A Perfect Start

Stumpy’s team, “The Texans”, opened their season on March 13 and 14 in a tournament in Georgetown, Texas, with a 6 and 0 record and a championship! In the 6 games, we scored over 20 runs 4 times and our closest game was 16 to 7!

In this picture, everything, the ball, “Smiley” the opposing catcher, Juan, the first base coach and the umpire’s back came out fine. But, poor Stumpy was blocked out as he drove a sharp single into right field, plating 2 runs! In Senior Softball, the umps are supposed to stand behind the catcher!

Our team was very good in Georgetown! Last year we were “so-so”, but this year, after picking up some new men and filling some key spots we are excited and the Georgetown tournament supports our excitement.

All up and down the order we pounded the ball, and in all but one game, held our errors to less than 3. With so much “hitting” in slow pitch softball, fielders get a lot of hard chances and to play almost error free ball is exceptional!

The next stop is Irving the last of this month and we expect another championship!

Prepare for Inspection

In the spring of 1958 I was a newly commissioned 2nd Lt. in the U.S Army and spent the next 6 months at basic officers training at Ft. Lee, Virginia. By the time I left, I had found several nice fishing places there, including the Ft. Lee Officers Club Lake.

Atten-hut! Lt. Bryan, pen and paper in hand, enters squad tent to inspect the troops.

Spartan quarters, but weren’t the short sleeves cute?

One unique trip, several of my friends, that were “good ‘ole Texas boys”, and I went Shad fishing in the Appomattox River, in downtown Petersburg. The locals used light/medium tackle with a weight and several treble hooks attached above the weight and cast this across the river and jerked it back. We followed suit and soon had a “mess” of good size, Shad!. There were so many, we laughed saying they were shoulder to shoulder, that each cast brought in one or two.

Keeping a few we tried baking them and they proved awful, tasting too fishy, being full of bones and smelling up the kitchen. We later found out that Shad should be smoked or dried. One Shad trip was enough for us!

The Officers Club Lake provided fair fishing for Bass and Bream, keeping us in fresh fish. It was nice because I could call ahead, reserve a boat and motor and be fishing 15 minutes from my house. As they say, “RHIP”, rank has its privilege, even though I was a 2nd. Lt.

Stuck in my memory was a quick, evening trip to a small public lake. It was just before a March cold front blew in. A friend of mine in Texas had told me about jigging, using a Hawaiian Wiggler, an early, in line, weed less, spinner bait with a hair skirt covering the hook – a good bait for thick cover.

Early Spring Bass

Our part of the sovereign state of Texas has enjoyed several days of beautiful weather, and on March 11, it got the best of my Grandson, Colton Mitchell and myself. Colton finished lifting weights around 5:30 PM and after picking him up we headed out to a large, stock tank near Goldthwaite in quest of a few hungry Bass!

Stumpy And A New Season (And New Hopes)

Stumpy’s team, The Texans, a group of 70+ men, opened their season last Saturday in Corpus Christi, Texas, taking part in a 65+ tournament. Our record was 1 win and 2 losses, all close games, but it’s hard to beat the “young guys”. Last year, in the 3 national tournaments we participated in, The Texans finished 2nd in one, 4th in another and dead last in the final tournament.

Stumpy is off and running, but to no avail. The catch was made against the right field fence, warning track power, you know! However, Stumpy was 5 for 8, with one sac fly, that happened to be the winning run in The Texans’ only victory!

Hopes are high for us this year with the addition of many new, talented players. That’s the good thing about this time of the year. Each spring, we look forward to the 8 month season, the thrills, the excitement, the injuries and not happily, the frustrations. But, and a big BUT, none of us would miss it for a moment!

Our next tournament will begin tomorrow, March 13 and conclude on the 14th and will be against 70+ teams this time.

More to follow as the season progresses!

A Cold, Cold Swim

WW II had ended in August 1945, almost all of our service men were home, the great depression was a dim memory and a new consumer economy was just beginning to heat up. Rationing of gasoline and food had ended and folks now had time to think of leisure activities.

In February of 1947, our neighbor, Dave Miller, with my Dad’s help, had just completed, in his garage, a 14’, flat bottom, skiff. The construction predated, by many years, the advent of electric powered, hand tools and this boat was completely made by hand, from the sawing of the ½” marine plywood, until the last of 4 coats of spar varnish was applied. Power for the boat was supplied by a brand new, 5 HP, Johnson Sea Horse and another of Dave’s friends had made him a crude, trailer for the boat. Dave and my Dad were going to be able to really “go after the big ones” now.

