Part IV
Oh, I started out saying that Leon was a former truck driver. Well he’s a former driver because his old boss, from the incident just related, Bill Davis, who owns a pretty big feed and seed, and ranch supply store here, also comes into the coffee shop. It seems when Sam came in that night, he got an earful from Maria. Sam told me that he’d talked to Leon before about his lack of cleanliness, and that he’d probably let him go this time. After talking with Leon about it, next day, then getting yelled at by Ramona, Sam decided to let Leon go. None of the other trucking companies would hire him. They’d all heard how he is, so he’s retired now, on his and Ramona’s Social Security, and her retirement from the school district. They’re doing OK. Except he has a lot more time to come into the coffee-shop now. I tell Maria she ought to hire him as a dishwasher, and Ramona as a waitress. She throws plastic glasses at me.
Another guy that comes in there just about three times a day, like clockwork is Ronnie Fears. Ronnie’s about the same age as Dave and I. He was a year ahead of us in high-school, I think. We didn’t hang out in the same circles back then, so I don’t really remember for sure. He has a brother, not a twin, named Lonnie. Lonnie pretty much is gone. I think he lives up in the city. I’ll have to ask Ronnie. When Dave and I went into the Army, Ronnie joined the Marines.
Ronnie wasn’t a Marine long. He made it just about through Boot-Camp, then had a heart attack. Anyway, I know that he was in a Navy hospital for about 3 or 4 months, then got a medical discharge, with GI benefits. 100% military disability. Six months and a day, total time in Service. He hasn’t worked much since then. Nowadays, he has a spiffy new pace-maker the VA gave him. He lives on his disability, and money he earns by screen-printing T-shirts. Other than that he sits in the coffee-shop, or takes naps, pretty much. Ronnie looks remarkably like the kid who played Eddie Munster, when he was in his costume and make-up. We call him “Wolf-boy,” behind his back. He likes to “flirt” with the waitresses by trying to grab a boob, or pinching their butts, and one time he tried that with Maria. She was coming from the back of the restaurant, carrying an empty tray that she’d used to deliver some food, and Ronnie grabbed her, thought he’d get a little pinch. She turned, and with a full back-hand swing that would have made Billie-Jean King proud, hit him square in the side of the head. Sent him flying! Him, his chair, and his coffee cup. Everyone in the place cheered Maria. She looked over at me and shrugging said, “Well he shouldn’t have pinched me.” Then she laughed and went back into the kitchen. He hasn’t tried it again with her. While everyone else was laughing, Ronnie lay on the floor, coffee cup upright, sitting on his chest. As he got up, he said, “Look at that Boo, I didn’t spill a drop.” To his credit, though, he started laughing about it too. “Did you see the wallop she gave me?” “Yep Ronnie, I sure did. Ronnie, I’ve told you before that you can’t just go and be grabbing, or pinching Maria, or her waitresses, or anyone else for that matter.” “ I know, but I just can’t help it.” I told him he’d better start helping it, because someday one of them will file a complaint, then I’ll have to get involved. He’s usually very careful not to do this when I can see him. I ask the girls from time to time if he’s still doing it, they all say “Yes, but I can handle him.” It worries me, though. Sometimes this behavior can escalate into something much worse. I don’t want that to happen, so I let him know I’m watching him. Believe it or not, he actually has a girl-friend. He tells the other women around that he’s only with her because they had a baby last year. The other ladies all wonder why she’s with him!
