansker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Leon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in hundreds of waves through the years. They stayed for a while, got what they
needed, then history’s tide forced them to pack up and leave (or be killed
trying). The Native folks who stayed behind are buried here, in cemeteries off
in the woods, victims of disease or other tribes or old age or each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The parade of the Natives described in this chapter got the
wakeup call of their lives when “who came next” arrived. One morning many moons
ago, these mostly peaceful people heard the sound of mustang hoof beats in the
distance. Perhaps blood-curdling war cries filled the stilled air. Within the
space of a few years, the Comanche had displaced all who came before. And the
Comanche dug in, preparing for what came next.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-35539055116148984612016-07-26T08:30:00.000-07:002016-07-26T08:30:13.494-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>B-17F Crashes and Burns</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Four Miles South of Mineral Wells</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>By Jeff Clark</b></div>
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thank you for your request. Attached is a copy of the accident report covering the loss of B-17F, s/n 42-5719, at Mineral Wells TX on 11 March 1943…We hope this information is of value to you.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m staring at a faded copy of a “War Department – U.S. Army Air Forces Report of Aircraft Accident.” The men flying that plane are no longer around to interview. This sheaf of papers will have to tell their story.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>First Lieutenant Jack A. Nilsson; 2nd Lieutenant William F. Pitts of March Field, California; 2nd Lieutenant Morgan A. Regan; Staff Sergeant James F. Deaver of Bluff Dale, Texas; Sergeant Jamieson P. Ware of Dallas; William R. Thaman of Ohio; Corporal Olen G. Diggs of Lubbock and Private Joseph F. Yonack of Dallas are recorded on the Personnel Listing.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson was Pilot Instructor for the training mission, with Pitts and Regan on board as student pilots. Five enlisted men rounded out their crew. All were stationed at the Army Air Forces Advanced Flying School, members of the 955th School Squadron, Hobbs Field, New Mexico.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There is an extensive listing of damage, of what investigators found smoldering on the ground. By the time you read this, this plane crash’s anniversary will be two weeks away.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The men’s B-17F is known as a “flying fortress” four-engine heavy bomber, developed in the 1930s, a high-flying aircraft able to suffer massive combat damage and still stay in the air. The B-17 dropped more bombs than any other aircraft type during WWII.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This fated plane took off from Hobbs Army Air base on a navigational training flight March 11, 1943 at about 1500 hours. The crew received clearance to fly at 8,500 feet to Amarillo, then Tulsa, Shreveport, turning east to Dallas and then on to Fort Worth, where they were to RON (remain over night), returning to Hobbs the following day.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson writes, “I knew the weather was bad at Fort Worth…We had approximately 2,500 gallons of gasoline aboard and only a 6 ½ hour flight to make.” They pushed along at 180 mph for the first two hours, hoping to beat worsening weather developing around Cowtown.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson recalculated fuel consumption. “I discovered we were consuming it at an extravagant rate”. They throttled back to 1,850 RPMs. Speed dropped to 160 mph.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As they approached Amarillo around 1615 hours, transmitter trouble prevented them from making radio contact until they were 40 miles east. They were told to proceed to Tulsa. About 60 miles southeast of Tulsa, electrical storms prevented them from keeping radio contact with Shreveport. Nilsson relates “the static was so severe that we couldn’t hear the S. P. Range. We climbed to 14,000 feet in order to get on top of the overcast.” They finally reestablished radio contact.<br />
The report states that except for “excessive fuel consumption and increasingly bad weather,” the flight was normal until the plane left Shreveport. It began to pick up ice. The pilot tube froze (used to measure air speed), but pilot heat was turned on and the instrument came back online. The pilot lifted the plane to escape icing and to maintain radio contact. Student Pilot Pitts said, “My radio would go out when I got into the clouds. We got over Shreveport so we could follow the beam and this side of Shreveport we ran into an electrical storm…When I got into the overcast, the radio wouldn’t work at all.” Rounding Shreveport, the plane turned east toward Dallas.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cruising at 14,000 feet on the way to Dallas, they ran into large build ups of clouds and again started to pick up ice. They had to climb to 18,000 feet to get above the icing and retain radio contact.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As they approached Dallas, they dropped down into the overcast at 14,000 feet. They maintained radio contact this time. When they were over Dallas Radio Station at 2030 CWT, the ceiling in Fort Worth was reported at 800 feet.<br />
“Contact Fort Worth for further instructions.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Fort Worth told them to descend to 3,000 feet. The crew began going through their landing checklist while waiting clearance to make a procedure let down into Tarrant Field (later Carswell AFB).<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Fort Worth reported a ceiling of 300 feet. “No go on your landing.” Climb to 8,000 feet and head for Abilene. The ceiling there was supposed to be 1,000 feet.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pilot Pitts remembered, “As we came into Fort Worth and went on out the north leg for procedure let down, the ceiling dropped to 300 feet and in a very little while it was down to 100 feet and he told us to go to Abilene. As I was going around to make a 180 degree turn to come back onto the beam, my No. 1 engine went out….we were at 3,000 feet then.” The three-bladed prop fell silent.<br />
