Category: History
Forty Two
It’s rained about 4 inches in the last two days with more to come. I gratefully sat down to write this morning. It seems like it’s been far too busy to do so given our unseasonably warm winter. The winter crops don’t know what to do – some have even bolted (gone to seed) – and the Spring crops are beginning to poke their heads out of the soil. It’s too muddy to work today so I get to sit back in my office and spend some quality time by myself. My playlist is going, the coffee’s hot, and I have all four dogs curled up around my feet. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.
My playlist this morning is mostly Texas country. A Matt Hillyer song, “If These Old Bones Could Talk”, came on and I thought about the old box of dominoes in my drawer. It was a gift from my father – a box of old “bones” white with black pips and embossed with the green logo of Burlington Northern Railroad – a gift from the Burlington Northern Veterans Club (long before BNSF). The white marble-like dominoes are slightly discolored from years of body oils they’ve absorbed from years of shuffling and playing. It’s one of the few things I’ve managed to hang on to despite the chaos of active addiction that plagued me for so long.
Dad’s been gone since 2002 and I got clean and sober in 2005. The old box of bones is one of the few constants in my life – one that has seen the best of days and the worst of days. I’ve really been thinking about Dad this morning. I wish he could have lived to see me today. My wife reminds me that he does see me. I get it. It’s not the same though. I miss him. It’s my earthly father’s love that taught me how much my heavenly Father loves me. But I digress…
My dad was a railroad man. He worked for the old Fort Worth & Denver Railroad, which was owned by the Colorado & Southern Railroad was in turn, owned by the old Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. Long before the merger with the Santa Fe Railroad – the SF in BNSF – was a merger with the Burlington Route and the Great Northern Railroad (among others) in 1970. My father could tell you the complete history and even had pictures of the old Fort Worth & Denver and Burlington Route trains as they moved through the train yards and stations. He took “early” retirement in 1981 at age fifty-seven and forty years of service. For many years afterwards he and mom attended the various BN Veterans dinners. Railroading is a different way of life – a subculture difficult to explain to outsiders. The railroad is family.
Our other family was the Church of Christ, a non-denominational body that has churches all through the state. That’s where the dominoes come in. First of all, please understand that dominoes, specifically the game of “Forty-Two”, is the state game of Texas (by a law passed in 2011). They even have a State Championship played in Halletsville, Texas every year. Texans, especially in protestant religious organizations like the Church of Christ and old railroaders take dominoes seriously.
Our family has deep roots within the Church of Christ. My great- great-grandfather was a travelling circuit preacher. My great-grandfather was a farmer and helped build the church in Navarro and Ellis counties. My parents and the majority of their friends were members of the Church of Christ and most of them grew up together. Since they were good church folks none of them played cards. That was the devil’s game. I’m told that dominoes were invented in the 1880s as a way to play cards without cards. Good fundamentalist Christians are good at finding loopholes to what they deem poor moral behavior…
My parents and all their friends would get together every month to have a “Forty-Two” night. It would always be held at someone’s house (never play games in the church building) and would include a huge potluck. Everyone would come, multiple tables would be set up, and parents would break off into tables of four to play. Kids would be running all over the yard (we still played outside – even after dark – back them). During the occasional game break one or more of the parents would come out to check on us and then return to the next game. They’d play all night – at least ten o’clock – and us kids got to stay up late. It was a win-win for everyone.
Dominoes disappeared after my dad was transferred to Denver (when the Colorado & Southern bought the Fort Worth & Denver ) – that is until they discovered a host of ex-patriate Texans and Church of Christ folks who became their new circle of friends. They got together religiously (no pun intended) on most holidays and Friday nights to play “Forty-Two”. The location changed but the game remained the same.
I had become a teenager with better things to do than hang out with the “old folks” playing dominoes. I probably should’ve have stayed. It might’ve prevented a lot of bad choices. I never learned how to play “Forty-Two” and the kids I met in Colorado weren’t much interested in “shaking the bones”. It was the seventies and as I got older life became about sex, and drugs, and rock & roll, but that’s a story for another time.
Fast forward to my return to Texas as a young adult. I played a lot of dominoes down in the ‘hood with my using friends. It was never “Forty-Two”, but it was “straight” dominoes. Later, my recovery friends often played after recovery meetings, and I would play with my two sons occasionally (Jeremy always found a way to win but I never caught him cheating…).
I don’t play dominoes as much as I used to. Life has gotten full of good things, but it leaves me little time for the game. Besides, many of my old friends who played have either moved off or passed on. I’m sure my grandkids know how to play and next week is Spring Break. I think I’ll shuffle the old bones and see how well Jeremy taught them how to play. After all, the game remains the same.
