Foundations of Faith

Next Sunday the Pleasanton Church of Christ will celebrate it’s Centennial Celebration. Think of it, 100 years in existence. Starting with only a few families meeting together during the pioneer days of our state the Church has slowly grown to over two hundred souls currently meeting together and has established a wonderful legacy of spreading the message of the Gospel of Christ beyond their own borders and even into the far corners of the world. As we celebrate the accomplishments of the Church in the past 100 years and remember it’s humble beginnings, it is important for us also to ponder it’s future and want to draw upon lessons learned from the past. One of those lessons became very clear to me years ago when I was travelling on one of my first mission trips to India, accompanying my father Don Norwood and former Elders Ned Royal.

We were in the city of Mysore, which was one of the great cities built by the Maharaja of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, who was a mogul ruler of south India in the early 18^th century. We had toured his magnificent palace earlier in the day, and we had scheduled to meet with the three local Churches in that city. The last meeting of the day was started at nightfall and continued by the light of a single dim light bulb supplemented by candlelight.  The majority of the people that made up those congregations were converts from the Hindu religion.  Most of them were very young in the faith and still had only a rudimentary understanding of the doctrines and teachings of the Church. They were naturally always comparing the Hindu thinking and experiences to their new faith in Christ.  The Hindu religion is very tied and entrenched in a brick and mortar mentality since their Gods themselves are indeed idols that have been crafted and built by human hands.  The Hindu temples that are literally everywhere in the Indian landscape are huge stone edifices adorned with all kinds of strange half human half beast mythical creatures. The stonework and the architecture of these temples are testament to the skill and creativity of their fertile minds.  Worshiping these “Gods” for years makes a difficult transition to understanding some of the elementary truths of the Gospel.  God is a spirit and cannot be crafted in some image envisioned by man’s mind.  No man has seen him or heard him but comes to know him through faith in Christ Jesus.  That God’s spirit does not live in temples made by the hands of men but rather God spirit indwells his people and that collectively his people make up his body the Church. 

These concepts in the beginning are hard to grasp for a people who have all their lives looked at God as a huge stone figure, which is the image of a spiritual creature they fear to displease. They are constantly sacrificing to it to gain its approval and blessing.  They are constantly building up the temples and the grander and more magnificent the temple the more the people take pride in it, some traveling in pilgrimages for miles to worship at the famed temple.  I have witnessed them walking bare footed, lashing themselves, torturing themselves as they go believing that if they make a vow to the Gods to pilgrimage and sacrifice at the temple they will receive the desire of their heart, some favor the Gods may impart.

In Mysore that night as the worship service was concluding one of the Indian brothers meekly came forward with a letter of petition, which he read, by candle light as another translated. The point of the petition was a request for the American missionaries to donate money to them for the acquisition of property and materials in order to build a suitable worship facility. The idea was a simple one that we heard often repeated from the new Indian Christians in those early days of our mission effort. The idea was in a phrase “If you build it they will come”.  They thought that in order to spread the gospel to their community they would have no legitimacy or respect from their Hindu neighbors unless they built a sanctuary that was as impressive and attractive.  They viewed the brick and mortar church building itself as the key to their legitimacy as a church and no one would consider them as a viable religion without some kind of temple that could be seen by men. My Dad began to bristle a bit being quite annoyed at the request at first but then catching himself, and in spite of his physical weariness he then patiently answered the request with a short lesson about the power of the Gospel message. He spoke about how the power of the Gospel message itself would be the very instrument that would draw their neighbors to the church. The Gospel needs no help from any brick and mortar temple to grow and thrive once planted in the hearts and mind of people.  Colossians 2:8-10  “Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ. For in him dwells all the fullness of the Godhead bodily. And you are complete in him, which is the head of all principality and power”

 This principle I find is fundamental and sadly misunderstood even among more mature Christians on both sides of the ocean.  No we have not come to finance and build church buildings all over south India. Instead we have come to plant the Gospel seed.  Plant it deep in the hearts of men and then nourish it and cultivate it with encouragement and teaching from the written word. Now after more than 35 years of work in south India there are thousands of small congregations working and growing and thriving. Most worship in small mud and mortar buildings with bamboo thatch roofs, but the body of Christ in India is spreading the message of the grace of Christ to their neighbors and growing in numbers daily.