Nilsson reached down between his student pilot and copilot and pushed the feathering button to reduce drag. The oil pressure slowly dropped to 30 lbs. They were advised there was an airliner coming in underneath them somewhere.<br />
The crippled plane managed to climb to 8,000 feet on their three remaining engines. They only had 600 gallons remaining, enough for two more hours of flight. Nilsson transferred the gas from their silent No. 1 engine to the remaining three engines. He believed he could make it all the way back to Hobbs if he had to.<br />
“The co-pilot and I trimmed ship as fast as possible, with full right rudder,” Pitts said. “Both of us were standing on the rudder. At the same time we were trying to maintain altitude.”<br />
The weather outside continued to worsen.<br />
About that time the No. 2 engine went out. It would not feather. Pitts called for full power on the remaining two engines. He called out that he needed help controlling the aircraft. Co-pilot Lt. Regan “gave all the help he could to the pilot by helping him hold full right rudder and setting the trim tabs in an effort to keep the airplane flying straight and level.” It made two complete turns to the left.<br />
The left side of the plane was silent.<br />
The right side rumbled and screamed aloud under full power.<br />
Pitts wrote, “I was watching the flying instruments at the time but I knew No. 2 was out when I felt the plane lurch.” The left wing lowered. They were fighting to keep their aircraft level.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pitts lets us look over his shoulder. “We asked (Fort Worth) for emergency landing fields and they wanted to know where we were. We couldn’t give our exact location because we were going around in circles with little fuel left and a 100 foot ceiling all around.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They only had 500 gallons of fuel left.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson attempted to contact Abilene by radio, but couldn’t. Regan tells us, “We continued to try to get the Abilene beam. Lt. Nilsson had tried several times to set the radio but we could only get “jumble”. We reported this fact to the Fort Worth radio and asked for instructions but didn’t get any.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The men were alone.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The pilot and copilot were unable to control the plane. They were going down. Air speed fell to 115 mph. They couldn’t keep a compass heading. Nilsson estimated they were 50 miles from Fort Worth with a ceiling no more than 600 – 800 feet.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I decided to abandon the airplane,” Nilsson said. He told the engineer to get the crew into their parachutes and to stand by for his command to jump.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I pulled the emergency release and opened the bomb bay doors and dropped the bomb bay tanks.” The plane had fallen to 6,000 feet.<br />
“Jump!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson signaled Lt. Regan to “tell pilot Lt. Pitts to cut the switch and then jump through the bomb bay. Lt. Pitts forgot to cut the switch before jumping.” Nilsson was the last to leave the doomed aircraft.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He floated down, finally getting below the overcast. He could see the lights of Mineral Wells off to the north. He hit the ground hard, spraining his ankle and left foot. “I hobbled to a highway and a car stopped who had already picked up Lt. Pitts. By this time the Fire Department and the Highway Patrol had arrived. I gave them the names of the crew so they could be found and picked up. The airplane crashed three or four hundred yards from where I landed.”<br />
Four miles south of Mineral Wells their downed B-17F warbird lay aflame in a scrub oak pasture. The Engineering Section at Patterson Field, Ohio later examined the power plants and diagnosed the cause of the crash as “dust”.<br />
I’m still reading the report, my fingers gripping the 68-year-old report a little too hard. “First Lt. Jack A. Nilsson is to be highly commended for the coolness displayed in this emergency, and for evacuating his crew in sufficient time to prevent loss of life.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Regan later tells that this plane had made a previous trip to Santa Ana where their No 4 engine went out. They were able to feather it and land at Williams Field. I was thankful this crew survived their trial in the skies above Mineral Wells.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Researching this story I began to find that mechanical failures and a “just make it work” mindset was SOP back then. We were at war. Get in the air. Get in the fight.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>2nd Lt. Pitts later became Lt. General William F. Pitts. He retired in 1975 with a staggering list of accomplishments including Commander of the Fifteenth Air Force, Strategic Air Command headquartered at March Air Force Base, CA. Their mixed force of recon aircraft and bombers, along with missiles, conducted operations across the Western U.S. and Alaska.<br />
General Pitts was born at March Field, now March Air Force Base, CA in 1919. He was chief of the Senate Liaison Office for Secretary of Air Force. He commanded the 327th Air Division in Taiwan, was chief of the Air Force Section of the Military Advisory Group to the Republic of China, was Commander of Third Air Force, U.S. Air Forces in Europe, stationed in England. He led the Sixth Allied Tactical Air Force Commander in Turkey. General Pitts received many decorations and awards.<br />