Birthdays and Fat Livestock
The 16th would’ve been Dad’s 99th birthday. I’ve been thinking of him a lot this week. I always think about his words of wisdom and his love for his family, but January 16th is extra special. For the last ten or fifteen years of his life he worked with his friend Jesse at the Fort Worth Stock Show & Rodeo every year. It was an annual tradition that always kept us from celebrating his birthday until the second week of February.
Starting a week before the show opened, he would work twelve-hour days until the show was over by the second week of February. I couldn’t understand why he would work so much for close to minimum wage without a day off. That is, until I spent part of the day with him.
There are a couple of things you need to know about the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo. First, it’s the oldest continuously running stock show in the United States. The formal name is the Southwest Exposition and Stock Show. It had its humble beginnings in 1896 to show the local citizens the livestock local cattlemen produced. Its stated aim was primarily educational and soon became an annual event. In 1907, the Stock Show charged admission for the first time – twenty-five cents – and in 1908 moved into the palatial Northside Coliseum in the Fort Worth Stockyards. Rodeos are still held there today on a weekly basis with kids admitted free or half-price making a fun family event.
In 1918, the first “World’s Original Indoor Rodeo” was held as a “strictly a contest” and the name “Southwest Exposition and Fat Stock Show” became the official event name. The only time the event has been cancelled was in 1943 when all America’s resources went to the war effort. In 1944 the stock show was moved to the Will Rogers Coliseum built for the Texas Centennial in 1936 where the stock show has remained (with massive infrastructure improvements) to this day. The Rodeo competition has been moved to the new Dickies Arena on the Stock Show grounds.
The year I was born, 1958, was the first year the event was televised. I don’t remember the first time my dad took me to the Stock Show and Rodeo, but it became an annual event for my dad and I. My grandmother worked as a seamstress for Mr. Wimberly, who owned the Army Store, a surplus store in downtown Fort Worth. Mr. Wimberly saw to it that we received tickets every year. He also raised, and showed, champion Appaloosa horses. Rustler Bill was a National Champion and I got to “ride” him every year. That is, I got to sit on him while Mr. Wimberly walked me through the stables. It was a young cowboy’s dream!
My childhood memories are sparse, but I always remember the Stock Show and Rodeo. The first memory was of Zippy the monkey and his Scottish Sheepdog. Zippy would ride around the arena at full speed and then stop and herd sheep. How could anyone forget a monkey cowboy?
from the FWSSR Archives
In 1969, my dad was transferred to Denver, Colorado. We tried attending the Denver National Western Stock Show, but it just wasn’t the same. We went three or four times to no avail and soon, I never went again.
Fast forward to 1986 when I moved home to Fort Worth. I was going through a divorce and had custody of my two boys, Adrian and Jeremy. My dad must have known a cure for the break-up blues because a month after we moved back our annual trips to the Stock Show began again. This time it was to establish a tradition for the boys.
My father had started working the Stock Show every year with his lifetime friend Jesse. The boys and I would walk to his little shed by the gate, talk with Dad and Jesse, and walk through the livestock barns and exhibit halls. Because the vendors used Dad’s gate, we got a lot of free food for the three-week run of the show. I’ve never had so much pizza, barbeque, and Mrs. Baird’s pastries in my life. The boys loved it. Dad would keep them supplied in sweets every Saturday for the rest of the year, at least until Jeremy told my mom about the “diet” ice cream they ate. The tradition lived on until the boys got older and my addiction kept me away from the things I always loved.
The boys went their separate ways. Jeremy became a respected artist and wasn’t much interested in the old, Fort Worth tradition. Adrian must’ve received more of the cowboy DNA because he trained cutting horses and worked a ranch for several years. Today he serves the veteran community with One Tribe Foundation.
I don’t know how many years Dad worked those four weeks in the winter each year. He and Jesse both decided to retire when they both encountered some health issues. It wasn’t long before Dad passed. I didn’t get clean and into recovery until a couple of years later. If I had not had a father that loved me like Dad, I’m not sure I would’ve even gotten clean. If Dad, a mere human could radiate love and grace as he did, how much more so could a loving God.
I tried to continue the tradition with my grandkids, but it’s been sporadic at best. They’re just not into it. I guess wanting to be a cowboy isn’t in the aspirations of their generation. Why would they? There are no John Waynes anymore, tractors aren’t sexy, and ranching (and farming) seem to be an old people thing. The average age for a farmer in Texas is sixty-two. I tell everyone I’m finally above average at something.
I attend the Stock Show and Rodeo today to honor Dad and carry on an old Fort Worth tradition. I think of him while I’m there and remember so many wonderful things from long ago. I don’t go every year – the farm and weather change my plans more than they used to. Plus, crowds are getting harder to deal with as I’ve gotten older. Quite frankly, the crowds aren’t the same. Stock show attendance reaches record crowds almost every year. A lot of folks have moved to Fort Worth over the last few years, and they don’t always feel the tradition like native Fort Worthians do.
