The Life and Times of Lucile Rowntree

November 24, 2008

TOGETHER AGAIN

It was 5:36 a.m. when I slid from my bed at 3 Trees Ranch, and moved carefully and quietly in the dark toward the kitchen to start the coffee. A brisk and crisp 28 degrees came into focus from my outside thermometer. I walked to the front door of the River House and noticed the frost covering the car hoods in the parking lot, and the steam rising from the Colorado River. Beverly had made fresh peanut butter cookies last night for the Thanksgiving celebration this week and the smell was still in the air.

I had thought about this day for over two weeks since I had made the arrangements at Massey, Bean, Burge Funeral home in Grand Prairie. The arrangements to move Daddy to the Smith Cemetery had been a family discussion for several months since Mom’s passing in March, 2008. While expensive, the family felt that Daddy should be moved to Momee’s side near Oakalla. As it should be, they will be together. I have had the feelings for months that this action was more for the living than for our parents. This was the final symbolic act, to have their lifetime union put back together by placing their bodies side by side for eternity.

With coffee cup filled, I moved to the River House’s new living room couch, positioned perfectly to watch a magnificent sunrise looking down the Colorado toward the big rock. I could hear the morning breaking, the birds, the nature sounds of sunrise. I love the morning. While watching the silhouette of a heron fishing on the rock shoals in the river, my mind turned to Daddy. It was so long ago now; 45 years since Daddy passed away on December 4th, 1963. I remember exactly where I was when David called me that Wednesday evening. I just knew immediately when I heard his voice. I wanted to think about Daddy this morning and remember all that I could. I wanted to just take myself back to my early days while Daddy was with us. The first thought that came to mind is just how often Daddy enters my mind. I think of him a lot actually; just for a second he will be in my thoughts. Maybe while I am shaving, or just the way I sit in a chair the same way he did, Daddy will pop into my memory.

My mind moved to his imposing figure, a big man, round middle, his hearty laugh. Then the fact that he was a southpaw, a lefty. I thought of his delivering our morning breakfast in bed, sliding the plate next to the bed, fried eggs covered with too much paprika, and then the nudge to get moving. He always took Mom her hot tea in bed to start her day. I always felt that Daddy adored Mom. I never actually remember hearing him tell her, but I always knew it. The Momee was the love of Daddy’s life, that was clear.

The fireworks stand on holidays, the Sunday trip to Temple, Texas to secure the Star Telegram for the morning delivery on the weekends. I just knew that I was Daddy’s pet; it seemed to me that he always picked me to make that drive with him to Temple. I would slide next to him and drift away in sleep once the wheels turned. There were memories of a packed sedan or station wagon for a trip to Bartlett on holidays to see grandparents, the Christmas mornings, the singing of the blessing as a family. My mind raced from one thought to another. Daddy’s daily blessing over the meal popped into my head,

“Heavenly Father, Pardon Our Sins, Give Us Thankful Hearts, as we ask this in Christ’s name. …….Amen.”

Oh how I have wished he had been around longer. I have recited so many times to my sons that I only knew my Daddy when I was a child. I missed the opportunity to get to know him after I had become an adult. I have always wanted to have him around to share my adult life…..to talk about a career decision, the current economy, the politics of the day, watch a sporting event……to have him know Beverly and to meet my wonderful sons. I just wanted to have Daddy around to share my life with him, just sit around, the two of us and laugh at a joke, to be best friends. I have often wondered if he would be proud of me. One after another, the thoughts and memories of Daddy and the family came rapid- fire, racing through my mind as the morning sun came up this eventful morning. I sat in silence, a reflective time, just my reverie at work.

I took Beverly her coffee in bed at 7:45 and went to the bathroom to shave, as my cell phone came alive with a startling ring. It was Mary Kuhne, already sitting in her car at the Southland Cemetery in Grand Prairie next to Daddy’s grave. The crew that was to arrive at 8:00 a.m. was running late and the disinterment was not going to be complete until 10:45 a.m. As planned, Mary Kuhne was to witness the project of removing Daddy’s remains and having them put into a concrete vault. The marble head stone would also be carried to the Smith Cemetery near Oakalla.

I was on my way to the Smith Cemetery at 8:00 a.m. to witness the grave diggers work, and to wait for the vault with Daddy’s remains to arrive and be placed next to the Momee. Today, we would complete the circle, the final connecting of the dots….. Momee and Daddy, side by side, next to Momee’s parents in the Smith Family Cemetery. Momee had requested years ago, since she loved the family cemetery, she wanted to be buried there.