In America today many Christians have there own version of “If you build it they will come mentality”.  Many modern churches seem to think that the Gospel message by itself has no power to draw modern Americans to it.  They see the skepticism and the growing animosity toward Christianity in America and they think that their neighbors simply will not be attracted to the message of the death and burial and resurrection of Christ, which is the core of the Gospel message. They are instead turning to human reasoning and ingenuity to, as it were, sweeten the message in order to make it more attractive to its carnal neighbors. Some have gone as far as deny the resurrection of Christ or deny the doctrine of propitiation all together in order to make Christ more palatable to the world.  American Christians have built huge brick and mortar temples as well believing that these great monuments to their own creativity will somehow impress and attract worldly men into coming into the borders of the kingdom. The hope is that once inside the buildings, and enjoying all the amenities that money can provide, they will be slowly converted and eased into the harness of the “yoke of Christ.”

We should take note of the lessons of European church history, home of many of these huge edifices that though are impressive to the human eye are virtually empty and are an albatross around the necks of men who though professing Christ have forgotten the simple Gospel foundation. They are now entrapped by the upkeep and expense of these huge cathedrals while the temples are dwindling empty of worshipers who have found the ritual worship oppressive and empty of meaning. As Christians have sought to be attractive to the American culture they find themselves at a crossroads. Do they truly believe in the power of the Gospel in its simplicity? Do they still believe that the message that lit a fire in the ancient world still has the power to light a fire in the modern world?

As the Pleasanton Church looks to the future and plans it’s modernization and future construction of facilities I hope it will never forgets its foundation.  John 12:32 “Now is the judgment of this world: now shall the prince of this world be cast out. And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to me. This he said, signifying what death he should die.”

I pray we will never be so proud of our brick and mortar facilities that we forget to be “not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ for it is the power of Christ unto salvation for everyone that believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.” Romans 1:16.

Dominoes and Daring Do

I remember when I was a junior high school kid that from time to time my grandmother would receive a visitor at our old house in Pleasanton, Texas.  It was a sweet elderly lady that grandma Pearl would introduce as my great aunt Florence, Finley.  She was a sweet lady, her hair so white it seemed to have a bluish tint to it. I remember she and granny would sit and play dominoes and drink coffee for hours.  They would laugh and talk about the good old days of long ago and I would sit and listen a little while, but soon excuse myself to pursue a more entertaining past time.  On occasion I would try to play forty-two with these ladies but I was way to slow to keep up with the game.  These gals would throw down their dominoes so quickly that you would hear the plop plop plop of their dominoes and then a long pause, as I would be trying to figure my play.  I gave up soon and just preferred to sit on the sideline and watch the pros do it instead. 

I didn’t realize at the time or nearly appreciate the person that was there visiting in my home. I couldn’t appreciate what a wealth of historical and literary knowledge Mrs. Finley possessed. Granny told me she was an authoress and that she had written several books that talked about our ancestors but as a kid you just don’t value things as much as I now do.  Florence Finley was a W.P.A. writer.  She had been part of the W.P.A. Life Histories Project during the 1930s.  Congress in 1936 authorized writers from all over the country to find and interview the pioneers and early settlers of our country and get them to tell their experiences in their own words. My aunt Florence whose maiden name was Angermiller at the time was commissioned to be one of those writers.  She traveled a good bit of Texas in those days and literally sat on the porches and in the homes of some of the old timers of our state that were still alive in those days. She recorded their stories word for word as they sat and shared their recollections of the early pioneer days of Texas.  Those interviews are preserved in the Library of Congress to this day and are available on the web.  They are so interesting to read. Eventually aunt Florence compiled her works into several books that today are rare Texana collectables.  She is the author of Old Timers and Old Timers of Southwest Texas. She also is the Author of Heart Full of Horses a book that tells stories about the many wranglers and cowboys of early Texas. If it were not for her writing many of the stories from our ancestors would have been lost to posterity.

