Back to my roots

by Randall Beaird

I visited a childhood friend during the summer of ’94. Doug’s family was living on a farm, a place where I spent much of my childhood. With their animals and solitude, my mind drifted back in time. The grass is always greener, and theirs was a thick, plush carpet of peace. Deep down inside something snapped; I had to get back to my roots.

I traded life in a Rockwall condo for life on a Caddo Mills farm. The hard life began with a real battle to place utilities and driveway on the blackland prairie.

I sold my townhouse, bought a used mobile home, and waited for a break in 94′s fall monsoons. Finally, a slight respite from the rain, a small dry window came, just large enough to lodge the trailer in my neighbor’s ditch. With the ditch posing as my winter home, white knuckled luck struck; my dying tractor coughed to life as the blood red sun dove behind the trees. The gasping tractor limped along, pulling my new life to a virgin homesite. My flashlight stabbed the dark as rain swollen clouds circled. Utilities rose out of a muddy trench; my new life began.

While moving my furniture out of storage, I did hand to hand combat with an evil rat family. They ate my couch cushion and left me little presents everywhere. I was charged up enough to make a barbecued rat kabob; running for their lives, they safely dodged all manner of projectiles and dinner plans.

Two nights later, the Royse City cyclone almost whipped my trailer to the next county. Hooked only to the tractor, while faking sleep on the floor with the moved-in rubble, my trailer shook and shimmied like the hula girl on patrol. I had no tie-downs and figured I was a dead man. A recurring thought, as I pulled the blanket over my head, was “Lord, what have I done?” I woke to discover dozens of trailers destroyed in the area. Mine’s spastic bob and wobble dodged the wind’s vicious grip, or I had a few points with the man upstairs.

Chickens barely edged out a dog for my first barnyard addition. Visions of crowing roosters, fried egg sandwiches, and a grasshopper patrol, bounced me into the feed store. I bought the only chicks left, four, and they began farm life in the extra bedroom.

It was time to add a watchdog. A secretary was giving one away where I worked. A black and tan mutt puppy, I thought Fred would blend right in; there was peace for two months. In a cloud of dust, the savage pecking order rode naked and bareback onto the farm.

One of my roosters, a small red bantie, turned into a cold blooded teenager. He learned to crow, to pick fights, and act like the toughest thing alive. Big Red began to bully Fred who was being as polite as a Sunday School teacher.

I encouraged Fred to be nice, to turn the other cheek, while I chased the psycho rooster away. Big Red jumped on Fred like a mad kick-boxer. Fred tried to run, to lie low, but Big Red’s hobby was finding him. After a week of spurs slashing at his back, Fred had had enough. One day I found Fred and what was left of Big Red in the doghouse; a foot and some feathers, Big Red was dead.

I gave Fred a half-hearted lecture on not eating the chickens. The rooster must have been delicious, as Fred made an innocent hen his afternoon snack two days later. After one more casualty, I sent Fred packing. He taught a bully, tasted heaven, and had hell to pay. No more juicy chickens–I gave Fred away.

To replace Fred, I bought a Chihuahua. She was a tiny one, so I named her Tina–too small to eat chickens! My good friend Mark came over with his new bride, Tina. My new dog Tina was hard to explain. I think he thought I had a thing for his Tina. Wrinkled brows canceled any farewell hugging.

Normally, a Chihuahua is too wimpy for my taste. Two things: The fiasco with Fred, and by this time I also had three pigs. My pigs were always hungry; I knew Tina would be satisfied. I loved Tina, but to balance things out, I needed a motorcycle to grind out laps around the trailer.

Driving Ms. Paula

by Randall Beaird and Paula Hancock

My mother wrote a novel and attends a writer’s group to help sharpen it for publication. A couple years ago (1998) she told me about Paula, some sort of genius writer. I always wanted to do an article with another writer so I wrote her a short note. “Your sagacity and prose made some sort of large impression with my mother. Can we go out and write a story afterwards?”

