So, kidnapped may be too strong of a word, but looking back sixty years, it kind of looks like that is what happened.

I really enjoyed my hometown. I had friends there, enjoyed the school there, and most of my kinfolks lived there.  I lived with my Grandmother much of my early years. Times being what they were in the late 50s, we had to move.  I was ten or eleven at the time, so nobody asked me my thoughts on the matter. We were moving to a place on the river with some acreage in a very small village that was close to a big town where my parents could find work.  Well, this sounds like an idyllic situation for a young boy, and it was for a while.  I really missed my friends and my school, and I missed my relatives, too.  I understood we were trying to make it, and my uncle even came to help us on the land.  I liked that a lot since it was kind of a touch of the old home.  Little did I know, he was there to keep tabs on me because I was apparently showing signs of being unhappy.

Things just started to unravel for me, and I stayed to myself a lot. My Grandmother came for a visit, and after a short stay, took my uncle back home with her, to my hometown.  It was nice, until they left.  I still yearned to go back to my hometown.  And, I did strike out on my own with a suitcase in hand headed for my hometown.  Time ran out on me, and I didn’t get very far before I was found. I managed to stay with my Grandmother for quite a long time during this period

Parents being parents decided the commute to town was a burden so they sold the place, and we moved to a rather large town.  The school my brother and I were going to was larger than we had ever seen and the students there did not care one bit if you wanted to be a friend.  It was the most unfriendly place I had ever experienced up to that point.  I had come from a community where I could invite everyone in my class to my birthday party, and they all showed up-with friends! It was great.  That was the baseline of my social experience, and things seem to become more and more fragile. I was really missing my hometown, my relatives, and my friends from school.

We were in that big town a very short time, and wound up in a small community again. Albeit, the community and school were much friendlier, however, it was not anything like my hometown.  It became a more tolerable place to be, and I did make friends there, and somewhat enjoyed my time there.

Throughout my life, I have had affection for the life I had in my hometown.  I still love the place. My relatives have all passed away and are buried in the cemetery there.  I often wonder what my life would have been like, had I been able to stay in my hometown and grow with the community.  I did not want to leave there, and I always thought I could go back there.

I have visited, and I have friends there.  Somehow, when we sit down to talk, it is like I never left.  Somehow, when I walk down Main Street, I remember all the stores there, and it is like I never left.

I spent a good number of my formative years in my hometown, and it is still trying to draw me back.  I know it won’t be the same, but will it be close to what it was?  It is a very small town, and the young people, for the most part, can’t wait to get out of there, and that is understandable. I see other folks who have stayed in their hometowns and I feel like I have really missed something. That connection, that grounding that comes from living in the same place for a bunch of years.

I have really enjoyed life as it has been happening!  I am not sure anything could be any better, but, I was “kidnapped” from my hometown and taken out of there against my will by my parents.  I hold no grudge, but I will always wonder what I have missed!

 

 

 

I came home from school, rather anxious to see how my uncle was coming along with a bay mare that we bought over the weekend.  It was a long way from the gate to the house, and I stopped for a glass of milk on my way out to the pens where I figured my uncle would be looking over the new member of our family.  I was really hoping that horse would become my horse, but there seemed to be some issues we were going to have to overcome before that happened.

I let the screen door slam as I went out the back door.  That back door was actually the entry to our kitchen.  It was used more than the front door, because all of the people that came to see us came in through the back door into the kitchen. It was just natural that way, because usually, we were all in that big old kitchen.

Anyway, when that screen door slammed, the activity kicked up a notch in the horse pen. I walked over and saw my uncle standing inside the pen, and that big, beautiful, bay mare taking a circle around the pen. She was snorting, kicking up her heels, just having a grand old time.

I asked my uncle what he was doing.  He said, “I am studying, and that is what you are supposed to be doing in the house. You have to study that homework.”  That was not really what I wanted to hear. But, I said I would if he would tell me what he was doing with the horse.  He said, “Like I told ya, I am studying this horse, and this horse is studying me. Do you see those scars on her belly about where your spurs would fit?” I did see the scars, and I told him, “I saw those yesterday and wondered what happened.” My uncle said, “I saw them yesterday too, and it caused me to take a look at the spurs that fellow selling the horse was wearing. Did you notice the rowels on the spurs were wired up so they wouldn’t roll?  That feller rode this mare with those awful spurs and scarred her up. Not only did they leave a scar, she has a memory of them.  She didn’t like it at all, and we are going to have to see if we can convince her that we won’t hurt her.  That is what I am studying, so you get to the house and study your homework.”