Bad weather postponed the “christening” and “shake down cruise” of the new boat until early March and the saltwater canals near Freeport, Texas were chosen. During the war, a large chemical company had built a huge plant just outside of Freeport and this effort included a series of canals that were connected to the Brazos River, that were used for moving finished product and construction equipment around the sites. The canals were 10’ to 12’ deep and offered protection during cold snaps to the many Speckled Trout, Redfish and Flounder that inhabited them.

My Dad performed the “christening”. He opened a beer, took a sip, poured a few drops on the bow and then finished it. He and Dave then headed out into the canals to find some fish and their first stop only yielded a few small ones.

Moving to a new spot, and as he said, “Playing the fool”, my Dad was sitting, facing Dave, on the small, front deck of the skiff as Dave turned into another canal. My Dad didn’t see the turn coming and piled head first into the cold, cold water! Thank goodness, he was a good swimmer and as he popped to the surface, Dave, laughing loudly, quickly came about and retrieved him.

My Dad was soaked, his watch ruined by the salt water and they faced a long trip back to the launch area. He survived the ordeal, but never liked my Mother or me bringing up this “swim” to him.

Dave went out and purchased some floating, life preserver type, seat cushions and several years later he told me, “Jon, back then I never thought about any kind of life jackets. When we crossed the flooded rivers in Italy, we were never issued any!” Dave was a Captain with Texas own 36th Infantry Division during the bloody fighting up the Italian “boot”!

The Pigeon Shoot

Brad had been invited to participate in a live pigeon shoot and mid March 2006 found us driving to east Texas for the event. Brad was still recovering from extensive surgery, radiation and chemotherapy that had removed and treated a stage 4, tumor on his right tonsil. He believed that he was well enough to participate and was looking forward to it! He had been on the Army rifle team, and, for two years had been the Arizona junior trap champion and remains an expert shot with both a rifle and shotgun. Brad had asked me to accompany him, and said, “Why don’t you bring your shotgun along.” I needed no encouragement and accepted the offer. I did not expect to get to shoot, but you never know.

The pigeon shoot, a benefit for Jubalee Junction, a non profit organization that provides deer, duck and wild hog hunting for severely injured people who have the desire to be in the field and take part in hunting activities. The founder of this group, David Gates, is a banker in a small East Texas town and a wonderful guy! He is a severely injured victim of an industrial accident but spending time around him you could never tell.

We had dinner at David’s house that night and met there the next morning to begin a thirty minute drive to the shoot that was being held on private land, deep in the Trinity River “bottom”. Pigeon shoots aren’t against the law, but secluded, private locations are necessary to keep “The Friends Of Wildlife” and other “Tree Huggers” out!

Pigeon shoots are conducted on a one hundred yard, half-circle, field with distance markers spaced every twenty yards around the circumference. To be counted as a kill the bird must fall within this half-circle. The shooter stands in a roped off, chalk lined rectangle twenty yards wide and ten yards deep that is placed in the middle of the half circles base and can shoot from anywhere in this rectangle. In front of the shooter the thrower of the pigeon, the “Colombaire” also has a rectangle the size of the shooters for him to maneuver in. Once he is in position and ready to throw, he says “Listo”, which means he can’t move until throwing the bird. The shooter says, “Pull” and away goes the bird.

To the shooters front, the posts and ropes, ten feet off of the ground, are for the safety of the Colombaire, and when he throws the pigeon, it must clear the ropes to be a legal bird. Since he is throwing the pigeon from in front of the shooter, this gives the Colombaire a margin of safety. However, when the pigeon clears the ropes and then dives back down toward the ground, the Colombaire must hit the ground quickly to avoid being shot. He must be quick and smart!

Brad gets three practice shots and moves into the shooters area shouldering his shotgun. “Listo,” says the thrower and Brad counters, “Pull,” and the bird rockets over the rope climbing for all it is worth. Pow! The bird folds and Pow, Brad discharges the second shot, which is a safety rule. A shooter gets two shots to hit the bird and if successful on the first, must discharge the second into the air.

Brad turns around and says to David, “The gun’s recoil puts too much pressure against the implant in my jaw and I don’t think that I can continue. Is it OK for my Dad to shoot in my place?” David says, “Fine,” and I quickly prepared. I felt somewhat funny with my Browning Superposed “knock off”, a twelve gauge Lanber, a good looking gun made in Spain, but a lot less expensive than a Browning. My opponents all seem to have Brownings, Perrottzis, Berettas and Krieghoffs, all costing many times more than mine. But, as they say, “The proof will be in the pudding.”