This was one for my personal record book. When Randall asked me out on a date, I couldn’t help but be surprised. Jana and Jodi, my co-workers behind the desk, perked up as he explained that his mother had met me at a writers meeting and said he should comepaulahancock1 by and say hello. I was mostly impressed with the fact that he came in, prepared to ask me out, having never laid eyes on me. It was a sort of fresh, new age chivalry that I immediately warmed up to. In this fast moving world of electronic everything, most communication seems to be On-line in the form of email. It is handy at times, but lacks that special personal touch. For a day or two, Randall and I sent “mail” back and forth. I sent him a few things I had written and he wrote some creative anecdotes about me as a banker. Sometimes I wonder what swims around in that mind of his! We decided to take a ride down to my family’s farm in Timpson, a tiny suburb of Nacogdoches. Nacogdoches has been the source of some wonderful times for me. Randall seemed to think I had some strange fixation with the college there, Stephen F. Austin. He made the suggestion that while we were there I might want to touch the school building. He is full of those crazy ideas. I decided that I could will myself not to touch the building, if I could attend school in the spring or fall. It is something I have always wanted to do.

After reading Paula’s stories, I knew I was in for a treat. Her words drip emotion to the door, then down the drive halfway to the street; your mind doesn’t know if it needs a towel or its been scorched by the tip of a golden candle. I knew it would be tough not to stare too much on the date. Once underway, thunder crashed and the drops came in wicked sheets. The rain soaked roads kept my eyes strapped in straight ahead; we practically surfed down to her great love and my alma mater, S.F.A. I liked how Paula raised it to the glory of all academia.

The trip to the farm got rained out. It’s mostly dirt and gravel roads; I was afraid we’d slide off the road and into the ditch. Randall would make me push the truck out of the mud if we got stuck, and I didn’t want to risk it! I am, of course, kidding, but we postponed that little adventure just the same. Instead, we had lunch at a quaint little place I used to eat at as a child, The Bar-b-que House, right off the loop in Nacogdoches. The hickory smoke almost knocked us down when we walked in the door. Randall made sure to rake me over the coals about that one. He joked, “Don’t hesitate to add another
vent or two.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Lunch was nice. The bottled sodas and rustic atmosphere brought back innumerable childhood memories. There was rusty plow tools and ancient horse tack on the walls, and a kind old wooden Indian waiting to greet you at the door. I told him that at one time there had been sawdust on the floor. He didn’t believe me, but when the cook confirmed my story I had to gloat a bit.

Yes, Paula was right. But walking in you could’ve yelled fire!, until you realized it was just your dinner taking one last puff before being drug off the grill. You could hardly see your fellow diners. “Uh-oh, we might want to drop and roll to get to our booth.”

We continued down North St., looking for the Sterne-Hoya house. I know I was rambling on about growing up in the woods on the outskirts of Nacogdoches, but Randall listened like a champ and only made fun of me a couple of times. Unfortunately, the Sterne-Hoya was closed for the holidays, so we made a run through the historic district of town. Those old homes are fascinating and quiet haunting. I enjoyed the drive. After lunch and an exciting ride, we headed home. Randall wanted to stop by his house in Jacksonville. He has a great place. The house is a unique little home place with lots of room and glorious fresh air. A huge herd of horses ran free close by in the back. The trees stood in quiet solitude and guarded the back yard. Randall knows the place well, and it agrees with him.

My house was marginal; my trees incredible. Three trees would bounce any arborist across the yard like a hard rubber ball. The Post Oak is fourteen feet around with an 85 foot spread. The Cottonwood is sixteen feet around, hollowed out in the middle and near death while the Black Walnut spreads out like a giant sea fan. Some lecture to cut the old Cottonwood down before it kills me in its fall. Others beg to let it die in peace.

On the way home, I was quiet, perhaps for the first time. I know Randall was glad. He had heard me talk almost the entire trip. His ears were probably ringing. There was a certain fulfillment in my heart. I was content with the company and the beauty of the fall colors streaming by the road. There was a sweet peace and smile on my face. I hope Randall and I can go out again.

On the way home, I felt a little guilty obtaining such cute company in the pursuit of a story. But driving Ms. Paula around was worth the verdict.