I post here a sample of her work, which was an interview with my Great Great Grandmother Emma Davenport. The interviews are too lengthy to be placed in a Blog post so I will instead give you the direct link to the W.P.A. Life Histories site that has them. I do not have permission from the Library of Congress to reproduce them.  The two interviews detail the life of Emma herself as she grew up in the Sabinal Canyon the daughter of Chris Kelly one of the old trail drivers who drove a herd to California in the middle of the great Gold rush of 1849. She tells of Indian depredations and horse thieving.  She tells of her trip to San Antonio in the 1870’s, an engagement party as she called it, before her wedding to John.

In the second interview Emma Davenport talks about her mother in law. Mary Davenport.  Florence Finley called her aunt Mary Davenport. Mary was the daughter of Captain John Crane an old boy hood friend of Andrew Jackson and veteran of the Creek Indian war, later a veteran of the Texas war for Independence. Her husband John Davenport was ambushed and scalped by Indians in 1859 just a few miles from Sabinal leaving Mary widowed with two sons.  The youngest of the two sons John Davenport jr. was later to become Emma’s husband. My great grandfather Rollie was one of their 10 children.

I hope you enjoy these interviews. Grab a cup of coffee or Tea and sit and read a history by a woman who lived it and told it in her own words. Click on this link: interviews and it will take you to the home page of American Life Histories home page. Look for the search by keywords link on the left of the page. Click on that and enter the word Davenport. The search results should give you both interviews at the top of the page. Click on their names and the interview manuscript should appear.

Raymond's Afternoon Nap

In my previous post Cowboy’s First Love I ended the article saying that it wasn’t the first time that the Davenport brothers found mustang horses to be their first priority even over a brother in need. They found themselves in such a dilemma one day when John and Emma Davenport were headed into town for supplies.  The trip into town was a 15-mile journey in a “hack” buggy, and so the folks would be gone most of the day.  John lined up the boys and told them sternly, “now boys while I’m gone you take care not to go near that corral and mess with those horses.  Your ma and me will be back soon so you take care and watch the youngsters.” Some of the young cousins were visiting that day so the oldest brother Raymond I’m sure was told to be in charge and watch the place.  Well with that the folks loaded up and began bouncing and rattling down the old road headed for Sabinal to do their business.  Now you know that the dust had hardly settled and the clanking of that old wagon was hardly out of ear shot when the boys looked one at the other and then looked at that corral of newly corralled mustangs and just couldn’t say no to powerful temptation.

Now guess who was the very first one to follow his heart instead of his brains. Yep you guessed it. It was Raymond leading the charge to the corral. The boys got the saddle and hackamore harness, opened the old gate and slowly worked their way around to the first good lookin piece of horseflesh that looked like he could make a good romp. Now Raymond was the very first one on the bronco. The brothers helping hold the rope tied to the hackamore to try to head the horse from running somewhat until Raymond could cinch the saddle and slowly mount the steed. When Raymond was settled in and had a good grip he gave a quick nod to the boys. The brothers held the rope and tried to stay free of the kicking and twisting. That old horse started bucking and spinning and after a minute cut crossways and made a dash.  The boys all set down on the rope to keep him from getting into the timber and when they did that horse hit the end of the rope and turned a complete somersault head over heals sending Raymond airborne right over his head coming down hard with a dull thud.  The boys I’m sure were hootin and hollering and screaming with delight watching big brother Raymond get thrown from that horse so quick. They walked over with jeers and guffaws expecting to hear him tell them to hush and see if they could do one better but to there surprise Raymond was not talking.  Raymond was knocked out cold. They patted his face and called his name even threw water on him trying to get him to stir but nothing doing Raymond was out. 