Then there’s Raji. I can’t pronounce his last name, but he does have one. He tried teaching Dave and I how to say it, but it didn’t work, so we just call him Raji Huh? He’s around 5’8”, owns a local convenience store, is very proud to have become an American citizen, and has a son on our basketball team in High-School. One day Raji was telling me about Indian Curried Rice. He was saying the “real thing” is so much better than the stuff you get in restaurants, or out of the box from the local grocery store. I agreed that this was probably so, based on the knowledge that my own Tex-Mex is SO much better than the stuff you can go out and buy, but I’d never had any Indian food before, let alone Curried Rice! Raji invited me over for dinner for that next Saturday night, to try some of it out. I came over to his house, and he took me into the kitchen, and showed me how he makes it, with a pan that looks something like a wok, and Saffron, and peppers, and it smelled pretty good! In fact, by the time we got around to eating, I was more than ready. Let me tell you, folks, chili ain’t got nothing on that stuff for pure, curl-your-toes HOT! It was really good, and I kinda gulped a couple of bites down, Raji smiling the whole time. He looked at his wife, and said, “Get Boo a glass of water, quick.” I wondered, momentarily, why he’d said that, but then I notice my tongue beginning to burn, then I began to feel awfully warm, and the bald spot on the top of my head started sweating. (This is never a good sign, folks. It indicates, rather well, that I just indulged in something way too hot.) Sure enough I really needed, and appreciated, that glass of water and the next two, before I got my breath back, and the fire went down to tolerable in my mouth, throat, esophagus, stomach and bald-spot. Raji explained to me that this must be eaten carefully, and in small amounts until you’re used to it. I appreciated the early warning and told him it might have come a little earlier. He, his wife, and their son thought this was very amusing. I’m glad I could be of service to them. Actually though, once I got over the shock, it WAS very good. The meal was a pleasure, and the company was great.
I got tickled at Raji, and his son. Although Raji is an American now, he was raised in India, and has pretty traditional Indian values and so does his wife, but his son is a born and raised Texas Redneck kid, and he lets them know about it, too! They were talking, and Raji mentioned something about an arranged marriage for his son, and having him go back to India to meet his bride and her family, then have a traditional wedding there. His boy, Davram, everyone calls him Davey, was adamant that no-one was going to pick out his wife for him, and that he wasn’t about to get married before he went to college, and maybe not till he was in the NBA. Davey wants to be a big basketball star. He may just do it to, I’ve seen the kid burn up the court, and he has the size. Anyway, while they were “discussing” this I decided it was time for my leavetaking, and courteously made my way to the door.
©F.Pierce
Monday, January 25, 2010
Toad Lick, TX. Pt 3
PART III
This morning, while I was sitting in the coffee-shop, one of our local “characters” came in. He’s a former over-the-road truck driver, meaning he used to go all over the United States, and maybe even Canada. Leon is a smallish man, in his middle 60’s with long greasy iron-gray hair. He has beady close-set eyes that always seem a little watery and he seems vague, like he‘s not really home, just left the lights on and the door open. He mumbles. A lot. I have trouble understanding him, but one thing about him I never had trouble understanding was that he had this habit of going out on the road in a shirt and a pair of pants, and not taking any other clothes with him at all. Well OK, maybe a coat, too. He said he was out there to make money, not to waste time doing all those unnecessary things like stopping to bathe or change clothes. He would go out for three weeks at least, sometimes more than that, without the benefits of a shower or clean clothing. I checked with some of the other truckers I know and have it on good authority that every time you fuel your truck, the truck-stops will all give you one free shower. It seems that at least all the big truck-stops out there have showers in them. Leon doesn’t care, he’s out there to make a buck. So, when he comes in, his wife, Ramona, makes him strip off his clothes in the back yard. She then burns them in an old BBQ grill she’s kept for just that purpose. The only hitch to that plan is that when he was driving, Leon loved to stop for coffee. The other patrons wherever he went, after the third or fourth day on the road, could smell him coming I would imagine. Before he hit the off ramp, probably.
The way I got to know about this little quirk in his routine, was one afternoon a few years ago, I was out driving around town, about 4 O’clock in the afternoon when the Sheriff’s Dept. dispatcher called me on the radio, and said that there was a disturbance at the coffee-shop, and that I needed to get over there right away. When I got there I found out that the disturbance was good Ol’ Leon, who’d just rolled into town, parked in the back of the place and decided he wanted a cup of coffee while waiting for Ramona to pick him up. Maria met me in the parking lot. From what she said, he cleaned the place out in about 15 seconds and her waitress, Karla, ran out the back gagging after she served him his coffee. Maria wanted Leon OUT of her place! And right NOW! I’ve never seen Maria get so upset and she wouldn’t go back in there till he came out either. Bemused, I went on in to talk with Leon. I walked through the door, turned right to get a cup of coffee, then kind of strolled back to where Leon was sitting about halfway back in the deserted room. I had noticed a rank, musty odor when I walked in the door and the closer I got to Leon, the more intense the odor got. I made it back to his table, and forgetting all about my coffee, which was probably tainted now anyway, I sat down. “Howdy Leon.” “Hey, Boo,” he responded. I asked, “Whatcha doin’, Leon?” he replied, “Just waitin’ fer Rmumble.”