Back in the final months of WWII, Pitts went to Tinian Island in the Marianas with his squadron where he flew 25 missions against Japan as lead crew commander in B-29s. Pitts’ training commander from that Mineral Wells crash landing Capt. Jack A. Nilsson also flew B-29 missions from the Marianas. Surely the two men saw each other there.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mission 181 was destined to scramble the largest number of B-29s into the air that ever participated together on a single mission during WWII. During the night of May 23-24, 1945, 562 B-29s were sent to bomb urban-industrial targets in Tokyo, south of the Imperial Palace, along the west side of the Tokyo Harbor.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nilsson’s crew number 41 plane that night was tagged T46. Its roster included, Capt. Jack A. Nilsson, Pilot 1st Lt. Adolph C Zastara, Navigator 1st Lt. Eric Schlecht, Bombardier Capt. Loyd R Turk, Flight Engineer 2nd Lt. Daniel J Murphy, Radio Operator S/Sgt Eugene P Florio, CFC Gunner T/Sgt Faud J. Smith, Left Gunner T/Sgt. Robert Starevich, Right Gunner Sgt.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joe McQuade, Radar Operator S/Sgt.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norbert H Springman, and Tail Gunner S/Sgt. John C. DeVaney.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“All aircraft bombed the primary target visually with good results.”<br />
Nilsson’s plane came under heavy fire, crashing during their bombing run against the City of Toukyou on May 24, 1945, one kilometer off the east coast district of Oomori, Tokyo Haneda. Nilsson was thought to be the pilot at the time. His plane was one of 17 B-29s lost that day on Mission 181. His body was never recovered.<br />
Germany had surrendered 17 days earlier. B-29s dropped atomic bombs on Japan August 6th and again on August 9th. Japan surrendered August 14, 1945.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One man who walked out of that 1943 Mineral Wells pasture went on to lead thousands in the defense of this nation for over four decades, all over the world. Another gave his life over the skies of Tokyo 6,410 miles west of Palo Pinto County. Heroes walked among us.<br />
<br />
Special thanks to O. B. “Butter” Bridier, to the Department of the Air Force, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama, to Richard “Doc” Warner, Civ, USAF 7th Bomb Wing Curator/Historian (Dyess AFB), Rae Wooten, Michael Manelis, and to Paul G. Ross, whose father James S. Ross was shot down the same night as Capt. Nilsson.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-17496257737877320512016-07-26T08:29:00.000-07:002016-07-26T08:29:21.332-07:00albert whitehead story<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Backyard Burials Have Stopped,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Mysterious Cause Remains<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>By Jeff Clark<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Albert Whitehead buried people in
his back yard. There, I said it. Before you phone the sheriff, please know that
the last spade full of dirt was tamped into place back in 1960. Appropriately, this
last burial was Albert himself. At least 17 graves preceded his, behind that wood-framed
Whitehead house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Where
the garden should’ve been.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Mr.
Whitehead was a good guy, a pillar of the Thurber community. His house sat on a
street among many other houses, roughly east, north-east of where New York Hill
Restaurant sits today. In the vernacular of the day, he was “colored”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I
can’t imagine that his neighbors back then didn’t know what was going on. Back
behind the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Albert
Whitehead towered above folks at six foot four, a large booming voice and a
“hearty laugh” to match. One imagines a twinkle in his eye, a joke just told,
in the photographs I’ve seen of this gentleman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Mr.
Whitehead was a little boy during the Civil War. He died at 98 years of age,
four years before LBJ’s civil rights legislation was signed into law. He never
heard Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Didn’t
sound like he needed to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
I like Albert. He had five wives. A real
contender. He may have had two at once, near the end. He didn’t care what folks
thought. He married his last known wife Liza when he was 84. Hope springs
eternal. Liza was the daughter of his fourth wife Belle (Liza conceived by
another man). Albert outlived all of his wives, though he produced no surviving
offspring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Albert
was well liked in Thurber, Grant Town, Thurber Junction and Mingus. Said to be
the son of slaves, the story was told that Albert walked the 60 miles to
Thurber from <st1:city w:st="on">Fort Worth</st1:city>,
looking for work in the winter of 1903. He’d just completed a railroad
construction job. Why he didn’t take the train is not known. The T & P Coal
Co. imported many of its workers of whatever color to Thurber by train.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Toward
the end of Albert’s foot-bound journey, he navigated by following the black
coal-fired smoke clouds that consumed that coal mining boomtown’s sky. When he
topped the Gordon Cutoff hill, he saw Thurber’s brick plant, power house, town
square and many neatly-tended rows of red and green miner’s homes. They say
that the hope of a fresh start fired his imagination and fueled his steps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Albert’s house, Number 265, was just
north of the black chain link fenced cemetery, unlabeled at the back of the
puzzlingly-named W. K. Gordon Museum of Industrial History. If you’ve visited
the turquoise-colored miner’s house down the slope from New York Hill, that’s likely
what Albert’s home looked like. His house was near the west end of the Thurber
Brick Yard. If you look at the large <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Whitehead</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>, then imagine it
being behind this man’s small house, you see very quickly that Albert had a
yard full.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
By 1936, most everything was gone
from Thurber, but the T & P allowed Albert to stay, 74 years old and
nowhere else to go. Albert worked a gray Jenny mule around the Thurber
Junction/Mingus area about 1950, the last remembered working mule in those
parts. Albert plowed gardens for local residents and did other odd jobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
Saturdays
this man would hitch his mule to his wagon and drive with his wife Liza two
miles north to Thurber Junction/Mingus for supplies. He visited his white
friends and was known to enjoy a few quarts of beer. Sometimes a second black
woman rode with the couple, giving rise to the rumor that Albert was now