Our Colombaire is a man about fifty years old, left handed, with all the moves of a baseball pitcher, which he was professionally in his youth. “Listo,” he announced right in front of me and I nervously answered, “Pull” and he overhands a bird right in front of me, it darted low, he hit the ground, and too much movement in my direst front, and Pow, Pow, two clean misses. An inauspicious start!

The second, practice bird cleared the rope and climbed fast to my right and Pow, down he went. The Colombaire said, “Second barrel.” I look at him. “Second barrel,” a little louder and I remembered to discharge the second shot into the air. Being “tight”, if you hit a bird on the first shot, you don’t waste the second one. I missed both shots on my last practice bird and thought to myself, this is harder than sporting clays or trap shooting and much worse than shooting Mourning Doves on a real windy day. I’ll have to crank up my concentration just to compete with the other shooters.

The practice rounds were completed and there were twenty-five shooters and Brad was shooting twentieth, so I got to watch some very good shooting and picked up some useful pointers. Don’t be glued to the middle of the shooting area. Change your position once the Colombaire says “Listo” and he can’t change his. Your initial aim point is the center of the middle rope. Block out the Colombaire’s movements and just watch the bird. Keep both eyes open and concentrate on the pigeon. And a truism of all wing shooting, swing through your shot and don’t stop your swing until the bird is hit and always be ready for a second shot!

My turn came up as the lady in front of me finished with the lead having knocked down seven out of ten birds thrown. I’m nervous, took a half breath, walked to my position and looked the Colombaire in the eye. His lips moved, but with ear protectors on and being hard of hearing from too much shooting without them, I heard nothing. I told him to speak louder, he smiled and said “Listo.” “Pull,” I answered and the bird sailed over the rope and dove to the ground and Pow, Pow, I missed both shots.

After the miss my “nerves” were gone and I hit eight straight birds including a long, long shot of over seventy-five yards, and the bird fell just inside of the flags. Concentrating completely, being deaf and having ear protectors on I can only hear the “Listoes”. But Brad told me later that I really had all of the other shooters attention. “Who is that guy with the wide shoulders?” “ I have never seen him shoot before.” “That old guy can really shoot!” “What a long shot!” The crowd murmured.

On my last bird, nine of ten should win the shoot for sure, the Colombaire stood right in front of me, smiled and said, “Listo”, I moved two side shuffles to my left, clearing him, he took two spins forward as if to release the bird like a discuss, and of all things, released it behind his back. The bird is flying between the Colombaire and me, and I’m completely “faked out of my jock,” in the wrong position to shoot a hard right bird and Pow, Pow, two weak misses. The Colombaire then does something I had not seen him do with the other shooters, he came toward me, held out his hand, and smiled saying, “Good Shooting.” Everyone was patting me on the back, shaking my hand and congratulating me, but I was worried that one of the last five shooters would tie or beat me.

The last four shooters had sixes and sevens and, as in all good stories, the last shooter a young man probably in his mid twenties, and sporting an old, beat up, twelve gauge, pump, tied me. He missed his first bird, then shot seven in a row, missed number nine and hit an easy straight away for an eight. We tied and to determine the winner, a shoot off was needed.

Having come to the shoot to support Brad, I found myself in a shoot off for the championship. This wasn’t planned, but I will definitely do my best. The Colombaire is primed to make both of us work hard for the victory. He’s getting the bird ready, pulling tail feathers out and swinging it around, while he paces in the throwing area. We both miss the first two birds, our Colombaire stepping up the level of his throws. Shooting first, I nailed a low bird right past the rope and my opponent hit a high, climber. I got a discuss type, behind the back bird to my right and dusted it on the first shot, but hit it square on the second and my opponent hits on his second shot also.

Still tied, I moved to the shooters position, and the Colombaire was smiling and pulling tail feathers out. I’ve seen everything he has I think, so he spins and released the bird with his right hand a hard left. I hadn’t seen that! Pow, Pow and I missed. My opponent won the shoot with an easy climber. My young opponent was the best shooter that day.

Second place still paid handsomely, but I donated my winnings to Jubalee Junction!

However, second guessing, I think that if I had hit the hard left bird, our Colombaire would have pulled one of his tricks on my opponent. Quien sabe?

