The Street That I Grew Up On

        With Mother's Day coming up, I decided to take some flowers to the cemetery where my mom and grandmother are buried, something I rarely do.

Forest Hill Cemetery is located near the Birmingham airport. I took a different route this time, exiting I-59 in East Lake instead of near the airport. It had been a few years since I had been by my old school, Kennedy Elementary, and the neighborhood in which I grew up. As I turned onto 64th Street North, I received quite a shock.

Debra English playing croquet
in my front yard on
1st Court North

I knew the house I had lived in on 1st Court North and most of those around it were gone, but wasn't prepared to see the whole neighborhood from 1st Avenue to 2nd Avenue wiped out. The alley behind our house is gone, the creek at the end of our dead-end street is gone. All have been replaced by a warehouse of some type and its concrete parking lot. But the biggest shock of all is that the street itself is gone.

Oh, there is still a 1st Court North, but it's not in the same place. It used to be a right turn one block off 1st Avenue. What is now labeled 1st Court North is a left turn, and runs between Kennedy and 1st Avenue, where another row of houses and part of the school playground used to be. I know our old haunts seem much smaller now than when we were kids, and some give way to interstates or disappear under the floodwaters of a new dam. But a street that moves? That’s a new one.

Jimmy Self (left) and my brother, Gene,
in front of The Little Red Store

Mine was a great street on which to grow up. There was a little family-owned grocery store on the corner next door to me that we called The Little Red Store. You could buy candy and soft drinks there, and watch them slice your bologna from a log. Then you said,  “Put it on my account,” and paid up at the end of the month. An alley separated the back of our house from a junk yard, and down the end of that alley was the "deep end" of the creek. That's where some friends and I saw naked boys for the first time, unless you count fleeting glimpses of our brothers. The boys were swimming, and when my friends and I approached, they stood up and shouted, "Wanna see? Wanna see"? Of course we did, but we ran away scared and embarrassed.

The best thing about that street was having so many kids to play with. On summer nights, we couldn't wait for supper to end so we could meet under the street light in front of Booty’s (James Graves) house to play Hide 'n Seek or a tame version of Post Office. And if you remember the latter, you’re showing your age, too. Booty, so named due to an early fondness for wearing cowboy boots, lived next door to Gail Crawley and across the street from Joyce Thompson. We were all good friends.

Remember my blog about the death of my childhood hero, actor James Garner? I have that same ringing in my ear now as I did then. It’s the sound of a chisel chipping away another piece of my childhood. It makes me feel very old, and very sad.

Tractor Woes

      I guess I’ve turned into a real farm girl, because I’m lost without my tractor.

I missed the first fertilizing of my rye pasture in February due to icy weather and a dead battery. My buddy Calvin charged up the battery, replaced a worn front tire and the gas filter and changed the oil while I was in Texas in mid-March. 

When I reurned from Texas, I was so excited (at my age, it doesn’t take much) to have the tractor working again. But while dumping the leaves into the woods, I got a little too far down the embankment. The ground was still wet from recent rains, and I spun myself into a hole trying to back up. I couldn't go forward because a small tree was in the way.

And there the tractor sat for a few more days. Enlisting the help of the two young guy friends, I had one cut down the tree. He swore he could lay it down wherever he wanted. What we hadn't counted on, however, was what the tree fairies wanted. As the tree fell, it grabbed the branches of another tree, and clung there for dear life. Again, I got off, and left the tractor where it was while I pondered the current situation.

Too (sic) Old Men right the tractor.

A few days later, the guys and I tied a rope to the tree and my bucket, then I hoisted and pushed the tree out of my way. But as I tried to move forward, my tractor got hung up on the tree stump. Brilliantly, I used the bucket to push myself off the stump. My relief at moving forward was short lived, however, because I was on a horizontal slope, and began to list perilously to starboard. I elected to get off, fearing I’d tump (that’s Southerneze for fall) over.

That weekend, my grands were over, when Gabe announced, "NaNa, the tractor tire blew out and it's off the wheel."  It sat there a couple more weeks while I waited for Calvin’s help. But he was set for a knee replacement, and despite his misplaced notion of getting up and around in a few days, he had eight weeks of recuperation ahead of him.

The following week, I got my truck stuck in front of my house. With Calvin disabled, I called my friends Fred and Rudy (better known as Too Old Men).  As they pulled the truck out of the muddy rut, a lightbulb went off in my head. I asked them to take a look at the tractor. Using a come-along, chains and a rope, they righted it  enough to get the weight off the dead tire, then pumped air into it. It popped back into place on its rim, just as they had planned. Only a farmer would understand my elation at seeing Fred drive it out of the woods.

Three days later, after buying fertilizer for my pasture, I discovered that the tire was coming off the rim again. So I pumped air into it, manhandled the first six 50-pound bags of Triple 13 into the spreader and took off. With each pass, I prayed the tire would hold, and it did. But the tire ordeal didn't end there. 