Off I went…my uncle stayed with that horse to well past my bedtime.

The next day, my uncle was back in the pen with that beautiful horse. She was a lot more calm when I accidentally let the screen door slam on my way to the pen. As a matter of fact, when I reached the pen, I realized that horse was eating oats out of my uncle’s hands.  I asked him, “How did you get that done.”  “I studied her, and she studied me” he replied. “She is beginning to figure out that I am not here to hurt her. And I think she likes me.  I have a name for her, and it is going to be Millie.  She has just been milling around here, calm and cool. We can’t call her milling, so we are going to call her Millie.”

The next thing I knew, Millie had a saddle on her, and my uncle was riding her around the pen.  He told me to get the gate open so he could take her out to the pasture and see how she does.  Off, they went.  Millie on a trot and then into a gallop just as easy as you please.  Mind you, Millie is only three years old. She stands right near fifteen hands. Her confirmation is really good, and she doesn’t mind showing she has powerful muscles.

My uncle came back to the pens a short time later.  Millie is taking a walk, looking over everything she will be in charge of, and that included me. She is well rested, not worn at all, so I ask, “Is Millie to where I can ride her now?”  He replied, “I think so. Just make sure you never use spurs on her, and she will do everything you ask of her.”

I had the most enjoyable ride imaginable.  And, I think Millie actually enjoyed it also.  We talked with each other a lot.  I would say something and she would shake her head up and down like she understood what I was saying.

When we made it back to the barn and pens, I brushed her really good, and of course she took the opportunity to roll in the dirt.  My uncle said she has found a good home. And even though the old horse trader said she was not broke, she was fun to ride. I asked, “What to you mean she was not broke.” He replied, “That old man told me he never got her out of the pen, she kept throwing him. He really needs to learn a lesson about those spurs he has don’t you think?  I want you to remember that we don’t “break” horses, we train them and they train us.  By studying, watching, learning we found a way to communicate with each other, and you see the result.”

First, let me say I don’t know if it was legal or not…but surely the statute of limitations has run….this happened about 40 years ago.

I was standing underneath a huge oak tree after a long day of hunting. I had a .410 shotgun, and as the sun was setting I saw a turkey fly off a ridge and head my direction. Immediate thought was-shooting a turkey on the fly-probably a tough shot. The turkey was too far away for the scatter gun so I left the .410 alone and picked up Dad’s 30/30. Boom!

Saw the turkey fold one wing….and headed straight for me. I thought I had missed. That turkey came straight at me…down the barrel of my gun…and slammed into my chest, knocking me to the ground! I did hit the turkey-and in the head too!

That bird got the best of me though. My chest had a huge bruise for several days, and I was very sore. We cleaned and smoked that turkey for thanksgiving. It was the toughest ole bird we ever lapped a lip over! Not only that, the turkey had eaten something that had all of us headed to the bathroom after dinner. That bird just kept on giving!  It was the last turkey I shot. The turkey revenge worked on me just fine!

We had three trucks…two pretty much stayed on the ranch. One of them (the nicest) took us to town and back. Two of them were the five window 1950s thereabouts chevys. I cannot remember the years. The third truck had a floor shift and a clutch that took three people to push down. That was one tough truck.

The ugliest of the  five window trucks had running boards built for it…they were two by sixes on each side, and we had a welder to make the brackets to bolt them on. This truck had been in a lot of brush country. There were deep scratches in the paint everywhere. A horse had cribbed on one of the fenders when the truck was parked too close to the pens. The truck just looked like it had seen better days. We had two spare tires in the bed along side an old house jack and a four way lug wrench.

We used that truck for hunting. (There are some things we can share only among ourselves). After firing a deer rifle inside the cab of a truck with the opposite window rolled up, we decided to shoot the gun outside the truck. That truck did have a bullet hole in the floor from when we went over some rough terrain (at least that was my Dad’s story) bullet flattened the tire too. These trucks were great trucks! Heaters worked great in the winter…no air condition of course. The trucks that stayed at the ranch did not get many miles put on them. I remember our town truck had points and plugs replaced (in about 30 minutes) a couple of times. I don’t think they make trucks like that anymore!

We have an ancestor in our family named Valrious Turney. I know you are asking yourself, “Who –in their right mind-would name a child Valrious.”  Well, his parents did…Valrious Jackson Turney as a matter of fact.

