A CHRISTMAS STORY IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, TEXAS
When I was nine years old, my family went to the middle of nowhere in the middle of Texas where my dad grew up. I had many aunts and uncles and their offspring who lived on several farms in the area; others had moved away to various other places like Dallas and such. I did not know that this was going to be the last family Christmas gathering with my grandmother, who to me seemed older than hell. Sorry, grandma, but I knew that word at nine plus a lot more and used them without remorse. "Goddamn" was a hard one to master, being a Baptist, when I was scared to death of our preacher sending me to hell for even thinking it.
We drove out to the farms in a new 1953 Ford, later to become my first car, to a wonderland of hard wood forests and smells of farm animals I had never experienced before. I was growing up in the small town of Artesia, NM, where we moved 2 years after I was born in Roswell, NM. In Artesia all the smells we had were mostly of the oil refinery located just east of town, one of our favorite play grounds if we didn't get caught. Some believed it to be the smell of pure money and for some it was. I preferred the farm smells to the refinery although now they say it's all the same, whoever the hell "they" are?
On Christmas Day, I was presented with a pellet rifle and a million lead pellets. It was a single shot so I kept a mouth full of pellets for quick reloading. Anybody who wanted me to talk to them had to wait until I spit all the spittle covered pellets out into my hand. I also received enough firecrackers to wreak havoc on my small young world. I could shoot everything that moved and blow up everything that didn't, which I commenced do immediately.
My brother, Danny, who was 4 years older than I, found out that he could ride the milk cow and I found that the milk cow was very fond of a certain bucket, her feed bucket. Where I walked with that bucket the cow would follow with my brother on her back. I always wanted to be like him and be included in everything he did, like riding the milk cow, but no, I was too small. I threw the bucket in anger and the milk cow took after it like a bull out of the shoot at a rodeo with my brother cartwheeling off the green end of the cow into the green stuff below that had come out of the green end of the cow. I think green was his favorite color until he ended up green. This went on a few more time before I ran for my life into the woods with a reeking green monster brother in hot pursuit. My brother died of AIDS in 1996 at the age of 57.
Well, before long it was time for the whole thing to bust up and everybody went their separate ways except for me. My uncle wanted me to stay on for a week longer and I would take the Greyhound bus back to Artesia on my own at nine years old! Little did my uncle know that this was going to become a fiasco for him and a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for me.
Some of the things I did during that week were to blow the bottom out of the witch like rendering kettle with a firecracker, shoot the milk cow in the rump with one pump of the pellet gun so it wouldn't hurt her, take the tractor to the country store for more firecrackers without permission, and almost killed myself inside a 3 foot diameter by a 3 foot in length section of concrete conduit my uncle was going to use in the new outhouse pit. With the help of my innocent cousin, we pushed the conduit up a small hill where I got inside and with his help went on a grand ride down the hill until the thing collapsed on me. "Help, I'm killed!", I yelled or something stupid like that. My uncle, not to pleased with either of us, picked the pieces of the broken conduit from my small body. Gasping for breath, I was in trouble but still alive. My poor cousin took off running home and I didn't see him again for the remainder of my week. My uncle had a hell of a time putting the conduit puzzle together in the new outhouse pit.
The farm dog and I went exploring the surrounding country side and being winter most of leaves were long gone from the trees. We hiked to an old abandoned Civil War era house where my uncle told me a fortunes worth of confederate money were buried in the crawl space beneath the house. My imagination was running wild in all that confederate money but fortune or not there was no way I was going into that crawl space. Earlier, I had almost walked into a spider web in the woods big enough to catch birds. No telling what was under that house. The wind began to blow the dry leaves and with the rustling sounds a cow bell was clanging close by. I looked around for a cow but none were to be seen and besides the sound was not at ground level but high, very high. There in an old cottonwood tree swaying in the branches a cow bell was clanging being held aloft by a small twig. It took two shots to shoot it down with the first shot hitting the bell and the next the twig that held it. I have no explanation of how it got there only a child's imagination about a fairytale involving the moon, a jumping cow, and a spoon. No one believed me but I was born in Roswell, after all. The bell was handmade many years ago and I proudly display it today with the lead mark of the first shot dulled but still there.
Well, the day came when my uncle was to relieve himself of me and he took me to the small town of Grosbeck to board the Greyhound bound for Artesia via Dallas and a million points in between. I took a window seat to marvel at all the hard wood forests and reflect on my Christmas adventures that I had had in those woods, probably just like my father and his brothers had when they were young and innocently wild as I had been.