The Best Gambel Quail Spot

Thinking about Quail hunting, my thoughts jumped back to my stay in Arizona and the fabulous hunting I had encountered. One thing that made it so memorable was that, at the time, the season ran from Oct 1 to Feb. 28/29. Hearing in the past that you could get tired of hunting Quail and eating them, I tried and tried, but never did and most of my spare time was spent chasing these little “buzz bombs”.

My hunting partner, Jack Schindler and I had narrowed down, what we believed was, the best place in Arizona to hunt Gambel Quail and it was in the Tonto National Forest on the south side of the Tonto Basin, along the west side of the Salt River Canyon. This was our “Place” and it was an “easy” drive from our Paradise Valley homes.

“Our Place” was off of the main road from Payson to Roosevelt Dam and on to Globe, Arizona. Once on the Payson, Globe road, heading east, we would take a dirt road south for eight miles before it turned into a four wheel drive only road, following the west rim of the Salt River Canyon, for four more harrowing miles. When the four wheel drive road ended, we were there. We probably made many trips to the “Place” and never saw another soul there.

It began as a wash feeding into the Salt River and continued west up into the hills for several miles, turning into a mini canyon almost two hundred feet deep, with nicely terraced sides along the north rim. We, our dogs and hunters, would spread across the wash and head up it until the coveys of birds were found. The coveys were unbelievably, enormous, at the time, one hundred to two hundred birds.

Our second choice for “Best Gambel Spot” was on the north side of Tonto Basin on the slopes of Sombrero Peak. There were a lot of birds and easier hunting, but it was over a 2 hour, drive from our homes. Another drawback was in the late after noon, many shots were into the sun, limiting our effectiveness.

Jack, Ned Pepper, Rooster sleeping, display over a half of a 2 man limit of Gambel Quail. This was the results of a morning hunt near Sombrero Peak. Note, to protect from thorns, the “Boots” on Ned Pepper’s feet

All of these spots were on public land and there were many other excellent places to find a lot of Gambel Quail. Some of these were; Bumble Bee Creek east of Prescott, Thumb Butte west of Prescott, the low hills east of Camp Verde, and real close to home, the slopes of the McDowell Mountains.

None outshone “Our Place”

The Free State Of Van Zandt

The following story, one of my favorite family stories, has been handed down in my family since, I imagine, these events took place. On one occasion, I also saw a version of the story in print in the “Texas Co-op Power” magazine.

When the Southern soldiers returned from the War Of Northern Agression, they found a serious situation, carpetbaggers, crooked politicians and a general lack of law enforcement. The returning Van Zandt County soldiers gathered together and formed The Free State of Van Zandt. The Unionist quickly responded by sending Colored Federal Cavalry to suppress the “revolt”. Shots were exchanged and the Federal troops were driven off which ignited a party by the victors, causing most of them to become very drunk.

The Federals returned, and without a shot being fired, captured the entire lot of the revelers, hand cuffed them all and put them in a hastily built stockade. Big trouble for the former Confederates! However, during the first night, a violent rainstorm hit the stockade, causing the hastily built facility to, literally, come apart. Since the Federal troops had sought shelter from the storm and weren’t guarding it, and the stockade came apart, the Confederate prisoners simply walked out and went back to their homes. There were no further arrests and the matter was dropped, so ended The Free State of Van Zandt.

My Great Grandfathers, Levi Lindsey Sanders and Shaw Wallace, were former comfederate soldiers from Van Zandt County, and since another of my Great Grandfathers, Brinson Murrill Bryan, also a Confederate, was from directly across the Trinity River from Van Zandt County, and family legend has he never missed a fight or party. My family history doesn’t say if my Great-Grandfathers were involved or not.

These 3 were ardent Confederates and two of them from Van Zandt County, so the reader will have to draw his own conclusions.

 

One Eyes Sextet

Over the past year, I have posted several stories written by my Great Uncle, Lee Wallace. I believe this is one of his best!

One Eyes Sextet, By Lee Wallace

“Lee, I’ll give you a thousand years to guess who I overtuck ‘tween Grand Saline and Edgewood, Friday. I mean I’ll give you a thousand guesses. Don’t you ‘member that Eli Moss? That pidgin-toed feller with one eye out, that tangled-headed feller with unmatched jaws, that bowlegged chap, you used to go cotton-pickin with every fall?”