I had Beverly take a picture of me, as I headed to the car. As I write this, I am wondering why I felt that was important to do. I never do that. My path to the Smith Cemetery was already in mind, as I had thought about it for several days. Down Highway 190 to FM 581, approaching Lampasas from the west, driving by our old home on Spring Street. I stopped outside the house. I thought of the entire family gathering in Mom’s and Dad’s bed the morning after Kuhne and Rog married, and we literally wept. I was six years old. I cried too, but wondered why. I actually circled the house, went to the back of the house down the alley. As I looked at the back of the house where I grew up, I remembered Ruthe dropping from that back window bedroom onto a car in the driveway below, damaging the roof of the car. Oh my…she was in big trouble. My eyes moved to the big oak tree in our back yard. Then, a flashback, 55 years at age six, and a summer evening came to mind. Aunt Dotty, Sylvester, Mom and Daddy, and Dr. Brooks were there. We were all in the back yard. There was a large rope hanging from the oak tree in our back yard. Daddy announced to the guest to watch me. Then he called for me to climb the rope. I scrambled effortlessly up the rope, one hand over the next to the top, where the rope was connected to the tree, then the slide down must have been 20 feet in the air. The men laughed and applauded me,….Momee, scolded, “Tree, he is going to hurt himself.” It was a happy memory. I remembered Marty telling Ruthe and I the story of the Lion Hunt sitting on the front sidewalk one night, our dog Cindy, and Daddy having me crawl under our house to rescue one of her puppy litters, the owl that Momee found in the bathroom clothes hamper, the cold red concrete living room floor, the sliding front door that never works properly, playing pick up sticks with David and Ruthe, David saving some cherry bombs to set off after Christmas; the memories just kept coming. Running out of the house to wave at Rog and see his jet do a barrel roll, Mom’s custard in huge gallon jars; my mind was rolling from one memory to another.

As I headed toward the Town Square, I stopped by the Standpipe to remember the hours of playing there. Down the hill toward town, I wanted to drive by Matt Smith’s house built in 1902, then past the first apartment Mom and Daddy lived in after they were married, circle the Square, look at the Firestone Store, the Matt Smith Saloon on 3rd Street on the north side of the Square. I drove a couple streets north of the Square, near the old school to see the house where Mary Kuhne and Marty were born. My thoughts turned to Rebecca’s having to miss her senior year at that school, as the family moved to Canadian, Texas. I tried to remember which corner Aunt Beulah house was setting, the house where Daddy met Mom, but could not find it. I thought of John Storms, the black man that worked at the filling station and the maid named Josephine, she was sweet. The funny story of the doctor’s comment to Mom the day that I was born came to mind.

I stopped at the last stop light going out of town, the Hwy 183, Hwy 281, and Hwy 190 intersection, and changed course to ride past the Old Hanna Springs swimming pool, where the family spent most summer days, it seemed to me. I thought of John T. being a lifeguard there, and Mom and Dad playing golf on the course, and square dancing at the pavilion. They loved to dance and did so, often. I remember Carly Tice, the golf professional’s name, for some crazy reason. I just circled through and rolled on east toward Hwy 183, with Sulphur Creek on my left side..

As I headed out of Lampasas, several landmarks sparked other memories and stories as I passed the gate entrance on Hwy 183 to Dotty and Sylvester Lewis’s old home, then the vision of Bachelor’s Peak, ( the rattler story on David’s birthday), past the Campbell Ranch sign (dear old family friends), the dirt road and mail boxes for the turn to Momee Smith’s home, I noticed the stone entrance had been changed, and then the turn on FM 963 at Chapel Hill United Methodist Church, moving east toward the cemetery. The next recognizable turn was at the Blue Hole, where I stopped, took a picture and thought of our cousin Roger Wykes and all the years that he provided the surveillance and patrol to keep the public out of this beautiful and natural swimming-hole. About two miles further down the farm road, I came to the Moten Ranch with the familiar Old Smith Family brand the TO, the O was at the bottom of the T, of course. Again I stopped the car and took a couple of pictures on this bright beautiful morning and watched the Rocky Creek meandering through the original family ranch and home site. The Moten home site is the exact location of the family patriarch, Rocky Jim Smith, the very place where he settled in 1850. I thought of the picture of that house that had burned at that location. The picture is in the Red Dawg Saloon, which shows all the Smith sons standing on the porch. I thought of Lois Moten, one of Momee’s classmates that had passed away just months before Mom. Momee Smith’s house came into mental vision as I remember John T. churning the homemade ice cream on a holiday when the family was at her house. I love the old cattle guard that we had to drive through at the Cox’s house on the way to Momee Smith’s. As I rounded the next curve and came to the gate where the Smith Cemetery sign is, I thought about the fact that this very land, was the place that Momee had inherited years ago; the same property that had eventually been purchased by Sylvester Lewis after the Firestone Store business failed. Momee’s inheritance was lost on a failed business venture. Daddy had been a very successful school teacher and administrator, but a rather lousy businessman. I thought of the years of financial struggle that he must have endured and his deep feelings of failure that resulted from the failed business venture. I thought of the ticket Daddy told me he got one time going through Glen Rose, Texas. The memories were flooding by.

As I pulled up to the gate to the Smith Cemetary, I jotted down on a yellow note pad that I wished one of my brothers and sisters could have come with me today, as it seemed I had replayed in my mind so much of our young lives in Lampasas. Particularly, I thought of David and Ruthe, as we were so close growing up, and it seems to me that we shared all the same memories.

