Jerry’s Ragged Old Hat

Country singer (more accurate Texas Country) Chris Knight has a song that is pure Americana. It is a story telling song entitled, “Going Down the River.” I love this type of song because it tell story drawn from the canvas of the everyday lives of everyday Americans. Our stories chiseled in granite, carved upon the rocky hill sides of American life, the Rushmore of ordinary Americans. We find it easy to relate to them because we see ourselves in the story and the song becomes our own story. I have my own down to the river story but it is not mine alone it belongs to several branches of the Phillips family. It is the story of when we all went “Down to the River.”

One hot hill country Summer Daddy, Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Otis got a job hauling hay, this is not unique because they hauled hay and chopped cedar all their young adult lives. This one was, however, a fairly long term job, one that would last several weeks or more. Our fathers loaded up families and went (as usual) to where the work was so that they could provide for their families. The plan on this occasion was for the families to camp along the river for as long as the job lasted.

Daddy (Doc) and Uncle Otis teamed together to haul hay. They came up with an old government surplus truck one with six wheel drive called a “duce an a half.” It had a short flatbed and the tall wheels and tires that they used for rugged terrain in the military. It was from the Air Force and the reason I know this is that it was painted Air Force blue and you could just barely read the “United States Air Force” decals still painted in white on the hood. It was not a truck ideal for hay hauling because of the short but high bed (it must have been 5ft off of the ground). They would “buck” (use you knee to bump it up to about chest high and use your arms to throw it onto the truck) the bales of hay up onto that old truck and stack them “seven” high (meaning seven bales high on the truck bed).

My oldest brother Danny, who was the oldest of the children, got to go the hay field with them and work. His job was to drive the truck in the field. I say drive but actually what he did was hold the steering wheel and guide the truck between the rows of bailed hay. That old truck moved so slow in low gear that you would have to drive a stake in the ground to see if it was moving. They would get to the end of the row and Daddy would jump in the truck and turn it around to head it back down the field an action repeated over and over again on these large fields.

Uncle Jimmy had his own truck and partner. I am not sure that my memory is accurate but it may have been Pickle Goins that helped Uncle Jimmy. Pickle worked for him a lot of the time and even drove truck of him when Uncle Jimmy was running more than one. They were running buddy’s and may have even been related in distant way. The men put in a hard day’s work in the hay field. It was hot, dusty and dry work; they wore long sleeved shirts to hold in the sweat and help keep themselves cool. They all smoked cigarettes as most men of their generation did. I remember Daddy having a metal case to keep his cigarette pack in to keep it dry, because it was hot and they would all sweat profusely. Daddy smoked Camels, Uncle Jimmy smoked Lucky Strikes I don’t remember what Uncle Otis smoked but I am sure that none of them had filters. These were their usual smokes but sometimes when money was short Prince Albert or Bugler roll your own were a good substitute.

While the men worked in the hay field the families camped out along the river. The women cooked over an open fire. They cooked beans, taters, eggs, bacon and sometimes even fish all in cast iron skillets and the coffee was always strong, black and hot. Each family cooked their own and lived in their own little camping area at night but still close together. Sleeping outside under a canopy of stars, listening to the river as the water rushed past our sleepy little lives, cascading over the rocks and falls, singing us to sleep at night, a lullaby of real Americana. All of us “kids” sent as much time as possible in the water. We would have stayed all day and all night, until we wrinkled up like prunes if our mom’s would have allowed it, but even down on the river there were rules, dishes to be washed and chores to be done and of course you had to wait at least an hour after you ate to go in swimming.

These were days filled with joy, fun, laughter and your best friends who were also your first friends (your cousins) as we skipped rocks across the water, played tag or hide and go seek, splashing water on each other, fishing or just sitting on the bank with your toes in the water. Life does not get any better that this, because our needs were few, our dreams were big and we were surrounded by those we loved.