Valrious was borne in Coryell County in 1865 son of Jack and Sara Turney.  Jack Turney came to Texas from Illinois before the Civil War, and at it’s outbreak, joined confederate forces. He was also one of the organizers for Coryell County and served a short time as the first sheriff there. (I know-his last name is misspelled-it is a common problem for the Turneys).  Valrious went to school in Coryell County…and at the age of 19 in 1884, was hired by the Ohio Cattle Company to help gather cattle in south Texas and drive them to Mussel Shell River in Montana. Valrious enjoyed that 2,000 mile trip so much, he did it two more times. He became a member of the Old Trail Drivers Association.

Obviously battling saddle sore, Valrious decided it was time to settle. He engaged in various ranching endeavors and somehow, he wound up in Del Rio where he purchased a ten section ranch in 1904. He began to fence the ranch, and wanting to retire, he leased the place to some well known folks who continued to do well.

Valrious married a Bandera girl in Del Rio and had a son. You guessed it; his name was Valrious P. Turney. He went by Paul. Both are buried in the Sonora cemetery.

Our family was not a picture taking family.  I was caught off guard when my Mother told me we were going to have pictures made, and I needed to get dressed in this suit and tie.

Before that day, I don’t recall ever wearing a suit and tie.  To say I resisted conventional wisdom might be a slight understatement.  I did not wear the suit and tie.  I know, the picture is proof otherwise.

I dressed with my polished handmade black boots (with red tops), new blue jeans, and my belt.  My belt was hand tooled with my last name tooled on the back. It was the thing back then.  I had a nice starched white shirt, and folks I was ready for picture taking day!

These studio setups are made to fool people.  This is where the shanghai comes in.  We took pictures the way I came dressed. We added a string tie which I thought a bit much.  Anyway, after several different shots, my Mother told me to put on the coat, and she affixed the bow tie.  I thought I looked rather silly, and that the picture would never make it.

I did not see the picture my Mother chose until my teenage years.  I was really surprised. It was what she wanted all along, I was wearing the coat and tie. Mothers always get what they want.

 

 

How many of you remember waking up in the early morning and it is cold. We are talking Bone Chilling cold.

There was not any heat in the bedroom. The only heat in the house came from the kitchen, and then only if you were not the first one up. There were responsibilities that came with being the first person to get out of bed on a cold day. The kitchen needed to be heated up, and the coffee needed to be made.

So, here we are. The covers are pulled up to the nose. The nose and everything above feel really, really cold. If I pull the covers over my head, my breath with warm me up. That lasts only for a short time before I run out of breathable air. So the debate begins.

Sleeping with socks on has a lot of benefits. Feet stay a little warmer during the night, and that first touch of foot on the cold floor doesn’t paralyze your leg. But, what about the rest of you. Pajamas are not nearly enough to keep you warm. (pajamas-really? Nope-we are talking long john weather here). So, here we go in fast order-
covers off-grab pants and shirt -put them on fast-grab the boots and head for the kitchen.

Our kitchens had warmth that no other room in any house ever had. I think it is because we all huddled in the kitchen. And, at the single point in time, we all had the same focus-getting warm.
Waking up in a cold house with a warm kitchen was the anchor point of a stable, protective home. It was home. We actually lived in there.
I miss the opportunity to share those cold mornings in a warm kitchen. Looking back, it was then just another day in life. Yep, we complained and complained a lot, and now look at us, remembering.

 

There are so many chores for those living in the country.  It is a wonder they all get done.  Huge families get to divide those chores, and possibly rotate them so nobody gets too bored.  Our family was small and we did not rotate chores.  One of the toughest chores on one of our places from my viewpoint was lawn care.

Many ranch houses do not have a lawn.  Those places just have plain old dirt for a yard.  There are several reasons for the dirt yard.  They are really easy to maintain, and when it rains, you have to use a walkway to get to the house.  One of our ranch houses dumped all the gray water in the back yard area. We had to control the Johnson grass there. By the way, weed eaters had not been invented. Weed slings usually got the job done.  Another reason for a nice dirt yard is that you could track any activity around the house. Raccoons making way to the trash dump always leave little tracks.  Every once in a while you could see a snake trail leading up to the house.  This was really nice for tracking them down and dealing with them.

Our last ranch house had a beautiful front and back yard with flower beds all over the place and a lot of pretty green grass.  You can guess who drew the lucky straw to keep that area looking nice. Well, that job went to the youngest in the family because everyone else had much more important work to accomplish. There was an old reel mower on the place.  Really tough to push through tall grass, so once the grass was cut, one had to stay on top of the job.