Might have been rough

by Randall Beaird
map_florida_keys_r1_c1

I’d always wanted to take a vacation to the Florida Keys. This past summer it happened. After taking a week long cruise on the SS Norway out of Miami I hopped a bus to Key Largo. Famous for its fabulous scuba diving and sunsets, I eased into a dive resort for a few days.

Close to where the dive boats were strapped tight lay a roped off swimming area. Eager to test the water I checked the shoreline.  My first several trips in were without a tank; I just paddled around learning who the new fish were.

grunts

grunts

There were mangrove snapper, grunts and a sprinkling of lonely barracudas. The grunts looked like fancy piggy perch, or dressed up croakers. Visibility may have been only fifteen feet, but when you grow up on the banks of the muddy Brazos river, fifteen feet is a dream.

 

Mangrove Snapper

Mangrove Snapper

I was paying particular attention to the snapper, even stalking them. I just bought a spear gun, and though I couldn’t use it in Key Largo, I was taking notes for further south.

I learned that the grunts are caught frequently with rod and reel and make worthy table fare, but it was taboo to spear them (they have pretty blue and yellow stripes.)

I noticed quite a bit of litter from 8 feet at the pier out to about 20 feet deep. I told the dive operator that for a free tank of air I’d gather trash. Diving is like flying–who cares if you’re picking up a little trash.

horseshoe crab

horseshoe crab

Of the more interesting observations, the huge tarpon skeleton pasted on the sandy bottom, the bizarre looking horseshoe crab and the eerie barracudas. They were always alone, always staring me down, looking dangerous.

barracuda

barracuda

One day I figured out where the JOHN PENNEKAMP CORAL REEF STATE PARK was and took a hike. It was a healthy twenty minute sweat, especially when I walked by some trees. Mosquitoes lay in wait; I slipped into the standard helicopter polka, until I bought some repellant.

Once at the park, it was swimming in an aquarium.  My old spot, the Freeport jetty and my trusty flounder hole were shades of gray; I was swimming with the pretty dogs now.

lobster

lobster

Then, some waving tentacles caught my eye ten feet below. After swooping down for a look I was surpised to find a whole family of lobsters.  Seeing them reminded me of the upcoming two day season in Key West. For now, it was just a show.

When the sun goes down in the Florida Keys people gather and stare. There’s something about a fiery ball sinking into a watery grave. I think they’re thinking….the day is over, it might have been rough, but this sure is pretty.

Catch of the day

by Randall Beaird

I love to swim. On Lake Livingston, at Westwood Shores, on the tip of White Rock Creek, I wear my surfer shirt. It’s blue, kind of sparkly, and makes me look like a big minnow.

In Florida, I felt compelled to buy it; I grew tired asking strangers to reach the parts I couldn’t with sunscreen. It was too much to ask and the surfer shirt blocked the sun and jellyfish attacks.

Friends warn me about swimming with the alligators in White Rock Creek. There’s a tenalligator footer in there and dogs have been eaten. I believe them. That’s when I tell them there have been two alligator attacks on humans the last twenty-five years in Texas. There’s been about 240 alligator attacks in the South the last 40 years or so–seven fatalities, all in Florida except one in Georgia. The fatality rate for alligator attacks is 3.4%; maybe a toothy indentation but I’ll make it back to shore. (shark fatality rate is 2%–for every 100 bitten, two die).

I don’t push it though. I try not to swim near unpopulated shorelines (nesting gators) and maybe I’ll wear a knife strapped to my calf. Or maybe I’ll wait until I’m the third person chomped on in Texas–hopefully not the first to be eaten completely. I’ve only seen a four footer where I swim.

Update:  A few months after writing this I was swimming in the afternoons of July, but the shallow water of the creek made the water almost unbearably hot.  So I started swimming before work, when the gators are still on patrol for snacks.  I swam about 1/4 mile along the shoreline and turned around where they were building a house on the water.  When I made it back home and had showered, while getting dressed, I was startled to see a 12 foot gator floating on top of the water about ten feet from the spot I got out.  It was obvious that it had been stalking me, following me home.  Later, the guys who were building the house confirmed they saw it over by them first, and they worried for me, but they didn’t see it following me.  I put swimming on the back burner for a month or two after that.