At this point you are probably wondering if I am ever going to get to the title of this little story that I boasted about as real Americana. Well your wait has ended. I am going to share with you one of my most fond and endearing memories of that summer on the river and even during my early years. My younger brother Maynard, cousins Tommy Joe and Jerry were all the same age, born within months of each other. When I think back over the vast expanse of time to those simpler times one picture that always come immediately to the album of my mind is of my cousin Jerry wearing an old beat up, battered, tattered, ragged straw cowboy hat. The brim of the hat folded and bent going in more directions that one would think possible. You could always find Jerry; all you had to do was find the hat. He wore it to the river to go swimming. You could see him wearing it as he walked along the banks of the river with a fishing pole over his shoulder (fishing poles that were little more that long sticks of wood with a piece of string and a hook). I often wondered if he wore that old hat to sleep at night. I still think of him that way, some pictures in your mind never fade.

It is fitting that Jerry is now a “Singer, Songwriter” a story teller in four/ four time who loves country music and Americana. The only thing that his current picture is missing is that “tattered, battered, ragged old hat.” It was a great summer that I will always remember. I journey often in my mind back across the currents of time and smile as I live again that beautiful, simple summer down on the river. Love you cousin.
Bob Phillips

Auntie's Little Red Rooster"

As children we always loved going to Pop and Auntie's house. They owned a farm/ranch on the Frio River in Leakey, Texas. I have fond memories of the old house with the wrap around porch, huge shade trees in the yard, Pop’s ever present stock dog and the fenced in yard. Pop's real name was Lloyd Brooks to many of the people around Leakey he was also known as "Mutt," but to all of us nieces and nephews he was just Pop. Auntie's name was Opal (Phillips) Brooks, and she was my dad’s older sister by about 20 months. We all called her Auntie (even my parents called her that or “Shorty”). As the expression goes “they were the salt of the earth,” the kind of people who make a difference by the lives they touched.

Grandpa Phillips lived with them during the years just before his death. When I think of that old house I can still smell "Pap's" old pipe that he smoked. That pipe was so strong it would make Hulk Hogan look like "Pee Wee” Herman. If you looked closely at one of the door post inside their old house you would see marked in pencil led, lines with dates and names marking the heights of the nieces and nephews. When they built their new house Auntie took that piece of wood with them. It was too important a memory for them to leave behind. It was a part of our history, the story of all of us.

In the days before ice boxes and refrigerators they kept the milk, butter and other things that needed to be kept cold in an ice cold spring down below the hill next to the river. The Frio was not far below the house but in order to get to it you had to either walk through the barnyard or the field. The shortest route was through the barnyard. The barn was surrounded by pens that kept cows, horses, chickens and goats. Their goats often at kidding time had twins so the pens were frequently full of live stock. It was also home to my greatest nemesis as a child, Auntie's RED ROOSTER. Who was my arch-enemy but also the source of great humor and laughter for my older brother, sister and cousins.

Every time I tried to follow the older kids down to the river that danged rooster would attack me and chase me all over the barnyard. He would go into attack mode, he was ready to fight and I was preparing for flight, wings a flapping', jumping at me with his spurs just like those fighting' rooster you see at rooster fights. I don't know what he had against me. May be he thought I was another rooster since I had short stubby legs and flaming red hair. Or may be he was possessed by the devil which is what I would like to believe, in fact I thought he was old Satan himself coming to get me. I would run as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me, often crying for my momma and all the while the older kids were laughing, being entertained by the drama before them. It must have been quite a show for all of them, while I tried to hide in the barn, get through the gate before the rooster caught me or even climb a tree hoping to get high enough on a limb that he could not reach me. It's not every child who gets bullied by a rooster but I was the happiest person on earth when at long last, I went down to the river and that rooster was gone.

In my vengeful dreams I often imagine that Auntie's red rooster was one of the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner. In some way I suppose that was my way of taking a perverse pleasure in his demise. In my mind, this is my way of finally getting even with the tormentor of my youth (they say what goes around comes around, but honestly you never really get even with evil). The absolute truth is, however, that old bird would have been too tough and gammy to make good fried chicken and the only way one could have eaten that old red rooster was to boil him for hours before you served him and even then he would have been tough as boot leather. As far as I am concerned he was just plain mean and ornery and the world became a much better place when that Old Bird died. I don't intend to sound callused, but there are some deaths that make the world a safer and better place to live.

I still loved going to Pop and Auntie's, walking the footlog (or at least trying to walk it) and learning to swim in the Frio River. Those were good times and in spite of everything, these are fond memories of a simpler time and the days of my youth, but I’m glad that Old Bird’s Dead!”

Bob