That was last Thrusday. On Tuesday of this week, it was flat again. Too Old Men spent four hours trying to find the leak, with no luck. Calvin says dirt around the rim might have kept it from sealing, and that the latest air fill might seal it properly. 

Today is Friday, and so far so good. I’ve got more fertilziing to do next week, then I’ve got to switch the spreader for the rotary cutter.

     A woman on her tractor is a beautiful thing, as long as the tractor is working.

Carpenter Bees

       

        My annual battle with carpenter bees is in full force. The pesky devils come out during March each year, sucking on the azaleas and boring holes in my log walls, porch railings and facia boards. They stick around for several months, buzzing, boring and driving me crazy.

I’ve done a good bit of research on these pests. They bore right through bare, varnished or stained wood of any type. Fresh paint will deter them, but the best treatment is to spray wood surfaces with an insecticide beginning in March and on through August or September. But March is too windy, and the spray flies back into my face, so they usually get a foothold before I can start.

Once they’ve bored a hole, the tell-tale pile of sawdust beneath it is the first clue  that they’re nesting in my wood. The momma bees bore perfectly round holes about an inch into the wood, then turn 90 degrees and make a long tunnel. Then they bore little rooms off the tunnel, and lay their eggs in those little rooms.The baby bees hatch in six to 12 months, and the cycle starts all over again. In fact, they come back to their old haunts every spring, making the tunnels longer and more intricate. If left untreated, they will tear up any board in which they nest. I haven’t figured out where they go during winter, but I’m working on it.

Spraying a liquid insecticide into the hole may kill the female bee, but the eggs are protected. Since liquids are absorbed by porous wood, they will be gone when the larvae hatch, giving them a strong chance of survival.

So I have to spray a dust called Drione into those holes and seal them with a caulking compound. Drione is a desiccant that dehydrates them. But if I don’t seal them inside their nests, the females will leave before the dust has time to settle on them.

A friend found a bee trap on the internet, ordered it and used it as a pattern to make some of his own. He’s given me several, and they really help. They look like small bird houses, but with a tiny hole on each side and a plastic peanut butter or mayonnaise jar underneath. The bees crawl into the holes thinking they are bee tunnels, gravitate downward toward the light, fall into the jars and can’t seem to fly upward to get out. To empty the jars of the bees, I simply unscrew them.

Their only known enemy is the woodpecker, who eats their larvae. Guess how he gets it? Yep, pecks around their tunnel entrance, widening the hole to a jagged maw. Great!

In some ways, they are smart. They don’t come out much during cool or rainy weather. And they prefer boring holes behind drain spouts and under eaves, where they are protected from the weather, the woodpecker and my prying eyes. Ever tried to spray into a hole behind a drain spout?

Mother Nature played a dirty trick on them, though. She made the males the guard bees, teaching them to buzz around a human’s head to scare him away. But she gave the stinger to the female, so the guard has no weapon. 

         Serves him right.

Serendipity

U.S. Highway 79 is labelled a north-south route, but cuts more of a northeast-southwest  diagonal through the state of Texas. The section between Round Rock, about 20 miles north of Austin, and the Louisiana border is intertwined with two major country music tragedies. Johnny Horton (“Battle of New Orleans,” “Sink the Bismarck” and “North to Alaska”) was killed by a drunk driver on that road near Milano in 1960, and the Jim Reeves Memorial is on the same route near Carthage, Texas.

My friend, Annette, and I were unaware of the highway's musical significance when we decided to take the backroads part of the way home from Texas last month. We just wanted to see something besides boring interstate scenery. Our decision resulted in a series of serendipitous experiences we would have missed had we chosen the interstate.

Jim Reeves Memorial

It was the second day of our three-day return trip from Bourne (rhymes with journey),where we had been to the George Strait Team Penning Classic. A few miles from Buffalo, I saw a sign that encouraged us to visit “Historic Palestine.” Open to adventure, we stopped at the town’s visitors center. We spent a pleasant half hour winding through the streets of this old railroad town, looking at the magnificent architecture of the 1800s. We “oohed” and “ahhed" at the old homes from that era, some well tended to and others abandoned and falling in, most painted in pastel pink, green or yellow. We stopped by an old hospital building, picturing in our minds the lives of the nurses who had lived in the small cottage attached to it. 

       Then we went downtown and perused an antique shop. One side of the shop was the Magnolia Cafe, where we had chicken-salad-stuffed avocado halves and saltine crackers that we thought were dipped in olive oil and herbs. We found out after our internet research that they were called Ranch Crackers and were made with a packaged ranch dressing mix and vegetable oil, then baked. For dessert, I had an amazing Sopapilla Cheese Cake that was to die for.