“Yes” I said, “very distinctly do I remember Eli.”
“Out into Ellis County every fall. Saddle up your old grass bellied fan tails, each of you with his fiddle in a flour sack hung to the horn of your saddles, and light out. Great days: Always a big dance the night before you left and a bigger one the night after you got back.” (Here I dragged him back on his subject.)

“Oh yes, Eli. He’s got a show, a good one at that. ‘Texas Museum’ he calls it, built like a wagon, cages on wheels; a one eyed nigger without salary for a driver, which adds to it. The go from place to place “Exhibiting”. The nigger drives, and Eli with a one-eyed dog hunts on first one side then tuther on the road. He’s got an old capped and balled rifle. He furnishes plenty of meat for them and the meat eating part of the show. Yes, and his two mules they just got one eye each. Says he got ‘em cheap for that. He’s got hawks, owls, and badgers and woofs, and snakes and spiders, and just one Vinegarroon, that bites you just one time and after that you just got seven minutes for prayer.

The day I over tuck him, I stayed all night with him and his show at Edgewood. After supper and the show, and we had talked, he got his fiddle, (same one he had when he was a boy) and jerked off a few paragraphs of them Van Zandt melodies. I then called for his specialty, “The Dying Cowboy”, the one he always sings while he plays. I joined in, the nigger joined in, the dog, too and the woofs and the rattle snakes and even the mules, and it shore nuff seemed to me like the doxology to a “Wild West” show.”

“He makes no charges, he says it’s like salvation free. His style is hung out: ‘If the show helps you, you may help the show. If you are going to give anything, wait ‘till you go out and then you’ll know what it’s all about’.”

“Great fellow, that Eli. You always said he’d amount to something. He makes money, too, ‘cause his nigger is slick, his mules and show-folks are fat, he’s got red topped boots, he’s got wire strings on his fiddle and shaves himself, and listen, Lee, for this is in confidence, he’s going to get married, and his coming wife has got two good eyes.”

Author’s note: Exactly true, this was and is strange, strange story especially as to a one-eyed aggregation of unfortunate creatures.

Now I’m adding another fact in line with the facts above recited. Alf Reed, the boy who told me this story and who was the best shot in Van Zandt County, at the time, had only one eye himself.

Blogger’s Note: Several times I remember my Mother talking about when she was a girl and her mentioning Alf Reed.

Trustee

“Webster’s Dictionary” says a Trustee is, “A person, usually one of a body of persons or group, appointed to administer the affairs of a company, administration, etc.” In Texas, a Prison Trustee is an inmate that performs certain functions outside of the inmates normal prison duties. A position of trust.

In 1951, my Dad, John H. Bryan, went on, it turned out, an unusual Quail hunt, on some very private property. The property in question was owned by the State of Texas, and on it was a State Prison Farm. My Dad’s Brother-in law, and my Uncle, A.C. Turner, was Rehabilitation Director for the prison system and he had arranged for my Dad to hunt birds there.

Another unusual item was that the State blood hounds, would hunt Quail, and wouldn’t you know it, the Warden of the prison farm assigned a “special” Trustee, along with two dogs to accompany my Dad. The Trustee in question, the Warden’s favorite, was in for robbery and would soon be paroled and had been training the dogs to track escapees (along with Quail).

Returning from the hunt with a nice mess of Quail, my Dad said, “We had a great time today!” I questioned him, “What’s this “we” business? You went hunting by yourself.” He grinned and said, “Me and the Trustee. His dogs did such a good job that I let him shoot a couple of birds.” My Mom was horrified. She exclaimed, “Bryan, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. He could have shot you and been half way to Dallas before they missed him or you!” He grinned again and said, “Aw Honey, he’s getting out in three months and was really a nice young man and wouldn’t mess up his parole.”

The incident passed, but two weeks later the hunt was brought vividly back to our minds. The headlines of the afternoon newspaper, “The Houston Chronicle”, blared, “Trustee Escapes From Prison Farm.” Wouldn’t you know it, the Dog trainer Trustee was the one. My Dad called the Warden of the prison farm, who was just as surprised as my Dad was by the event.

The Warden told my Dad the story (which wasn’t in the paper) of how the Dog trainer Trustee just walked off and when the officers sent the dogs after him, he just told them to “kennel up” and they went back to their kennels. Three times the dogs were sent out and three times they returned. By then the officers figured he was long gone and he was!

Years later I asked my Uncle A.C. whatever happened to the Dog trainer Trustee. He laughed and said that he was never found.

Maybe the Soverign State of Texas didn’t look for him too hard?

Bits and Pieces from Jon H Bryan…