I also drew the job of mucking the horse stalls and taking care of the horses.  The place with the lawn had a barn close by and we kept two horses in a little trap nearby during the day. I was very diligent about the stalls and keeping the horses brushed and looking really nice.  I could spend a couple of hours giving those horses a nice bath in the summer.  Of course you have to dry them off and brush and brush and brush.  They always looked great after a bath.  And, they always loved to roll in the dirt after a bath, too.

I came up with a brilliant solution to the yard maintenance. Both horses really eyed that green grass inside the yard fence.  It was so easy to walk the horses over to the yard and hold on to the bridle reins while they enjoyed a gourmet meal.  I could keep the yard trimmed really easy this way, and the horses’ coats seemed to get really shiny with that quality grass.  This worked out so well, I managed to get two jobs done for a couple of months.  The yard looked good, and the horses took to that green grass.  I did have to watch for those piles of horse manure, though.  I learned about how much a horse would eat before becoming comfortable enough to fertilize the yard. There were indications, and if you watched closely, you could lead the horses out of the yard just in time so you would not have to scoop.

The horses became so accustomed to this routine, that I thought I could probably get three jobs done at the same time.  After their bath, I could let the horses mow the yard, they get fed, and if I worked it right, I could muck the stalls at the same time. This turned out to be a really, really bad idea.

I took the halters off the horses and let them roam in the front and back yard on that green grass while I cleaned out the stalls in the barn.  Got the stalls cleaned out.  Took the halters to catch the horses and discovered right away that I missed a fertilizing round.  I missed several fertilizing rounds.  Wow, I missed a lot of fertilizing rounds.  What seemed to be going on here?   When I rounded the corner of the house to get to the front yard, both horses jerked their heads up like they were caught with their head in the cookie jar.  Well, they sort of did have their head in the cookie jar, they had just ripped up all of Mom’s precious flowers. As a matter of fact, they had just about destroyed all the flower beds in the front and in the back of the house!

I do not know which flower tasted so good to those horses, but they ate them all.  Flowers seem to have some sort of impact on the digestive system of a horse.  I saw first hand that impact, and realized there would be more than one mess to clean up.

The horses did not want to leave the yard, of course.  They really liked it there.  Since I had removed the bridles, I had to catch both horses to put the bridles back on to lead them out to the little pasture. Since they had found their new very best home, they were not to be caught.  Horses can really destroy a lot of stuff if they do not want to get caught, not to mention tear up a lot of ground.  We lost a fence down the side of the yard.  It was all right for the moment, because those horses did not want to leave the yard.  Mom’s clothes line came down and we made a new gate out of the fence in the back yard.  Belts were a multipurpose piece of apparel for a boy on the ranch.  I managed to get a belt around the neck of one of the horses without my pants falling down.  That ended our rodeo for the time being.  The other horse seemed to become a little more docile, and I was able to get bridles on both horses.  Last I saw of that pair that day was both of them rolling in the dirt.  I know they were grinning and laughing.  Horses have a way of letting you know they really enjoyed the day.

Being also the designated fence boy for our place, I was able to make some quick fence repairs.  However, goats really like to explore. Before the fences went back up, there were ten to twenty goats feasting on the remnants of our yard and flowers. Goats can really fertilize a place.  They just took care of about ten year’s worth of fertilizing in about thirty minutes time.  They can clean up messes though, and I really think those goats helped the look of the disastrous yard around our house.  Goats belong in the pasture and not in the yard, so out they go.

Surveying the damage told me I was in some kind of hot water with Mom.  Dad would appreciate the ingenuity and probably laugh at the damage, but it was Mom that I needed to be scarce around.  I spent the day removing horse manure, tiding up the turf damage, and trying to straighten out what was left of the flower beds.

As luck would have it, Mom was planning on cleaning those flower beds out to get ready for the fall months.  Dad noticed the fence repairs, the new gate in the back yard, and he thought I had put in a nice half day of work.  Little did he know there was a rodeo in the yard, several hours went into making it look natural and that when bedtime came around, I was exhausted.

I did let the goats in to mow the grass. I had just about had enough of those two horses. I let them watch the goats in the yard. I know that might have been a bit mean, they must have been really jealous of those goats.

 

 

 

 

I am thinking this story probably needs to be told about now.  If you were a Preston Smith fan, I would like to apologize for my boss.  I did a lot of that the day this happened. We did news in a little different way back when.