After lunch, we hadn't been back on U.S. 79 but a few minutes when Annette blurted out, "Jim Reeves Memorial.”

"What?" sez I.

"That sign said ‘Jim Reeves Memorial,’" she replied.

       My brakes screeched, I  made a U-turn, and went back to see whether it was the same Jim Reeves I remembered. Sure enough, right out in the middle of nowhere was this little park with a full-size statue of the late country singer known as Gentleman Jim.

His memorial is in a one-acre, tree-covered plot of ground three miles east of Carthage, where he used to live. He was born in nearby Galloway, and died at the controls of his Beechcraft Debonair in a rainstorm near Brentwood, Tennessee, on July 31, 1964. The stone walkway leading to the statue had the outline of a guitar, and a memorial plaque gave some brief points about the man's life and death. I didn’t know until I was doing some internet research about the memorial that Reeves is buried beneath that statue, along with his favorite dog, Cheyenne, who died three years after his master.

We took several photos, then hit the road again. A few miles from the Louisiana border, we stumbled across a chain-saw artist and stopped to look at his wares. I bought a wooden cactus with a skull at the base, which looks great on my front porch. I’m still looking for a wooden Indian for the other side of the door.

       Annette and I are talking about doing a Route 66 road trip next year, following the famous roadway from its start near Chicago to its end in California. If that trip is anything like our Texas foray, we’ll have to rent a paneled van or U-Haul truck to carry back all the stuff we buy.

Team Roping in Texas

     In 1982,  country singer George Strait and his brother, Buddy, started a small family-run open roping that is now one of the premiere team roping events in the nation. Until a few years ago, Strait still participated in his George Strait Team Roping Classic, but as he approached 60, he decided the sport was too hard on him physically and bowed out.

     Earlier events were held in Kingsville, TX, but they are now in Boerne (sounds like journey), a suburb of San Antonio, at the San Antonio Rose Palace, which Strait owns. This year saw 675 teams competing for $1 million in cash and prizes. All of them competed the first day, Friday, March 13, then the top 50 came back on Saturday the 14th. The two members of the winning team walked away with more than $275,000 in cash, a Chevy  Silverado dually pick-up and a specially-decorated George Strait bumper-pull trailer -- each!

This steer is roped!

     In team roping, a header ropes the steer's horns, while the heeler lassoes his hind legs. The object is to be the fastest, and many teams finished a round in less than five seconds. Seconds are added to a score if only one leg is roped, and a team receives no score if the steer gets away sans rope. Scores for each team’s three rounds are combined to determine winners.

     The Rose Palace holds 4,500 people, but with half of it partitioned off for vendors and a warm-up round pen for the participants, I’d say about half that number of stadium-type seats were available. Most of them were filled with middle-aged and older females who have followed Strait since his first single, “Unwound,” came out in 1981. They know that Strait has had a phenomenal career, out-selling all other country music entertainers with 60 Number One chart-toppers, and outlasting them with 33 years of CDs and tours.  His last concert tour, The Cowboy Rides Away, was in 2013-2014. He's taking 2015 off, then will pick and choose where he wants to perform. Far from gone from the music scene, however, Strait has signed a contract with MCA Records for five more albums. He turns 63 in May.

Strait makes his way around arena.

     Fan club members packed the seats nearest the glassed press box in the Rose Palace, hoping for a glimpse of the King of Country. They came armed with cameras, seat cushions, blankets, homemade gifts for the Strait family, and the hope that Saturday morning, they'll be at the fence to touch The King’s hand as he circles the arena on horseback and high-fives everyone within reach. Yes, many of them brought husbands and boyfriends, and actually watched the team roping, too.

The top ropers line up for fans.

     Although the gates opened at 8 a.m. and the roping started at 10, cars lined up as early as 6 a.m. because the seats are general admission. My friend Annette and I arrived about 7:30 that Friday morning, and there were at least two dozen cars ahead of us. But we got decent seats. We left about 5 p.m., tired and hungry, but the event didn't end until the wee hours of the morning.

     Saturday, we were in line by 7 a.m., but there were twice as many cars ahead of us. Like I said, it's the day the lucky ones get to touch the hand of the King. As for me, I was just happy to be in the presence of so many cowboys, most wearing starched jeans and shirts, boots and hats, and saying, "M'am" whenever they addressed you. We joked about bringing one or two home with us, but it just didn't work out.

     Oh well, Maybe next year.

Road Trip

     I left town Sunday on a road trip to San Antonio with a high school chum. Annette is a rabid  George Strait fan, and we have tickets to his Team Roping Classic in Bourne, Texas, Friday and Saturday. At least, that's our excuse for the trip. Actually, it's as much about getting there and back as it is seeing the event. 