marrying two-at-a-time. The story was that Wife Number Two had run her husband
off and moved in with Albert and Liza. Miss Liza would ride up front with
Albert on the wagon seat, while his backup bride rode behind, her legs dangling
off the rear end of his wagon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Albert’s Thurber house burned around
1955, so the Whiteheads moved to Stephenville. Liza died two years later and
was buried behind where their house used to be. Three years after that, Albert
passed away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
If you scan historical documents,
then examine the site itself, it appears that five male adults, seven female
adults, four male children and one male infant are at rest there. The only
marked graves are Liza Whitehead (1875-1957), Albert Whitehead (1862 – 1960)
and Henryetta Halversen (April 9, 1862 – <st1:date day="29" ls="trans" month="8" w:st="on" year="19">August 29, 19</st1:date>36). Henryetta could have been a
wife, mother-in-law or friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
These
three names are recorded on steel funeral home nameplates. There are no marble
tombstones, nor any sign announcing this site as a cemetery. Oral history suggests
that the unknowns could be Mr. & Mrs. Ed Jackson and John Bennett. It has
been suggested that some of Albert’s wives may be buried here. One of the male
children (stillborn) is thought to be Albert’s son (Nathan Griffin?).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Why did Albert not take these people
to the black section of the company-owned <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Thurber</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>
a mere quarter of a mile away? Graves were free for the asking. What would T
& P Coal Co. management have thought about an employee burying people in
his backyard (on company property)? T & P ran its town in a very round peg,
round hole manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
The
ground in the black section of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Thurber</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> hill is famous
for its shallow rockiness. Graves were often dug with dynamite, with miners
down the hill asking “who died?” when periodic explosions rang out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
There’s a story that the road to the
black section of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Thurber</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> washed out in
the 1930s (though the stillborn child, if indeed buried in Albert’s yard,
predates this). There are several other 1930s burials in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Thurber</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
nonetheless, so this reason seems unlikely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
When Thurber was winding down,
Albert remained behind as a caretaker for the few buildings and houses that
were not torn down or moved. When Texas & Pacific brass traveled out from
Cowtown to hunt and fish, Mr. Whitehead served as their guide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Whitehead</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place>
was neglected during the 1960s, becoming overgrown with mesquite and cactus.
Cattle grazed among the fallen brown earth rocks. It’s not known if any marble
tombstones were ever there. Old timers would mention that there was a cemetery
“over there” from time to time and point below New York Hill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Roland McMinn, a local historian and
brick collector from Mineral Wells was exploring around the old Thurber Brick
Yard around 1986 when he happened upon the little cemetery. After showing some
friends his discovery, the site was cleaned and a fence was built. At the time,
only seven graves were visible. There is no way to know the first burial date,
though it’s thought to be after 1903, when Albert moved in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Few hard and fast answers concerning
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Whitehead</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> or why it got started remain. The
graveyard is fenced. The grass is mowed. And Mr. Whitehead isn’t talking. The
burials have stopped, for now…<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i> Special
thanks to Leo S. Bielinski, Ph. D. </i>Jeff may be reached at
jeffclarktexas@gmail.com..<o:p></o:p></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-55292755560182555012016-07-12T08:37:00.000-07:002016-07-12T08:37:02.070-07:00A Farmer and a Friend<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>A Farmer and a Friend<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got a call from a friend, who got a call from a farmer a
week or so back. The farmer has a place near the Baker Community, one of the
first places to be settled in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Almost inside the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hood</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> line. That’d be Granbury. There’s
some trees out in the middle of a pasture, he told my friend. There might be a
stone, maybe a few, buried under this tree. We made plans to meet the man. To
take a look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We pull up to a pasture gate, two Chevy pickups. Shake
hands. It’s impressive when a landowner calls. Like high school girls, they
usually have to be convinced, talked into it. They usually don’t call back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We follow this man into his pasture, great looking cattle
bounding up behind our truck, its bed bereft of cubed feed. We pull up to a
small clump of trees – a hackberry, an oak, some biting undergrowth. From the
truck we see nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walk up. The man points at the ground. We see a small
piece of flat stone, level with, buried in, the ground. The clump of trees sits
above the rest of this field, maybe eight inches. The field’s been plowed, this
area part of the county since the 1850s. For some reason, this small patch has
never been cultivated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend pulls out a whisk broom, some water, goes to
brushing and careful cleaning. Ridges, then letters become visible in the hard
brown limestone face. The rock smiles. We smile. We start digging. Carefully.