We were always in competition with the newspaper. People had grown up with the only paper in town, and the paper was just abusing their subscribers (in our humble opinion).  The paper always had first shot at interviews so their “editorial board” could make endorsement decisions on political candidates. Since we didn’t endorse, a lot of the candidates just ignored us. We fought and we fought hard.  I happened to have a contact in the Governor’s office at the time, and he was planning to come to our town to get the newspaper’s endorsement.  I managed to talk my way into getting an interview with the Governor in the limousine on the trip from the airport to the newspaper office.

Yay! It was a coup to say the least.  We all loaded up in the limo…and I managed to get my interview done rather quickly-it was good stuff, too!  The Governor asked what radio station I was with and I told him.  He had the driver tune us in just as the News Director(my boss) was starting the noon news.  Of course the Governor being in town was the lead story…so the boss opens with (and I will never forget this), “Bozo the Clown in town today.  Yes, our very own Gene Turney is interviewing Governor Preston Smith as we speak. Bozo is here….” The driver turned the sound down, and pulled over to the curb.  My door was opened, not a word was said, and I got out onto the curb.  The motorcade took off in a flash while I stood there wondering how I was going to get back to my car.

Interestingly enough, a carload of laughing hyenas pulled up to offer me a ride back to the airport.  They were all with the newspaper and heard what my boss said on the radio.

Several days later, I had occasion to talk with my contact in the Governor’s office. I must have apologized a hundred times.  “That’s alright!  The Governor thought it was hilarious, and the driver got a talking to for kicking you out of the car.”

 

I had several more interviews with the Governor as he finished his term. We would start off by laughing at what happened that day, and I always received a warm welcome from him.

For some reason, the print media was attracted to my Grandmother.  She did not seek them out, however, they came to her front porch to sit, to talk, and to relive times past. A lot of what she told them did indeed wind up in print, but there were a few things that were edited out of the final piece.

My Grandmother’s children were not surprised the media was attracted to her, although one aunt told me, “I don’t know why they keep wanting to talk to that old woman. I never heard any of the things she tells them, so, I just don’t know.”  I never doubted my Grandmother, and as time has past and history has shed some light on some of her stories told, they bear up extremely well. As a matter of fact, she was able to straighten out a few things people didn’t know.

The first interview that I became aware of was conducted in 1940. My Grandmother was born before the turn of the century, and the article was to get an idea of the differences in the times.  The title of the article actually captures an insight into my Grandmother. “Mrs. Turney Admires Today’s Young People.” Her place was known as “kid haven.”  She had operated a dairy after the death of her husband of 31 years, and in the process helped many families through the depression by overseeing children while parents left town to find work.  All eight of her children graduated high school and she made sure all those children went to school.  She was asked to compare her childhood, with children of the day.  She said she thought children were more content back in her day. However, she was quick to add that she was a modern, admiring all the great improvements that have enriched life during the past 50 years.

Remember, this interview was in 1940…just as the depression was trying to find an end.  She added that she thought boys and girls understood each other better than when she was a girl.  And that the present was much to be preferred to the conditions that went before.

I was present for an interview with her conducted by one of the female newspaper reporters. I do not recall her name or which newspaper she was working for, because I was terribly distracted, but the interview took place in the 1960s.  The reporter was wearing a very short mini skirt that she fidgeted with a lot.  She asked my Grandmother about children of the day, and she reminded everyone that her place was still considered kid heaven. She pointed to a bunch of kids playing football in her side yard as proof.  Well, the reporter finally asked her what she though of the mini skirts the girls were wearing of the day.  My Grandmother replied, “In our day, we were not allowed to show our ankles. So, as soon as we hit the back door of the house we would roll our skirts up under our belts for a peek at our ankles.  It is all just a matter of perspective.”

While my Grandmother’s thoughts were sought after by the print media over the years, the last interview with her took place in 1965, the year of the Sonora Jubilee.  She was the town’s oldest member. In the article written by Jim Batten, my Grandmother told him she was a very modern old lady.  “If we had had the opportunities that the young folks have today-well, we’d have gone further and stayed longer.’

She was amazed at traveling by air.  This lady had spent a large amount of time in covered wagons, buggies, and hacks.  “I have ridden everything there is to ride. I rode the first Santa Fe Railroad train from Christoval to Sonora and I’ve flown to California and Portland, Oregon. When I go to Fort Stockton, I fly back-it only takes 40 minutes. Next, I want to ride a jet.”  She never had that opportunity, but if she had of had, there would have been a story about it.

I think I may know why the media was attracted to my Grandmother.  She was a glimpse into the past, with a colorful look, and she would definitely talk about it.  Yes, old walls can talk, but it seems as though it is up to us to get them to do it.