I took that to mean he was waiting for Ramona. “Just get into town, did ya?” “Yep, mumble-mumble, three weeks, mumble something else.” “Oh,” I said, “Hey, Leon? Did you notice a really bad smell in here?” He glanced around, “ Smell? Mumble something about clogged nostrils.” I just bet they were clogged. Probably burned out. I know my nose was running, and my eyes were watering by this time. I decided to just throw it out there, and go for broke. “Leon, when was the last time you had a bath?” He looked at me with his beady, watery little eyes, and said, “When pap put in a shower, I reckon I was about fifteen, why?” I almost choked on that one. I was feeling a bit like gagging by now, anyway. “Leon, when was the last time you cleaned up? You know, got a shower? Changed clothes? Used deodorant?” “Oh, just -mumble- I took out. Why?” “Oh, never mind. Leon, I was just wondering. You left on this run, what, a month ago?” He replied, “Yep, somethin’ ‘bout like that.” OK, I thought. We’re making progress here. “You haven’t cleaned up at all in all that time?” Leon said, fairly clearly, “ Ain’t no time for all that, I’m out there to make money! Plenty of time to clean up when I get home.” By now, I’m thinking “Lice!”, or maybe “Crabs!” I’m kinda scooting my chair back to a safe distance. Trying for the life of me to remember how far lice can jump. “Leon, I got an idea. Why don’t we get you a Styrofoam cup, and you can wait for Ramona outside? I'll wait out there with you” That sounded like a fine idea to him, so I set him up and escorted him out the door. Maria and Karla ran back in, started spraying Lysol around the place, opened both the front and back doors and set up a fan to air the place out. I waited out front for Ramona with Leon, sitting on the hood of my cruiser. She got there within about fifteen minutes. I told her what had happened, and that she needed to pick him up right away from now on, and told him to call in advance and let her know when he’d be here. Ramona was upset at the reaction everyone was having to her husband. I guess love is not just blind, but has no sense of smell either. Now Ramona is originally from Upstate New York, near Rochester I believe. She moved down here about 30 years ago with her ex-husband and 3 kids. Ramona says she was a nurse in New York, but she retired from a janitorial job in the high-school here. It’s the only job I’ve ever known her to have. She’s about 4 feet 10 inches, weighs maybe 85 pounds, and just kinda washed out looking to me. She’s into everyone’s business, given half the chance. She’s very loud, very outspoken, and very opinionated. In my mind, I always thought of she and Leon as two hillbillies, 1 from Texas, and 1 from New York, destined to meet. They are made for each other. After she gave me a good tongue-lashing for throwing her “Dear Husband out of the coffee-shop, like some old piece of spoilt garbage!” She loaded Leon into the back of her pickup, and in a swirl of dust from the Caliche’ parking lot, was off. I stood there, in the dust, bemused, waving bye-bye, and “Ya’ll have a wonderful day, ya hear?” I called the Sheriff’s dispatch to let them know I’d be inside on my cell phone, and went in for a well deserved glass of iced tea.