And prying. And pulling. Carefully. The stone is four inches thick, taller than
it should be, likely once the bottom of a creek half a mile away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend is older. I’ve seen better days. We get a long pry
bar and make noises I won’t repeat and manage to stand this stone up,
vertically, as it was once intended. I’ve placed a water bottle at the bottom of
the photo of the stone, to show how big it is, to show how strong we are. The
stone is easily ten tons (or maybe 500 pounds). It hurt me bad that day, and
worse the next morning. This is a real live tombstone, every surface of its
huge face carved by hand. Its center hatched design one of the most elaborate
I’ve ever seen. This cemetery’s not on the map. But it will be, on Monday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pretending to look around, really to thwart the need for
Careflight, we notice other rectangular stones, likely footstones to other
graves. We end up digging out two other large tombstone candidates. This is
always the first step, figuring out if a stone is a tombstone or as Monica
might’ve once have said, if sometime a rock is just a rock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The farmer agrees to let the Parker County Abandoned Cemetery
Association fence the site, once its boundaries are determined. Members will
research this land, pore through county records, interview old timers and figure
out who these three or fifty people were. Are. I didn’t hear anybody, but it
was our first morning together. The elaborate carving on one stone makes us
wonder if this wasn’t Somebody. Everybody’s somebody, but you know what I mean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve included some more photos in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Parker</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
photo file. I’ve enhanced one, trying to share the intricate cross-hatching
(Civil War?) and the letters we were able to make out. As this saga progresses,
I’ll write again. There’s always more to find.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bless this landowner. And the man that drove me out there.
This is probably his 40<sup>th</sup> cemetery in these parts to dig or research
or fence or otherwise bring back into the fold. Doing the right thing. Putting
other people and their stories ahead of our own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That day was a needed breath of fresh clean air to me. To
three.<o:p></o:p></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-46185447404179520772016-07-01T18:31:00.003-07:002016-07-01T18:31:19.532-07:00Miss Walton<div style="text-align: center;">
Miss Walton</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Jeff Clark</div>
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“My time isn’t worth very much,” the older voice had warned me on the phone. I’m driving west this morning to visit ninety-one-year-old Minnie Walton. Miss Walton graduated Alameda High School April 28, 1933. She lives at Mineral Well’s Crazy Water Hotel, built in 1927. The hotel gets its name from a local woman, crazy they say, who drank from Water Well Three beneath where the building is now and was healed. Eighty-one years later, the Crazy Water’s brick shell houses a glorified rest home. <br />
I pull into Mineral Wells a little early. The once resort hotel soars six stories into unending sky. I haven’t planned for this, my fear of heights and all. I walk into the expansive, once-palatial lobby. Dusty paneled walls and gilt chandeliers grace a wide stairway up to the promenade. Young Judy Garland, Tom Mix, Gen. John J. Pershing, D. W. Griffith, Bob Wills and one bank robbing couple using made up names strode these marble floors, signed in at the now-vacant registration desk against that far wall over there. Prohibition booze fueled midnight flappers dancing the Charleston to big band orchestras atop the glass-walled rooftop high above us, broadcast by radio all over the South. Today the lobby is dark, two clumps of old people sitting here and over by the piano on past-its-prime cast off furniture.<br />
Breakfast was served at eight, about an hour ago. Whoever came down to eat is nowhere to be seen now. I meet a nice man. Call Miss Walton on the house phone, he suggests, seeing that I’m lost. Minnie answers on the second ring--Room 438, the fourth floor, great, the elevator. Twin doors open. The elevator is cruelly slow, enjoying itself – wobbly, unsure. Days pass while it totters one floor at a time--uncertain. The tomblike, weathered box mercifully opens, releasing me onto the fourth floor at last. There are no paintings, no pictures in this monotonous hallway of painted concrete walls.<br />
Minnie pokes her head out from an opening four doors to my right. “I’m down here.” Her crowded room might be ten by twelve, one small window on the far wall, drapes tightly shut. Her bed boasts an intricate, brightly-colored patchwork quilt. A breathing machine the size of a console TV waits on the floor beside the bed. The room is clean, but there’s clutter everywhere. This woman’s life possessions have followed her here.<br />
She asks me to sit down, in either her wheelchair or a five-wheeled stenographer’s roll around, pillows in the seats of each. Minnie is a small woman, frail. She takes short, shallow labored breaths. She has painstakingly arranged old photos all over the top of her bed. We begin our visit.<br />
Minnie’s mind is sharp, precise, though she forgets names sometimes. She thinks she has Alzheimer’s, but she’s too alert. Her memories unspool like newsreels. She confirms that her doctor thinks she’s fine as well, but you can tell the Alzheimer ghost is on her mind.<br />
Miss Walton attended first grade at the Alameda School, then grades two through seven at Cheaney’s school up the dirt road. Minnie remembers the wood frame Cheaney School as a one room building, a movable partition wall separating the space into two classrooms. Mr. Stephens or Stephenson was her teacher. The Alameda Trustees successfully talked Minnie’s momma into letting this bright young girl return to Alameda in the eighth grade, sweetened by the promise of a bus ride. I glance at the oxygen machine on the floor behind her.<br />