Soon the woods turned to furrowed fields and as the rows passed I imagined them to be a running spindly legged clown on stilts. I watched the telephone lines flow between the poles, up then down in a reverse arch then back up to a pole. I never was much of a talker when on our family trips. I would rather watch the running clowns, the stringed arches, and everything that was in a constantly changing scene that was rushing by my window. All so different from the somewhat drab landscape around Artesia.
Now, Dallas was the biggest place on God's earth that I could have ever imagined. The movies at home never really could show the connection of the scale of large cities, besides I was mostly into westerns. You had to be there to get that kind of 3 dimensional scale. Millions of bricks rising high into the sky and the diesel exhaust smelled so different it was almost like perfume. I know that's hard to believe but many of my kid friends said the same thing when they had gone to big cities. Inside the terminal there were signs "Whites Only" and "Coloreds" on separate drinking fountains and restrooms. What that was all about, I had no clue: it was real puzzle to me.
I met a lot of people on the bus with some of the little old ladies asking how my Christmas had been and laughing at the stories I told about the best Christmas I had ever had on the farm. Some said my uncle must have had the patients of Job, whoever Job was? I got tired and went to the back of the bus where a long bench-like-seat stretched across the full width of the seating area, making a nice place to lie down for a nap. These seats were removed when toilets were installed. People didn't need toilets back then because there were so many stops that the faces completely changed several times through out the trip. People getting on, people getting off and me pressing onward. Well, in the back of the bus crouched all the way to one side of the couch-like seat was a bum, I guess, and we struck up a conversation. From out his coat pocket he produced a bottle from which he took a pull all the while looking up towards the driver's rear looking passenger mirror. "What's that?", I asked, and he said just like that, "Want a pull?", "Sure." I said. He looked up at the driver's mirror and handed the bottle to me with a "go ahead" nod. "Goddamn, what is that shit?" I said. "Whisky!", he said. Now I had seen enough western movies with gallons of whisky drinking but none of those cowboys ever let on to what that shit tasted and burned like. Those movies would never be the same to me again. I never noticed any lead poisoning until many years later when "they" said it could do brain damage. I guess that and being born in Roswell explains not everything about me but just enough. And I hope this explains what it was like to spend a wonderful Christmas in the middle of nowhere when I was nine years old.
About me: My real name is not completely Pete Thompson, but that'll have to do. I was a helicopter pilot in the Army and flew in Vietnam. Now that was an exciting time. After Vietnam I was stationed at Ft. Hood, TX, close enough to fly a helicopter over to my uncle's farm and pickup some of the best watermelons in the world. My uncle had a heart of gold and if it weren't for a little of Old Grandad whisky and his even disposition he certainly would have the right to tan my hide a few times and God knows I had it coming twice fold. After the service I wound up in Taos, NM where I started carving wood into sculpture. It was like therapy and I later went to art school in the mid 70's at UNM. I the late 70's I started flying commercial civilian helicopters as a "bush" pilot which was seasonal and I could do my art in the off season. I live in a house I designed and built in the Town of Cochiti Lake on the Pueblo de Cochiti reservation in New Mexico. In the future I will be writing about some of my adventures in the greatest machine mankind has ever created, the helicopter. In the paragraph where I mentioned my brother I started out laughing and ended in tears.
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Reader Comments (24)
Well Pete, that was a very interesting and well writen story. I now know things about you that I didn't know 40+ years ago. I was not aware that your first car, that '53 Ford was bought new as a family car, nor that your brother had passed away, and a few other things. Really enjoyed the story and look forward to more in the future. I'm sure some people will not get the significense of being born in Roswell and experiensing "weird" things, however, I do.
This explains a lot Pete. Peter Pan has nothing over you! I loved the story and don't doubt for a minute there was any exaggeration. I hope you'll share some more with us real soon. You have quie a knack for storytelling. Keep up the good work!
Pat
Dec. 2009
Pete,
Good stuff. Laugh out loud good stuff. Even better when read with your voice in my head. Truly enjoyed it...good on you. Oh and great profane restraint.
Looking forward to more, and golf on Sunday. Let it melt, let it melt, let it melt....
Now, that was a good read! I can visualize this little "stinker" of a boy...the kind that can steal your heart away! The words used in this little story reminded me of my own life on the farm and the wondrous times that entailed!
Please, Pete Thompson, more of these wonderful stories to make us remember....and to enjoy...our lives growing up! I felt like I was almost there! Thank you!
I thought it was a very good story, it gives me an insight of how you were as a child which explains why we have so much in common. Watch out for those Texas Jackrabbits their deadly!!!!!