     Sunday night we stayed at a Motel 6 in Port Allen, LA. I know the desk clerk thought I was crazy when I asked her whether there were lids on the toilets, but I hate staying in a place that doesn't have them. Turns out there were more important questions I should have asked. There were no tissues, no toiletries other than soap, and no hair dryer. Neither of us packed one because we thought all motels furnished hair dryers. When I mentioned this to the desk clerk next morning, she said they had one they loaned to guests, but it was out at the moment. One hair dryer for the entire motel? You've got to be kidding! Tom Bodett won't have to leave the light on for me again, that's for sure. 

      Monday night we stayed in Sealy, TX, because I was too tired to drive any further. We had spent some time at the Texas Welcome Center on I-10, which threw us into the midst of rush-hour traffic in Houston, and it was raining, to boot.  It took us an hour to get through that city, so we headed for the first decent place we could find to stay the night. Yes, there were hair dryers in the rooms, but the soap was so cheap it crumbled each time I tried to swipe it across my body. By the time I got to my toes, it was scattered all over the tub.

      For the past three days, we have been shopping our way through Texas Hill Country. Before checking into our motel in Bourne Tuesday afternoon, we ate and shopped in Gruene. Like several towns in the area, Gruene was settled by a German family, but is now a tourist town of shops and restaurants. Its biggest attraction is Gruene Hall, an old-time dance hall where many entertainers played when they were nobodies...like George Strait, Merle Haggard and Lyle Lovett. We were two tired puppies Tuesday night.

     Wednesday we went to Bandera, which bills itself as the Cowboy Capital of the World, although I have no idea why. We went into The Cowboy Store looking to buy a couple of long, lanky ones, but found only clothing and boots. The proprietor said if we wanted to find a cowboy, we should go to the 11th Street Cowboy Bar that night, because it was steak night and the place would be crawling with them (cowboys, not steaks). However, this entailed buying a steak at the local butcher's and taking it to the bar to grill ourselves, so we declined. 

     From Bandera we continued to Camp Verde, where the U.S. Army once experimented with camels for transportation. After lunch there, we stopped long enough in Fredericksburg to buy Christmas ornaments and wine, vowing to return for another shopping session Sunday. Our final destination before heading back to Bourne was Luckenbach, the town made famous in song by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. There's nothing much there except a general store and outdoor music venue, but everyone loves to have his photo made under the Post Office sign. 

     Today, we went into San Antonio to see the Alamo, and dropped some more money along the River Walk. I just hope we don't run out of money before we run out of Texas.

Escape Artist

J.J., Betsy & Molly

       When I saw the white van pull up to my back gate, I knew what had happened.

“Did J.J. get out again?” I asked the driver, my neighbor, Phillip.

J. J. is the donkey that used to belong to Phillip’s mother-in-law, Cathy, who lived next door to me.When Cathy died in August 2013, I looked after J.J., Betsy the goat and Molly, Cathy’s aged horse, until Phillip and Misty could get a place with a pasture. I took the donkey and the horse home Mother’s Day weekend. Molly died a few weeks ago, and ever since then, the lonesome donkey keeps pulling a Houdini act and disappearing. I like to think he’s looking for some equine company.

“Yes, he’s down the road again. I called you but got no answer, so I came on. You said I could borrow the trailer anytime.”

“Sure, no problem,” I replied, brushing Mallory, my walking horse, as I talked. “Haven’t you fixed that fence yet?”

“All but a couple of places, but there are a bunch of briars in those places. He keeps going through them. I’ve got to cut the briars down so I can run the barbed wire there.”

This was the second time in three days Phillip had to use my trailer to get J.J. home. He had wandered so far down the road that it was easier to trailer him home than to walk him home. Donkeys really can be stubborn.

“Why don’t you just bring him here for a few days, until you can get the fence repaired,” I suggested.

Phillip’s face lit up like a kid with cotton candy. “Really?” he said. “That would be great.”

So that’s what he did Friday. I came back to the house after brushing Mallory, and received a call from Phillip a short while later. He was at the back, having just delivered J.J.

“You should see him,” Phillip saId. “He brayed four or five times, ran up and down the fence, and the other horses ran with him,” he said. “They’re all kicking up and having a great time. By the way, are your mares in heat?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied. “They usually don’t go into heat until warmer weather. Why? Is he trying to mount one of them?”

“Yeah, the little pony,” he said. “She’s about his size, and seems to be backing up to him.”

“Nibbles? Well, that’s okay,” I told him. “We may just have us a little mule baby next year.”

This morning when I went out to feed them, J.J. and Nibbles were lying side by side in the pasture, soaking up the sunshine. I texted Misty and suggested they take Nibbles home when they come for J.J. She has been looking for a companion for the donkey.  If they like having Nibbles, and decide to keep her, we can talk about a price later. It will be reasonable, because I’ll have one less mouth to feed and less horse poop to muck. 

But if she does turn up pregnant, that baby is mine!