Probably posing a bigger danger than gators is the bacteria resting in such a lethargic body of water. And then there’s the heat stroke problem as the surface temps soared past what I’m guessing was 90 degrees in the shallow water. All I do is put a little alcohol/vinegar cocktail in my ears afterwards and try to swim near the bottom when I’m about to faint from the heat.

Back to spear fishing in Florida.speargun
I didn’t eat breakfast and vowed nothing would touch my lips unless and until provided by the sea. I could tell my shots were consistently high–the problem was getting close enough to worthy and legal species.

warsaw grouper

warsaw grouper

 

 

 

 

 

I had been warned not to shoot the Warsaw Grouper.  It was a protected fish and very expensive fines waited for the shooter. I stayed up late memorizing the fish not to nail. I was already in the hole $31.50 for my fishing license and $10.00 for the little Styrofoam dive flag floatie sign that I had to pull around with me. Add my mask, snorkel and fins–we’re talking about an expensive fish dinner, or so I hoped.

I eased into the Gulf of Mexico about five miles north of Key West. I could tell right away the tide was going out and I was in the Atlantic Ocean in about 45 seconds. It was a deadly current if you fought it; I rode it like I was at Astroworld.

There was a fisherman near the bridge on the Atlantic side so I paddled like an angry penguin to stay at least 100 feet away. The law requires spear gunners to stay that far from the hook chunkers. Plus, whenever I saw a fisherman, and they saw me swimming with their dinner, there was always the evil eye staring me down. 100 feet was too close–I didn’t want to be the catch of the day.

Key West

by Randall Beaird

After spending three days in Key Largo I took the bus to the southernmost point in the United States, Key West. It’s two miles wide, four miles long, 150 miles south of Miami, 90 miles north of Cuba, and two miles from a parking place.

Most everyone rents a bicycle or moped. As I scouted out the island for places to snorkel, lobster hunt and spear fish, my forty dollar bike was leaving my stomach empty and something else sore. I say forty but that was “as is.” During the test ride I noticed the front wheel had a worrisome wobble. The mechanic swapped tires and I was up to $50, but I couldn’t use the lowest 3 gears. It’s a good thing I gave it a paint job to make it look worth $60. It was cheaper than renting one for two weeks.

Pedaling to the beach was easy enough. The problem was I ran out of beaches to explore. The snorkeling was good, especially at Higgs Beach on the Atlantic Ocean side. Half of the wooden pier was washed away, but the rusty iron supports provided shelter for thousands of fish.

Spear fishing was not available from shore on Key West. I kept staring at the map. The islands farther north were almost blinking–remote enough to avoid stray swimmers, and my JBL 20 spear gun with an extra band was ready to put the mangrove snapper on the table!

After a week of pedaling, I took the bus to the airport, rented a car, and headed north. Of particular interest to me were the old train trestle supports. The train’s first historic trip from Miami to Key West was in 1912. A devastating hurricane in 1935 killed hundreds, washed away small islands and part of the track; the railroad to Key West was dead. It was replaced in 1938 with a two lane highway on top of the old track.

This two lane highway has since been replaced with a new four-lane sister next door; now it provides shelter for the lobsters and sharks–at least that’s what one fellow said at the dive shop. “There’s a lot of big sharks under that old bridge.” Breathing hard and not sure which was flared wider, my eyes or nostrils, I drifted in and out of the relic’s shadow. All I saw was a lot of big lobsters.

I play the percentages when it comes to sharks and gators. They’ve had about 200 shark attacks the last 40 years in Florida, about 6 fatalities. I thought they might get a bite or two, but that’s about it. Sometimes I didn’t have much of a choice about being under the old bridge. Depending on the tide, I would start on the gulf side and get a free ride to the Atlantic side. When the tide was slack I found plenty of fish and lobster under tangled concrete and iron shrubbery.

My first trip with the spear gun was like the first time I played golf. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Those snappers like to swim just out of range and the pig fish (one of the grunt species, but not the pretty ones) were quick. First, they had to be big enough, then close enough; I went home empty handed.

The next day I decided I wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t on the tip of my spear. Nothing makes a better hunter than a hungry hunter.