Minnie never married. I don’t bring it up. I don’t know it for 100% true while we talk, but that’s the direction her family names lead me – still a Walton, her maiden name. It appears she merged into her brother’s family at some point as she traveled through life. He’s gone now. His daughter lives south of town.<br />
Minnie could hear Alameda School’s first bell from their house across the dirt road, the Tucker place to their east, Ollie Pilgrim’s store to the south. That black Liberty Bell-like alarum stood high on a steel pole, pulled by a knotted rope by farm kid hands from the ground. Miss Walton remembers with a smile when the Alameda and Cheaney schools became one. Jagged feelings were raw with some about the consolidation, certain folks suspecting that Cheaney joining Alameda would leech identity from Cheaney, the community. <br />
Both school buildings were moved from opposite ends of each settlement, slamming together like bookends on the new midpoint campus. The Cheaney structure<br />
came to a stop on the northern “Cheaney” end of the schoolyard. Alameda’s building was planted on the southern, “Alameda” side of its new neighbor.<br />
Times were hard, she told me. Students could buy six school photos of themselves for twenty-five cents. She and her siblings did without. That money could buy food. The large class photo of the entire school cost one dollar, but in 1933 it too was out of the question for a family struggling from one day to the next. Minnie borrowed a friend’s all-school photo after she was grown, which she had copied. Her delicate fingers hold the treasure. She passes it across for me to take a look.<br />
Miss Walton grew up in a log house, bigger than a cabin, later expanded with plank rooms on two sides. A third plank room, an attached second building, was added later. The log house survived into the 1940s. The boys slept in a loft above the main room. Drinking water was drawn from their cistern, a rock-lined hole in the ground into which rain water flowed from gutters nailed to the house. Later a clear water well was dug northwest of their home. Wells were a little unusual in that sandy country back then. That fresh well water flowed into a trough built to pass under the Walton’s fence facing the New Alameda Road (now FM 571) so neighbors and passersby could partake.<br />
Minnie’s grandfather George Washington Love (1858-1922) moved to the Cheaney Community from East Texas, following some of his children who had already migrated to Eastland County. Three Love boys ended up marrying three Tucker girls from the Tucker farm next door. Joe Tucker was her grandpa’s favorite son-in-law. Joe seemed to help with everything, including digging that well. Miss Walton’s parents<br />
were William “Willie” Everett Walton and Martha Margaret “Mattie” Love Walton. William and Mattie married at the Love home in 1915. <br />
Minnie Walton was ten months old when her daddy tragically died of pneumonia in 1918. She never knew him. Her mother was left with two babies and one on the way. Minnie’s sister Josie died in 1932, also of pneumonia.<br />
Miss Walton’s grandmother started having health problems about this time – falling and getting hurt. She’d been taking strychnine pills hoping to get better, a common practice back then. Minnie’s grandmother severely burned herself with a pot of hot coffee after one fall. Minnie’s granddad had a long talk with her mom Mattie one day – with her husband dead, and his wife unable to be left alone, their family was in a fix, he told her. They patched two limping households together and made it work.<br />
The Waltons farmed peanuts like most of the community. Although times were tough and they had no money, Minnie said they never went hungry. The family worked a vegetable garden, had eggs, milk, and hogs. Minnie later moved with her mom to Ranger, working at the Ranger Peanut Mill, then a shirt factory owned by O. K. and Myvan Gray. Minnie followed that shirt factory to Brownwood in 1950, later working for Brownwood Manufacturing Company, retiring in 1982.<br />
Miss Walton went to school with a girl named Minnie Bell Browning (her mother was a Cheaney), who she believes was an only child. Minnie Bell wanted a pair of gold fish for one of her teenage birthdays, Miss Walton remembers. The big day arrived. Minnie Bell’s wish arrived in a big round glass fish bowl. She took meticulous<br />
care of those fish and they grew and grew. They finally got so big that the family decided to put them outside in the water trough.<br />
The gold fish went to having babies. It got to where there were more and more fish. So Minnie’s dad built a great big fish pond on the back side of their place. He also built a fence around the pond, with a gate.<br />
Miss Walton paused, looked down at her hands, remembering. Years went by and her friend Minnie Bell’s fish prospered. But the little girl grew up, married a boy from up the road, Obie Elrod, and moved away to make a life. One Mothers Day, Minnie Bell returned home to celebrate with all her childhood family – parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. <br />
Minnie Bell had one small son, Burnice “Dale” Elrod – fifteen months old, her first born. The older children played and cut up that warm spring day as the grown ups visited up at the house. One of the kids’ stops on that carefree afternoon was the gold fish pond. But as the big kids moved on to their next adventure, they left the gate protecting the gold fish pond standing open. Fifteen-month-old Dale managed to toddle in, climbed to the top of the tank, and looked down into the bubbling water. Imagine the delight in the young boy’s eyes, seeing shapes of gold and orange dart back and forth in the wonderland beneath him. The little boy fell in. No one was close by. He drowned. Miss Walton and I sat silently, for more than a moment.<br />
Even now it’s a hard story for her to tell. Her friend from school, a young loving first-time mom, returning to her childhood home on Mother’s Day, her only child,<br />
dead, pulled from the gold fish pond she wished for, she loved as a little girl. Her little boy was laid to rest May 15, 1934 in Desdemona’s Howard Cemetery.<br />
