under that big Texas sky. It was like
I saw a black cat running across my path and I pulled my handkerchief out and chewed the corner off of it to kill the bad
luck. That cat was my lifeline if I stayed in Littlefield, and the handkerchief was my guitar. My singing did the chewing.
I used to love going to the carnival when I was little, especially to see the carousel horses. It wasn’t so much riding them
around and around, grabbing at the brass ring, that got to me. Rather, it was their look. They were all wild, they were all
free, they were all running. Not controlled by anyone or anything. That was what I was drawn to. The motion of freedom.
If I’d stayed in Littlefield, I might have wound up like one of those coyotes they tie to the fence post and let rot, as a
warning. Or maybe I would’ve ended like Ol’ Pat, sick and crippled and no teeth. We kids would go to the store for him, or
visit him in his little one-room shack; he was real lonely. He let us smoke, and we’d sit and talk to him and keep him company.
Ol’ Pat didn’t want us messing up his bed, so he hammered nails through a board and put it under the bedspread. One day, when
I was about nine, I came in and found him. He was the first dead person I’d ever seen.
The empty shells of wooden windmills surround Littlefield like sentinels watching and waiting for a war that’s already passed.
There was a time they pumped water and caught the wind. Sometimes the taller they stood, the more precarious their hold on
the earth, and the more they had to battle that which they were designed to catch. The world’s highest windmill was built
on the XIT ranch in 1887. Its 132 feet was toppled by the winds in 1926. Only a replica now stands at the corner of Delano
and Phelps.
The higher I tried to rise, the more chance I might’ve had to be blown over.
My hometown hasn’t changed much since I was a little boy. Whenever I’m back, I get in the car and start driving around. I’m
searching for my youth. Looking for my past. The trees I planted with Tommy are still there; they’re grown now, and so am
I. Sometimes, if I squint a bit, I think maybe the folks I’m expecting to see are still there too. Around the bend, turning
the next corner, about to open the door.
Tater Gilbreath lives over yonder. He and his family can pull a bale and a half of cotton a day. He’s my best friend, and
in the summer our feet get so tough from running barefoot that grass spurs, goat’s heads, and devil’s claws can’t break our
stride. Not a day goes by that we aren’t fighting. Tater’s momma comes running out of the house with a belt or a switch and
starts whipping on us. She wears thick glasses and can’t see nothing but two pairs of overalls. If I’m on top and beating
Tater, I’ll get the worst of it.
Marge Veach, the war bride, she’s going to make some cakes and fudge for us after I get back from Brawley’s grocery store.
Look at Fred Harrell’s two Cadillacs, both bedstead green, a ’39 with a wheel in the running board and a ’47 convertible.
Maybe get me one like that someday.
We can stop for a bite at Two Gun’s restaurant. He’s cross-eyed; one eye goes to Dallas and the other to Fort Worth. Hey,
there’s Cleve up in the tree, singing for all the world like Roy Rogers. Let’s play cowboys and take a pretend shot at him.
I know that crazy idiot’ll fall plumb to the ground. If he gets hurt we could take him over to Doc Simmons. He’s not really
a doctor, but hell, Cleve’s head is too hard to hurt much anyway.
You hear about the murders over on Seventh? Killed the man and his wife, left the kids tied up in the bedroom. Or the wedding
party where the best man tore down the back roads after the happy couple off on their honeymoon. The newlyweds made a left
as the road swerved. The best man didn’t. They’re still picking up his pieces in the cornfield.
Maybe I’ll go see Rae, prancing like
I saw a black cat running across my path and I pulled my handkerchief out and chewed the corner off of it to kill the bad
luck. That cat was my lifeline if I stayed in Littlefield, and the handkerchief was my guitar. My singing did the chewing.
I used to love going to the carnival when I was little, especially to see the carousel horses. It wasn’t so much riding them
around and around, grabbing at the brass ring, that got to me. Rather, it was their look. They were all wild, they were all
free, they were all running. Not controlled by anyone or anything. That was what I was drawn to. The motion of freedom.
If I’d stayed in Littlefield, I might have wound up like one of those coyotes they tie to the fence post and let rot, as a
warning. Or maybe I would’ve ended like Ol’ Pat, sick and crippled and no teeth. We kids would go to the store for him, or
visit him in his little one-room shack; he was real lonely. He let us smoke, and we’d sit and talk to him and keep him company.
Ol’ Pat didn’t want us messing up his bed, so he hammered nails through a board and put it under the bedspread. One day, when
I was about nine, I came in and found him. He was the first dead person I’d ever seen.
The empty shells of wooden windmills surround Littlefield like sentinels watching and waiting for a war that’s already passed.
There was a time they pumped water and caught the wind. Sometimes the taller they stood, the more precarious their hold on
the earth, and the more they had to battle that which they were designed to catch. The world’s highest windmill was built
on the XIT ranch in 1887. Its 132 feet was toppled by the winds in 1926. Only a replica now stands at the corner of Delano
and Phelps.
The higher I tried to rise, the more chance I might’ve had to be blown over.
My hometown hasn’t changed much since I was a little boy. Whenever I’m back, I get in the car and start driving around. I’m
searching for my youth. Looking for my past. The trees I planted with Tommy are still there; they’re grown now, and so am
I. Sometimes, if I squint a bit, I think maybe the folks I’m expecting to see are still there too. Around the bend, turning
the next corner, about to open the door.
Tater Gilbreath lives over yonder. He and his family can pull a bale and a half of cotton a day. He’s my best friend, and
in the summer our feet get so tough from running barefoot that grass spurs, goat’s heads, and devil’s claws can’t break our
stride. Not a day goes by that we aren’t fighting. Tater’s momma comes running out of the house with a belt or a switch and
starts whipping on us. She wears thick glasses and can’t see nothing but two pairs of overalls. If I’m on top and beating
Tater, I’ll get the worst of it.
Marge Veach, the war bride, she’s going to make some cakes and fudge for us after I get back from Brawley’s grocery store.
Look at Fred Harrell’s two Cadillacs, both bedstead green, a ’39 with a wheel in the running board and a ’47 convertible.
Maybe get me one like that someday.
We can stop for a bite at Two Gun’s restaurant. He’s cross-eyed; one eye goes to Dallas and the other to Fort Worth. Hey,
there’s Cleve up in the tree, singing for all the world like Roy Rogers. Let’s play cowboys and take a pretend shot at him.
I know that crazy idiot’ll fall plumb to the ground. If he gets hurt we could take him over to Doc Simmons. He’s not really
a doctor, but hell, Cleve’s head is too hard to hurt much anyway.
You hear about the murders over on Seventh? Killed the man and his wife, left the kids tied up in the bedroom. Or the wedding
party where the best man tore down the back roads after the happy couple off on their honeymoon. The newlyweds made a left
as the road swerved. The best man didn’t. They’re still picking up his pieces in the cornfield.
Maybe I’ll go see Rae, prancing like
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