©F.Pierce
This morning, while I was sitting in the coffee-shop, one of our local “characters” came in. He’s a former over-the-road truck driver, meaning he used to go all over the United States, and maybe even Canada. Leon is a smallish man, in his middle 60’s with long greasy iron-gray hair. He has beady close-set eyes that always seem a little watery and he seems vague, like he‘s not really home, just left the lights on and the door open. He mumbles. A lot. I have trouble understanding him, but one thing about him I never had trouble understanding was that he had this habit of going out on the road in a shirt and a pair of pants, and not taking any other clothes with him at all. Well OK, maybe a coat, too. He said he was out there to make money, not to waste time doing all those unnecessary things like stopping to bathe or change clothes. He would go out for three weeks at least, sometimes more than that, without the benefits of a shower or clean clothing. I checked with some of the other truckers I know and have it on good authority that every time you fuel your truck, the truck-stops will all give you one free shower. It seems that at least all the big truck-stops out there have showers in them. Leon doesn’t care, he’s out there to make a buck. So, when he comes in, his wife, Ramona, makes him strip off his clothes in the back yard. She then burns them in an old BBQ grill she’s kept for just that purpose. The only hitch to that plan is that when he was driving, Leon loved to stop for coffee. The other patrons wherever he went, after the third or fourth day on the road, could smell him coming I would imagine. Before he hit the off ramp, probably.
The way I got to know about this little quirk in his routine, was one afternoon a few years ago, I was out driving around town, about 4 O’clock in the afternoon when the Sheriff’s Dept. dispatcher called me on the radio, and said that there was a disturbance at the coffee-shop, and that I needed to get over there right away. When I got there I found out that the disturbance was good Ol’ Leon, who’d just rolled into town, parked in the back of the place and decided he wanted a cup of coffee while waiting for Ramona to pick him up. Maria met me in the parking lot. From what she said, he cleaned the place out in about 15 seconds and her waitress, Karla, ran out the back gagging after she served him his coffee. Maria wanted Leon OUT of her place! And right NOW! I’ve never seen Maria get so upset and she wouldn’t go back in there till he came out either. Bemused, I went on in to talk with Leon. I walked through the door, turned right to get a cup of coffee, then kind of strolled back to where Leon was sitting about halfway back in the deserted room. I had noticed a rank, musty odor when I walked in the door and the closer I got to Leon, the more intense the odor got. I made it back to his table, and forgetting all about my coffee, which was probably tainted now anyway, I sat down. “Howdy Leon.” “Hey, Boo,” he responded. I asked, “Whatcha doin’, Leon?” he replied, “Just waitin’ fer Rmumble.”
I took that to mean he was waiting for Ramona. “Just get into town, did ya?” “Yep, mumble-mumble, three weeks, mumble something else.” “Oh,” I said, “Hey, Leon? Did you notice a really bad smell in here?” He glanced around, “ Smell? Mumble something about clogged nostrils.” I just bet they were clogged. Probably burned out. I know my nose was running, and my eyes were watering by this time. I decided to just throw it out there, and go for broke. “Leon, when was the last time you had a bath?” He looked at me with his beady, watery little eyes, and said, “When pap put in a shower, I reckon I was about fifteen, why?” I almost choked on that one. I was feeling a bit like gagging by now, anyway. “Leon, when was the last time you cleaned up? You know, got a shower? Changed clothes? Used deodorant?” “Oh, just -mumble- I took out. Why?” “Oh, never mind. Leon, I was just wondering. You left on this run, what, a month ago?” He replied, “Yep, somethin’ ‘bout like that.” OK, I thought. We’re making progress here. “You haven’t cleaned up at all in all that time?” Leon said, fairly clearly, “ Ain’t no time for all that, I’m out there to make money! Plenty of time to clean up when I get home.” By now, I’m thinking “Lice!”, or maybe “Crabs!” I’m kinda scooting my chair back to a safe distance. Trying for the life of me to remember how far lice can jump. “Leon, I got an idea. Why don’t we get you a Styrofoam cup, and you can wait for Ramona outside? I'll wait out there with you” That sounded like a fine idea to him, so I set him up and escorted him out the door. Maria and Karla ran back in, started spraying Lysol around the place, opened both the front and back doors and set up a fan to air the place out. I waited out front for Ramona with Leon, sitting on the hood of my cruiser. She got there within about fifteen minutes. I told her what had happened, and that she needed to pick him up right away from now on, and told him to call in advance and let her know when he’d be here. Ramona was upset at the reaction everyone was having to her husband. I guess love is not just blind, but has no sense of smell either. Now Ramona is originally from Upstate New York, near Rochester I believe. She moved down here about 30 years ago with her ex-husband and 3 kids. Ramona says she was a nurse in New York, but she retired from a janitorial job in the high-school here. It’s the only job I’ve ever known her to have. She’s about 4 feet 10 inches, weighs maybe 85 pounds, and just kinda washed out looking to me. She’s into everyone’s business, given half the chance. She’s very loud, very outspoken, and very opinionated. In my mind, I always thought of she and Leon as two hillbillies, 1 from Texas, and 1 from New York, destined to meet. They are made for each other. After she gave me a good tongue-lashing for throwing her “Dear Husband out of the coffee-shop, like some old piece of spoilt garbage!” She loaded Leon into the back of her pickup, and in a swirl of dust from the Caliche’ parking lot, was off. I stood there, in the dust, bemused, waving bye-bye, and “Ya’ll have a wonderful day, ya hear?” I called the Sheriff’s dispatch to let them know I’d be inside on my cell phone, and went in for a well deserved glass of iced tea.