Miss Walton cherishes Alameda’s good times and the great friends she enjoyed as a girl there. We talk about her current life as I wind up to leave. I thank her for her time. She takes a Kleenex in her hand, and repeats “my time isn’t worth much anymore”. The hotel sponsors activities and little outings, she tells me, but it hurts her to ride in a car for very long. She pretty well stays here, in this little room, going downstairs three times a day for meals. She can visit with other residents whenever she wants, she assures me. I remember the cold, uninviting hallway – the silence.<br />
When I arrived she had asked me to close the door--the bright sun hurt her eyes. Standing to leave, shaking her gentle hand, I pull the wooden opening closed behind me, glad of having met her. I stand alone in the sterile hallway, looking at the outside of her many-times-painted door resting in its frame. I cross myself, Father, Son and Holy Spirit--do it without thinking, like swatting a fly from your face. A blessing or a petition, I’m still not sure, but involuntary nonetheless.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Jana drives back to the Crazy Water the next morning with my jabbering four-year-old Savannah, returning photos Minnie let me copy. I ask Jana some follow ups for Minnie about the pictures. Also, woman to woman, to delicately explore, if the chance presents itself -- about kids, about husbands.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Minnie was quite vague when I asked about children and marriage,” Jana tells me that night, after our own children are asleep. “She told me her childhood nickname<br />
was Monk. She got a kick out of Savannah, gave her a sucker. I asked if she had any children of her own. She said no. Said she never married. I said Oh. She shared that she just never found the right one. She seemed reluctant to talk about it. Kind of sad, like there was something she’d missed, but moved on in the conversation without a second thought. I didn’t press it further.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s been a year since I last saw Minnie. I still call her with obscure questions, her memory better than most. Minnie’s ridden up and down that rickety elevator over 2,100 times since her own wooden door closed to me that day. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s almost five, on the clock by this computer, on the clock in Minnie’s room. She’ll stand, maybe put on a sweater. She’ll head down the hall, push the prehistoric Down button, and wait. She’ll ride to the lobby, walk into the dining room. What will they serve? Will the dining room be loud or somber? Will she push into a table full of friends to gossip, or sit alone in a corner, eyes down? When dinner’s over, that elevator will carry her back to her room, will carry her home.<br />
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-15633528890385218462016-06-08T19:29:00.002-07:002016-06-08T19:29:23.432-07:00<span style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">So we're blowing through the woods on the green Polaris at the speed of sound, checking out a beautiful big ranch for a trusted client. "Hold up!" I tell my buddy. I see something off in the woods. We back up. Sure enough, it's stacked rock graves. Several. Green moss growing on squarish fieldstones drug up from the creek at the bottom of this hill. In the big middle of nowhere. Don't ask. It always takes my breath away...some family or families made a life back here somehow, or maybe not, late 1800s, early 1900s. Out of six graves (or maybe there were more, unmarked, beneath us), there is only one headstone, out of poured concrete, unreadable. How did these folks make a living out here? And who were they? What is the story that we can no longer hear in 2016? 'Takes your breath away.</span><div>
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-39088901257712603202016-06-02T14:13:00.002-07:002016-06-02T14:13:45.657-07:00<div class="WordSection1">
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<b>Branding
Time in the Cheaney Community<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>The
Tabernacle<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<i> The following story was contributed
by Billy Dan Walton at the 2007 <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Alameda</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype></st1:place> Working.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
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In the 1930’s around Ranger, the
roundup each spring was a big to-do. The only thing that probably surpassed it
was the Fourth of July celebration and rodeo at <st1:city w:st="on">Abilene</st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
ranchers would all pool their resources and help each other. They would go from
ranch to ranch to accomplish the working of the cattle. One of the ranches they
went to was Dan Walton’s in Cook Canyon in the Cheaney Community. The men folk
would be vaccinating and marking the cattle, while the women folk cooked the
mid-day meal called dinner. Some things have changed over the years. Now it is
called breakfast, lunch, and dinner – back then it was breakfast, dinner, and
supper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the main dinner dishes were
calf fries, sometimes now referred to as mountain oysters. These were thrown
into the fire next to the branding irons right before time to eat. In a short
time they were done, retrieved and placed on the table with all of the other
delicious dishes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At one of these affairs,
five-year-old Ray Dell, seven-year-old Billy Dan and nine-year-old Lynn
Lezious, son of the host rancher inquired of their father as to why the calves
had to be branded and the ears notched. He replied, “They have to be marked so
everyone will know who they belong to.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The seven-year-old then asked, “Why
can’t they just wear collars like your prize coon dogs?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Because some rustlers could remove
the cattle’s collars and then go sell them,” the father replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The work was accomplished at the
ranch that day. The next day these three boys were left at home while their
parents Dan and Ima went to town.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now these three young cowboys could