I phoned the current land owner to open the gate, so I could access the cemetery through the property easement. I was told he was a rough, mean- spirited sort, so I disarmed him with my appreciation and gratefulness from my opening comments, as I gave him a warm smile and firm handshake. I learned sometime ago that it is hard to be ugly to someone that is being pleasant and nice to you. I felt like Momee for a second, for I knew his life story before he opened the gate and escorted me through his property. It seemed like everyone would tell Mom their life story. Next, I was rolling up to the Smith Cemetery gate.

I could see in the distance two pickups in the cemetery, and sure enough, it was Hansford Smith and Delbert Perry. These two cousins have spent, literally, 40 years making this family cemetery their life’s work, giving it the attention and respect that it deserved. They wanted to be present to make sure that all went well and see if they could help in any way. Hansford gave me another family tree pamphlet, for the fifteenth time, and told me several more stories of the original Smith sons, eight in all, which had the clear reputation of being “rounder’s”. I always felt that the original eight Smith sons would be fun to be around and would probably make a party even better.

The grave diggers, AKA Strayley’s Backhoe Service, out of Evant, Texas arrived about noon and quickly completed the task of digging the grave next to Momee’s. I made a call to the Vault Delivery Service, knowing that the driver should be very close to Lampasas. Then the disappointment, when I realized the driver was about 10 miles from College Station when I called him. He had taken a wrong turn at Temple, on Hwy 190 and gone southeast. It was a good thing that I had called, or he might have gone all the way to the Coast before checking a map. So, I had a couple of extra hours to float around the Cemetery and ponder, while waiting for Daddy to arrive. No worries, as it gave me more time to think and remember. I enjoyed it, maybe even needed that time.

It occurred to me that many of my older brothers and sisters believe that the stress of Daddy’s final years created a horrible existence for those remaining at home, David, Ruthe, and me. Yes, I do clearly remember some sad and remarkably ugly moments that have marked me, but I really do know that Daddy loved me and I have always considered myself very blessed to have been part of our family. I remember praying that Daddy would not be afflicted with the problems of the bottle, but today believe that I am better, stronger, and smarter for having experienced it.

Only weeks before Daddy died, I was playing in a basketball game, at the Gopher Auditorium and ask him to come. I wanted him to see me play. Daddy asked if I minded if he did not come, “I am just not feeling good, son,” he said. I was high point man that night in our victory, 14 points. I laid down on the love seat in the den to talk on the phone after the game. He came in with a big chocolate milk shake that he had made for me that night. He said, “Son, 14 points is really good, but I have seen you shoot…..you can do better than that.” Daddy did not tell me he loved me often, but he would always do things for me. That was Daddy’s way of expressing his love.

I knew it would come up today, just knew it, expected it would, that one nagging memory that has always clung to me. It has never gone away. It occurred in Daddy’s last year, actually last months. I have always hated myself for that day, for my own self-centeredness, my own lack of sensitivity and understanding as a seventeen year old.

It was the summer before Daddy passed away. He was so ill, a broken man, really, having lost his job and not feeling well. Truthfully, I did not realize, I did not understand that Daddy was terminally ill. Momee never told me in that specific way.

I was being delivered to the Grand Prairie swimming pool by Daddy and another man who was in the car that day. They were running late for an appointment and Daddy dropped me off about three blocks from the swimming pool. He did not want to be late to his appointment. I was so ugly, so mad, so mean, really horrible to Daddy that day. A hot headed seventeen year old with basically zero life- experience was screaming at his sick father because he did not take me all the way to the pool. I have wished a thousand times that I could take back what I said and did that day. Momee pierced my heart two days later when she told me that I had really hurt Daddy’s feelings in front of this stranger, no less. “Paul, what did you do and say to Dad?” Momee asked. I was so ashamed of myself that I could not tell her. Even now I do not want to repeat what I said and did that day. I was a hotheaded jerk, and at that time in my life on that day, I had little respect for Daddy and his problem. To my way of thinking he had everything, and was throwing it away, why he could not whip his problem made him seem weak to me.

I know that we all have done and said things that we regret, but for me, this was my worst ever. Ashamed, is a hideous word, it sticks to you.

After the vault was lowered into his grave, the site cleaned up, and the headstone in place, everyone was gone, I just stood there for several minutes. I told Daddy, for the thousandth time, that I apologize for my bad day some 45 years ago. It sounds strange, I know, standing here 45 years after Daddy has passed away, expressing my regrets for an immature 17 year old’s actions. Even more strange was the fact that my verbalizing it to Daddy today, at this setting, did make me feel better.

I am really glad I took this day to be here and to relive so many memories of my youth and the family. I am so lucky to have had these two parents that love me so much and to have been part of this big family. I would not trade it for anything.

It was dark and nearly 6:00 p.m. when I turned into 3 Trees Ranch off of Hwy 190. It had been twelve hours since I started this day overlooking the Colorado. I was drained, actually.

Momee and Daddy are together again. As it should be.

And I still think that I was Daddy’s pet. I know it was probably because I was the baby. I sure did like that feeling…..pet…..sounds good.

I want to close by telling my brothers and sisters that I love them. I really wish that you could have been with me today. We are so lucky, you know; however, I probably would not have had my private moments with Daddy. I guess the day worked out just fine.

Together Again………………

Number Seven…..The Pet

Paul Rowntree