©F.Pierce
Toad Lick, TX. Pt 2
PART II
The lady who owns the coffee shop is named Maria Schroeder. She is an excellent cook. Puts on a very decent meal, and doesn’t seem to mind all of us hanging out at her place. She tells us that if we didn’t come by so much that she’d think there was something wrong. Says we all keep her company. Her husband, Bill works for the Rail Road. It’s the only job he’s ever had. When the shop closed up here, he was lucky enough to transfer to the big city yard, about 30 miles away. Most of the guys that worked there didn’t get the chance. The older ones got their retirement, and the middle-aged ones got a pay-out, and everybody else just got the opportunity to go find another career path. It almost killed our town at the time, but we’ve recovered over the years since then. We’re doing pretty well now. Well, at least holding our own, anyway.
A few of the guys went to work at the Sheriff’s Department, and old Bill Conroy, the Sheriff at the time, hired as many as he could, as deputies if they had prior experience or military backgrounds, and as jailers if they didn’t. I think he hired about 30 people. God Bless that man. He sure made a difference during a hard time.
Dave and I were off in the Army when all that happened. We were, “Seeing the World!” We went in under the buddy plan, right out of High-School. Little did we know what we’d gotten ourselves into. Anyway, over the course of four years, we both came to the conclusion that there was no place any more special to us than home. Actually Dave had always planned on coming back, he knew his dad needed help on the farm, and that someday he’d inherit the place. I wasn’t so sure I’d come back at all, but one time when we were home on leave Old Bill came and looked me up at the coffee shop and asked me what I was doing in the Army and how much longer I had it to do. Then he told me to come and look him up after I got out. That’s exactly what I ended up doing. Incidentally, I met Donna, or rather really noticed her for the first time on that same leave. Before that, she had always been just one of the girls a couple of years behind us in school. Amazing what a couple of years can do!
I had some legal work I needed to have looked over while I was home, and went down to our local Lawyers office to talk with Gary Dulick and there she was, one year out of High-School, working as Gary’s Receptionist. I could barely speak! She was SO beautiful! Gary came out of his office when he heard me stammering out front and rescued me from my own ineptness. He told me that she was his niece and that she was interested in the legal profession, so he’d hired her out of high school as his receptionist slash gopher. Gary brought me back out, and introduced her to me. When he presented me she said, “Of course I remember you, big football hero turned soldier and off to all those mysterious places.” I had to ask her out, and by the end of that leave I was caught, hook, line and sinker. By the time I got out of the Army, she was in college, and we were engaged.
Gary, by the way, is now our local County Judge. He also advises the city in legal matters, and sits one night a month as the City Judge, on a volunteer basis. He’s a pretty busy guy, too. I try to go over and have dinner with him and his wife about once a month, and they generally come into the coffee-shop once a week, at dinner time on Saturday Night.