I also love to go with Ms. Opal to the Cowboys of Color Rodeo. In 2001, Jim Austin founded the National Multicultural Western Heritage Museum in the historic stockyards. In 2010, Fort Worth finally got around to honoring and recognizing the rich heritage of the Black and Brown community to both the city and the West by holding the first Cowboys of Color Rodeo. Ms. Opal has shared a history of Fort Worth I was never taught in my all-white schools. I’m thrilled to learn a history so rich that I might’ve missed had it not been for my work with her and Unity Unlimited. Inc. I hope to share the same with others. Full history brings us to reconciliation and justice.
The Prodigal Son…
I was enjoying some time on the front porch last night before going to bed. It was still warm at 9:30 PM here in Texas so I didn’t intend to spend too much time, but grief had other plans…
I lost my mother a couple of weeks ago. I returned to Kentucky last weekend for the funeral. I visited with my brothers at Momma’s house for a while on Saturday. The general consensus being we were all simply trying to process that Momma was gone. The air was filled with sadness and the emptiness was an oppressive reminder of why we were there.
My little sister arrived and promptly ignored any of the things Momma and I had talked about concerning my brother Danny who is deaf. She made it clear that Danny wasn’t coming to visit, and they had it all under control. My other brother voiced his support as well. I guess I felt a little blind-sided. It dawned on me that things were going to be far different with Momma gone. The events at the funeral were further confirmation of this fact.
I know we all have a different grief process. Funerals are not for everyone. The grief is far too raw and mostly keeps the family in a numb state. There are things to be done in preparation for the event and the choreography of remembering one’s loved one requires some degree of detachment from the one lost just to make it to the day of the funeral.
The funeral (or the politically correct term – “celebration of life”) followed the pattern of most such occasions – the viewing, the family reception line, and the line of friend of the deceased walking past the family to pay their respects. I chose not to stand in line until my son insisted that I go up there and stand with the family – my family. I wasn’t in line long before it became apparent (at least felt like) I wasn’t welcome in the reception line. I returned to my seat (which was in the family section) and spent the remaining time talking to Margaret and my cousins who had come from Texas to send Momma off.
When the funeral was over, we followed in the procession to the cemetery. There was a brief graveside service and my brother-in-law, Adam, who is the go-to expert on family history (he’s an amazing wealth of knowledge) told me about all the folks and relatives buried around Momma. We then went to Flint Ridge, the family farm, and ate a meal provided by Momma’s church. Afterward, goodbyes were said, and we all left to return home and begin the full process of grieving.
I returned to Fort Worth the next day and the hours of the return drive were mostly filled with silence and occasional conversation about the feelings I had. My wife Margaret and I are both in recovery and one of our mantras is “feelings are not facts”. Just because I felt isolated and uncomfortable doesn’t mean that my brothers and sisters tried to make me feel that way. By the time I got home the farm had so many things going that I was lost in trying to play catch-up. Maybe that explains last night’s flood of sobs.
Suddenly, I felt a loneliness I haven’t known in a long while. The losses hit with the force of hurricane winds – my momma, my mom and dad, my son Jeremy, my dear friend and mentor, Jim, my best friend David, and my friend Eduardo. It didn’t seem to matter that my life is still full of people I love dearly and that love me – my wife, my oldest son, my step kids, my sponsor and confidant, Edgar, Ms. Opal, Dione and my Unity family. It just felt cold and alone. The tears welled up and when the dam broke, I couldn’t stop crying and slinging snot. I wanted to hold my grandchildren (teenagers probably wouldn’t like that) and call my son, Adrian, right away.
The last few years have seen unimaginable loss for me. It shouldn’t surprise me. My family, good friends, and I all qualify as senior citizens (young senior citizens I might add), and these things happen as we get older. It’s how life is. I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve learned to live in the moment, one day at a time, so I don’t have to figure out my Kentucky family right now. I simply need to feel my feelings, love my family and friends, and carry on the work God has given me to do each day. Amid it all I need to find the things for which I’m grateful.
Some days will be easy. Some days will not. I’ve walked this path before, and each loss affects me differently. I simply need to let it be until the feelings are more stable. Grief is a rollercoaster and while the ride finds its end, the memories (and the scars) remain.
I came in and the stereo was playing “The Funeral” by the Turnpike Troubadours. God must love irony because He couldn’t have timed a better song to hear. It’s how I felt at Momma’s funeral. Maybe you get what I mean…
“For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” – Nelson Mandela
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