not just fool away the day without accomplishing something worthwhile. They
decided that the Something Worthwhile would be to brand and notch the ears of
their father’s prize coon dogs. If the dogs were branded and the ears notched
just like the calves had been the day before, no “coon dog rustler” would be
able to sell these prize coon dogs by simply removing their collars. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The branding iron was soon red hot
and the ropes were loosened up for dog roping. The first dog was the easiest to
catch and throw down. The five-year-old cowboy was elected to sit on the dog’s
head just like the cowboys had done with the calves on the previous day. The
seven and nine-year-old cowboys proudly applied the “Bar W” branding iron to
the right upper hip and the rodeo began.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not even the Abilene rodeo could
have matched the “celebration” of a prize coon dog getting a red hot branding iron
applied to his right hip. The young cowboy that was sitting on the dog’s head
was thrown into the air and bit on the right buttock before he could descend
back to where the dog was lying. The dog took off and even these experienced
dog ropers could not throw a noose on this prize coon dog and complete the job
to notch the ears.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the crying had stopped and no
blood was found to be flowing, ropes were loosened up and the youngest cowboy
remarked, “One down and two to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
It took a good bit more time for the
experienced dog ropers to get a noose on dog number two and get it in position
for the marking. It had been agreed that this time the older cowboy would do the
sitting on the head. He was a little bit bigger and he could probably do a
better job. This and the fact that the youngest cowboy had all of the
experience he allowed as he needed of sitting on a dog’s head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
The youngest cowboy applied the red
hot Bar W to dog number two’s right hip and the results were somewhat similar. The
only difference being the older cowboy being bit on the left buttock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
This time after the crying had
stopped, the cowboys were unable to find prize coon dog number three. It was decided
that this was probably just as well because the cowboys had all the experience
they wanted of sitting on dogs’ heads.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
When the cowboys’ parents returned
home that evening with prize coon dog number three, the father was still
wondering why the dog had come all the way to the neighboring ranch to find his
master.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
The beaming young cowboys proudly
informed their father of their day’s accomplishments and that the dog with him
was the only prize coon dog that was not safe from dog rustlers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
The dog bites on the boys’ behinds
were the only thing that saved them from a trip to the tack shed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in;">
The middle cowboy did manage to grow
up and has managed to go this far without branding any more dogs. He doesn’t go
by the name of Dog Brander. He goes by Bill Walton.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-83295758854496570022015-01-27T16:09:00.000-08:002015-01-27T16:09:00.267-08:00Jake Homan Railroad Crossing, Salem, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-40052843513087170792015-01-26T16:05:00.000-08:002015-01-26T16:05:00.384-08:00Gunsight, Texas Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-32008916415365738412015-01-26T10:24:00.003-08:002015-01-26T10:24:33.273-08:00Bald Eagle Spotted at Lake Leon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Bald eagle spotted by good friend at Lake Leon....who knew?</b></div>
Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-80154212278854386812015-01-25T16:07:00.000-08:002015-01-25T16:07:00.522-08:00Hart Mastadon, Alameda, Eastland County, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-56991819123189082872015-01-24T16:03:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:03:00.148-08:00Gregg Family, Cheaney, Eastland County, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-20943755290504306672015-01-23T16:01:00.000-08:002015-01-23T16:01:00.320-08:00Ellison Spring Community, Eastland County, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-77978855483998641412015-01-22T15:59:00.000-08:002015-01-22T15:59:00.267-08:00Dust Storm Photo, West Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-8254552413802855572015-01-21T15:57:00.000-08:002015-01-21T15:57:00.375-08:00Dugout House Remains, Erath County<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-62904972066831348742015-01-20T15:56:00.000-08:002015-01-20T15:56:00.543-08:00Downtain Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-25859185345317368912015-01-19T15:55:00.000-08:002015-01-19T15:55:00.039-08:00Dodson Prairie Band<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-62484808292101200482015-01-19T06:40:00.001-08:002015-01-19T06:40:08.703-08:00Cheaney Tree<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"There are years that ask the question and years that answer. " </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Zora Neale Hurston</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-86100333391965764492015-01-18T08:01:00.000-08:002015-01-18T08:01:00.209-08:00Jake Hamon railbed in southern Stephens County<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So I'm walking a new place I have listed and I run across this raised railbed, the old power line still having all the old glass insulators and old crossties decaying to each side...thinking about it, I'm located a little south of Frankell...this is yet another brush with the Jake Hamon Railway's ghost. A big legacy for such a short life.</div>
<br />Texas Tabernaclehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260179264197936128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3242285978863662728.post-72786269154695775382015-01-17T15:53:00.000-08:002015-01-17T15:53:00.499-08:00Dobbs Valley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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