A lot of our local folks are truck-drivers now. They either drive long-haul, or for one of the rock-hauling outfits around here, of which there are several. I’ve gone out to all of them, and given safety lectures for the drivers, and talked with their management about what I will, and will not tolerate in town so far as these folks driving through here. So, they all know me, and they all know I’m watching them. They all come into the coffee-Shop and have a cup and a little conversation. I joke at our local Ministers that I do more counseling than they do. I’m not sure that they appreciate that.
We have all the usual Texas churches here, the Southern Baptists, Methodists, Episcopalians, Catholics and a few others, not quite so large. The Ministers have a breakfast meeting here at the coffee-shop every Wednesday morning, where they spend the first hour having breakfast with as many local officials and business leaders as will show up, sort-of a “Community leadership, let’s keep everything going in the same direction,” type of affair, which I always attend. Then afterwards, a smaller meeting between themselves to discuss next Sunday’s Sermons, and to coordinate their outreach programs. Dave and I also attend that one occasionally because we’re out here in the community and can help them reach out to help people that we know are having a hard time. They also share the Chaplaincy duties between them for the Fire and Police Departments.
©F.Pierce
The lady who owns the coffee shop is named Maria Schroeder. She is an excellent cook. Puts on a very decent meal, and doesn’t seem to mind all of us hanging out at her place. She tells us that if we didn’t come by so much that she’d think there was something wrong. Says we all keep her company. Her husband, Bill works for the Rail Road. It’s the only job he’s ever had. When the shop closed up here, he was lucky enough to transfer to the big city yard, about 30 miles away. Most of the guys that worked there didn’t get the chance. The older ones got their retirement, and the middle-aged ones got a pay-out, and everybody else just got the opportunity to go find another career path. It almost killed our town at the time, but we’ve recovered over the years since then. We’re doing pretty well now. Well, at least holding our own, anyway.
A few of the guys went to work at the Sheriff’s Department, and old Bill Conroy, the Sheriff at the time, hired as many as he could, as deputies if they had prior experience or military backgrounds, and as jailers if they didn’t. I think he hired about 30 people. God Bless that man. He sure made a difference during a hard time.
Dave and I were off in the Army when all that happened. We were, “Seeing the World!” We went in under the buddy plan, right out of High-School. Little did we know what we’d gotten ourselves into. Anyway, over the course of four years, we both came to the conclusion that there was no place any more special to us than home. Actually Dave had always planned on coming back, he knew his dad needed help on the farm, and that someday he’d inherit the place. I wasn’t so sure I’d come back at all, but one time when we were home on leave Old Bill came and looked me up at the coffee shop and asked me what I was doing in the Army and how much longer I had it to do. Then he told me to come and look him up after I got out. That’s exactly what I ended up doing. Incidentally, I met Donna, or rather really noticed her for the first time on that same leave. Before that, she had always been just one of the girls a couple of years behind us in school. Amazing what a couple of years can do!
I had some legal work I needed to have looked over while I was home, and went down to our local Lawyers office to talk with Gary Dulick and there she was, one year out of High-School, working as Gary’s Receptionist. I could barely speak! She was SO beautiful! Gary came out of his office when he heard me stammering out front and rescued me from my own ineptness. He told me that she was his niece and that she was interested in the legal profession, so he’d hired her out of high school as his receptionist slash gopher. Gary brought me back out, and introduced her to me. When he presented me she said, “Of course I remember you, big football hero turned soldier and off to all those mysterious places.” I had to ask her out, and by the end of that leave I was caught, hook, line and sinker. By the time I got out of the Army, she was in college, and we were engaged.
Gary, by the way, is now our local County Judge. He also advises the city in legal matters, and sits one night a month as the City Judge, on a volunteer basis. He’s a pretty busy guy, too. I try to go over and have dinner with him and his wife about once a month, and they generally come into the coffee-shop once a week, at dinner time on Saturday Night.
A lot of our local folks are truck-drivers now. They either drive long-haul, or for one of the rock-hauling outfits around here, of which there are several. I’ve gone out to all of them, and given safety lectures for the drivers, and talked with their management about what I will, and will not tolerate in town so far as these folks driving through here. So, they all know me, and they all know I’m watching them. They all come into the coffee-Shop and have a cup and a little conversation. I joke at our local Ministers that I do more counseling than they do. I’m not sure that they appreciate that.