I thought it was a very good story, it gives me an insight of how you were as a child which explains why we have so much in common. Watch out for those Texas Jackrabbits their deadly!!!!!
When you read this, you feel like you are inside the brain of the author. And that is scary! Give us more, Pete.
I really enjoyed the story it made me feel as if I was there experiencing it all. I can relate to a lot of it from my childhood brought a smile to my face. Some very happy feelings some very sad good in a short story. Will look forward to reading more from Pete. Keep up the creativity!
Sharon
Pete, I enjoyed this story with all your right-in-the-moment experiences. I hope you'll show me the cow bell when I come visit my pal, and your neighbor, Pat.
I got several laughs.....I was born in Roswell too, and have been accused....well, you either know or you don't....personally it flatters me, since I'm older than 'that'. I experienced only some of the things Pete talked about, but one of the funny ones is the bus trip alone (oh my gosh!!) and not understanding the signs on the water coolers.....but I went over and tried to see the colored water, which was NOT! Good walk down memory lane, little things you don't think about. Will be fun to see what else comes up! Thanks, Pete!
Pete, always knew you had it in you to write great stories--keep'um coming. Hugs, M
Pete - what a lovely snapshot of your childhood. Keep digging and feeding us those amazing stories of your life. XO- Renee
Hi Pete,
great writing, I could see the places you described in my mind as if i was there. I hope you will keep writing about your experiences so that we can all enjoy them. I know you are full of stories!! - julie
Your story is a hoot! I always suspected that the little boys were having a lot more fun than the little girls and your story just proved it.
Christmas and Texas equal firecrackers. My grandma lived in west Texas so we were there every year. Daddy was crazy about cherry bombs.
Good work! I look forward to reading more from you.
Your Christmas story had given me a peek into your life that I never thought or knew of.I laughed so hard when I read about Dan falling in Cow Pie. LOL what an image that paints. Did he ever get even?
Thanks for letting us see into your childhood.
Kim Fitzhugh
OOPS I post my comments under the Authors Name not mine so sorry
I like it. You described Texas very well. My little brothers and I also kept pellets in our mouth and thought we were the only three goofy kids silly enough to do that. Your uncle's outhouse/conduit tale is laugh-out-loud FUNNY!! I experienced my first Whites Only/Colored signs at Poston Dry Goods in Mineral Wells, Texas when I was 13, spending the summer with Mama's relatives. Blew my mind. I decided my hometown of Artesia, New Mexico was a much better place to live. Keep writing, Pete. You enable the reader to experience the events as they happen with your colorful descriptive words. Thank you.
I can't believe I came across this. It certainly brought back memories of my short stay in New Mexico/Texas so long ago now. You write a good story, a huge improvement on the pencil scribblings from Viet Nam! Sorry about your brother, Dan, who I do remember meeting. I'm happy to hear you were able to continue flying after Fort Hood. I've been enjoying life in the 'Wild West' of Australia for the past 30 years!
Pete.....I love these stories. I have laughed....laughed so hard I cried....then cried about the loss of your brother. My heart goes out to you. Judy Bynum
Pete, I love your stories. I have laughed until I cried and then cried about the loss of your brother. My heart goes out to you. Judy Bynum
There is an updated version of "Huck Finn" in this story! It made me laugh and it gave me a pause. The author must have been quite a handful - that was funny....and I related to the "Nowhere", Texas - believe I have been there! There is one or two in New Mexico as well. Sadly, I remember the "colored" section on the bus in Houston, and in theaters, and public swimming pools, thankfully that time has passed.
My dad use to sold Generic Viagra around the country in a kind of big company and once he take me to a bussnies trip to texas, and when we arrive we just fall in love about the place, sunny, alive, peacful, well we could discribe it but we decide to stay, I remember that he asked me, do you want to live here ? and I said with a big smile, yes! was so nice that day.
The joy and wonder of seeing the world through the eyes of a young boy. The rapid yet easy pace pulls our imaginations to move along and not miss one sound, scent or tip of a bucket as only a child car truly experience. Laughter and sorrow, wonder and innocence mingle to create a wistful tale that rivals the work of Ray Bradbury. Even if the author is from Roswell.
What a beautiful remembrance of the innocent times we grew up in. No one worried about us being lost, hurt, or stolen and crises were dealt with as they occurred. Wounds scabbed over, escapades became good "remember whens", and memories were made as we just experienced life. Thanks for sharing - the emotions, the laughs, and the smells of your Christmas trip. Your words painted colorful visual images of the situations, so your readers are there with you. It's what every author attempts to do and you captured it. Our generation relates, the others wished they'd lived then too. Hope you dust off the pen/keyboard and share much, much more.