We have all the usual Texas churches here, the Southern Baptists, Methodists, Episcopalians, Catholics and a few others, not quite so large. The Ministers have a breakfast meeting here at the coffee-shop every Wednesday morning, where they spend the first hour having breakfast with as many local officials and business leaders as will show up, sort-of a “Community leadership, let’s keep everything going in the same direction,” type of affair, which I always attend. Then afterwards, a smaller meeting between themselves to discuss next Sunday’s Sermons, and to coordinate their outreach programs. Dave and I also attend that one occasionally because we’re out here in the community and can help them reach out to help people that we know are having a hard time. They also share the Chaplaincy duties between them for the Fire and Police Departments.
©F.Pierce
Toad Lick, TX. Pt. 1
ToadLick Tx. Part I
This is a work of fiction. My aim here is to do something a bit like Garrison Keillor’s “Lake Woebegone.” Let’s see how it goes, shall we?
Toad-Lick Texas
Hi folks, my name is Buford Rimes, call me “Boo,“ and I come from this small town in Texas called Toad-Lick. I’m the town cop. Actually, my job title is “Police Chief,“ but with only one other paid cop, and a few reserve officers, I have always felt that the title was stretching it just a wee bit. Anyway, I was at the local coffee shop this morning, that’s where I usually start out my work day, and it occurred to me that I might want to write about some of the characters here in my hometown. Maybe I should start out with a description of the place first.
Toad-Lick was established in 1854. It’s situated in North Central Texas. I’m told it was named for the local creek that runs through town, that apparently was infested with toads, when the town was established here. My dad always said that it wasn’t really big enough to be called a creek, so they called it a lick. Dad also said that the real reason they called it Toad-Lick was that the Indians they massacre'd here to establish this town, used to lick the local frogs then go crazy. Dad was always kind of a Joker though, so either way,now it’s Toad-Lick Creek. The town was at one time a hub of the Texas-Central Rail-Road, although it was established as a cattle stop-off on the Chisolm Trail, due to the good grazing, and nearby source of year-round water. The Brazos river is about 5 or 6 miles southwest of town. We have a Walmart, a Tractor-Supply, and a few other stores. A couple of beauty Salons, one of which is also our local Barber-Shop. We are very proud of our local high-school, and especially the football team. We have a chapter of the Kiwanis, and a Lion’s Club, too. They both meet here at the coffee shop, in the back dining-room. We also have a post of the American Legion. That’s one of the two places to go, on a Saturday night around here. The other one is here at the coffee-shop, where a group of folks who play all kinds of musical instruments get together and jam, or something like jamming, anyway. Mostly they play Bluegrass, or old Country music, and they are usually pretty good. Anyway, that’s the place to go, if you don’t drink. Otherwise, it’s the American Legion for their Saturday night Dance.
The Coffee Shop is named “The Last Resort Saloon, and BBQ,” although they don’t sell any alcohol there, and everyone just calls it “The Coffee Shop.” It DOES have a pretty fair BBQ though. Most of the business around these parts is done there, over breakfast, lunch, or coffee. Supper-time is reserved for just visitin’. You’d be surprised at how much business is done at coffee shops in Texas. It’s sort of a tradition, along with the running game of “42” at the back table. ”42” is a domino game for ya’ll that ain’t from Texas.
We have a used car dealer in town, his name is Melvin Graser, and he doubles as the Mayor. His brother, Del, is the local dentist, and the head of our Chamber-of Commerce.
Del’s a good guy, a right-nice feller the older folks say, Melvin though? Well, let it just stand that he’s a used car salesman…and a minor politician.
There’s Dave Wilson, our volunteer Fire-Chief, and a Dairy Farmer, during his regular work days. Dave’s someone you can count on, a four-square kind-of guy, and incidentally, my best-friend since Jr. High. He owns a working Dairy, with 1500 acres, and about that many cows, and efficiently runs our Volunteer Fire Dept. on the side. “In my spare time,” according to him. According to his wife, Martie, he doesn’t have any spare time, and is working himself into an early grave. I tell him, “That’s ok, buddy, go ahead and work yourself to death, I’ll take care of Martie when you’re gone. That’s what friends are for, right?” They both just laugh. They were our Best Man, and Maid-of-Honor when my wife, Donna, and I got married, and we were theirs. Donna passed away a few years ago, after a long, and wasting illness. They stood by me then, too. Yep, best friends.
©F.Pierce
This is a work of fiction. My aim here is to do something a bit like Garrison Keillor’s “Lake Woebegone.” Let’s see how it goes, shall we?
Toad-Lick Texas
Hi folks, my name is Buford Rimes, call me “Boo,“ and I come from this small town in Texas called Toad-Lick. I’m the town cop. Actually, my job title is “Police Chief,“ but with only one other paid cop, and a few reserve officers, I have always felt that the title was stretching it just a wee bit. Anyway, I was at the local coffee shop this morning, that’s where I usually start out my work day, and it occurred to me that I might want to write about some of the characters here in my hometown. Maybe I should start out with a description of the place first.
Toad-Lick was established in 1854. It’s situated in North Central Texas. I’m told it was named for the local creek that runs through town, that apparently was infested with toads, when the town was established here. My dad always said that it wasn’t really big enough to be called a creek, so they called it a lick. Dad also said that the real reason they called it Toad-Lick was that the Indians they massacre'd here to establish this town, used to lick the local frogs then go crazy. Dad was always kind of a Joker though, so either way,now it’s Toad-Lick Creek. The town was at one time a hub of the Texas-Central Rail-Road, although it was established as a cattle stop-off on the Chisolm Trail, due to the good grazing, and nearby source of year-round water. The Brazos river is about 5 or 6 miles southwest of town. We have a Walmart, a Tractor-Supply, and a few other stores. A couple of beauty Salons, one of which is also our local Barber-Shop. We are very proud of our local high-school, and especially the football team. We have a chapter of the Kiwanis, and a Lion’s Club, too. They both meet here at the coffee shop, in the back dining-room. We also have a post of the American Legion. That’s one of the two places to go, on a Saturday night around here. The other one is here at the coffee-shop, where a group of folks who play all kinds of musical instruments get together and jam, or something like jamming, anyway. Mostly they play Bluegrass, or old Country music, and they are usually pretty good. Anyway, that’s the place to go, if you don’t drink. Otherwise, it’s the American Legion for their Saturday night Dance.
The Coffee Shop is named “The Last Resort Saloon, and BBQ,” although they don’t sell any alcohol there, and everyone just calls it “The Coffee Shop.” It DOES have a pretty fair BBQ though. Most of the business around these parts is done there, over breakfast, lunch, or coffee. Supper-time is reserved for just visitin’. You’d be surprised at how much business is done at coffee shops in Texas. It’s sort of a tradition, along with the running game of “42” at the back table. ”42” is a domino game for ya’ll that ain’t from Texas.
We have a used car dealer in town, his name is Melvin Graser, and he doubles as the Mayor. His brother, Del, is the local dentist, and the head of our Chamber-of Commerce.
Del’s a good guy, a right-nice feller the older folks say, Melvin though? Well, let it just stand that he’s a used car salesman…and a minor politician.
There’s Dave Wilson, our volunteer Fire-Chief, and a Dairy Farmer, during his regular work days. Dave’s someone you can count on, a four-square kind-of guy, and incidentally, my best-friend since Jr. High. He owns a working Dairy, with 1500 acres, and about that many cows, and efficiently runs our Volunteer Fire Dept. on the side. “In my spare time,” according to him. According to his wife, Martie, he doesn’t have any spare time, and is working himself into an early grave. I tell him, “That’s ok, buddy, go ahead and work yourself to death, I’ll take care of Martie when you’re gone. That’s what friends are for, right?” They both just laugh. They were our Best Man, and Maid-of-Honor when my wife, Donna, and I got married, and we were theirs. Donna passed away a few years ago, after a long, and wasting illness. They stood by me then, too. Yep, best friends.
©F.Pierce
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