Now what to do? All of their attempts to revive him were met with no success he was totally out cold.  The folks were still gone to town and wouldn’t be back till hours and there weren’t nobody around so what would you do? Well they each grabbed a leg and half carried and half drug old brother Raymond to the bedroom of the house.  They tried again to revive him but no dice he was sleeping like an angel.  Well nothing to do but just let him sleep.  The boys went right on back to that corral and continued the rodeo. They kept breaking broncos right on through the afternoon until they figured the folks were about due.  Finally they saw the old hack bearing John and Emma Davenport coming down the road.  They all ran up to meet them and conspicuously there was one boy missing. Where’s Raymond says John.  The boys all just kinda stammered a bit and looked down and finally one of the boys says.  “Well papa we think maybe Raymond has expired.” “Expired! says Emma”, as the boys just point to the house. John looks over at the corral and knew exactly what had happened. They all hurried over to the bedroom and found Raymond still sleeping like a baby. You never seen such excitement, John had the boys hurry and hitch a fresh team to the hack and off he and Emma went with Raymond headed for town. Just as they got there Raymond finally wakes up and shows signs that he was still with the earthbound living instead of the angels.  The doctor wastn’t there.  They decided nothing to do but bring him home. Well history doesn’t record what old John told those boys when he got home that day but I have it on good authority that saddle leather wasn’t the only leather those boys felt on their posteriors that day.

Light at The End of the Tunnel

Today I take pause to think about the families of the mining disaster in West Virginia.  Many families are grieving for their loved ones today.  I have been a coal miner now for nearly 30 years and I thank God that somehow the good Lord has preserved me from any harm all those years.  Coal mining is a dangerous business no matter if it is open pit strip mining, which is what I am involved in, or under ground mining which was the case for the poor victims of the Upper Big Branch Mine. 

Working in a mine means working around very large and powerful equipment, often working in very dark and dusty conditions.  Long hours, fatigued and bone weary from being shaken and jostled by the rough off road conditions and rocky landscape of a mine.  One must be vigilant and alert when mining because things can get out of hand quickly when things go wrong and the consequences can be deadly.  The company I work for, North American Coal, does a good job trying to keep us trained and motivated to think about safety first, but in spite of all efforts still we fight complacency every day. Just yesterday an employee of ours was stepping around the cab of his motor grader when he slipped and fell backwards about 10 foot to the cement floor of our shop.  He hit his head and was momentarily unconscious.  Our EMT trained employees responded quickly and called air life in to evacuate the injured man to San Antonio for treatment. Fortunately he sustained no permanent injury and should be back on the job soon. Coal miners have a kind of macabre humor when it comes to thinking about the dangers we face.   Usually when we have close calls or brushes with near disaster the general reaction from miners is to laugh and kid about the incident. It does no good to dwell on what could have happened.  Of coarse we analyze what went wrong for safety reasons and take corrective action to keep it from happening again but usually it becomes a story to tell and just one more time that miners tell each other “man the good Lord was smiling on us that day”!

For the poor fellows who were victims of a methane gas explosion at Upper Big Branch Mine, I pray for your families.  Though the Lord has allowed you to undergo severe trial in the loss of your loved ones, I pray that he is still smiling, his countenance shine on your face as he sends comfort and aid in your hour of need.

Deep in unfathomable mines

      Of never-failing skill,He treasures up his bright designs,

      And works his sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

      The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

      In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

      But trust him for his grace;

Behind a frowning providence

      He hides a smiling face.

Light Shining out of Darkness

BY WILLIAM COWPER

Cowboy's First Love

I apologize to the readers if I confuse you in calling Granny Pearl Davenport my grandma.  In fact she was my maternal Great Grandmother and her husband Rollie was my Great Grandfather. Granny Pearl came to live with us when I was a small boy and helped to raise me almost as much as my own mother did thus I refer to her often as just granny.  Pearl and Rollie Davenport lived in an unusual time in this country.  They grew up and married and began raising their only daughter Helen during the turn of the last century.  Grandpa Rollie was born in 1885 and when he was a young boy he stood at the rail station at Sabinal and watched a train pull into the station.  On a flat car on that train sat the old Apache war Chief Geronimo.  Guarded by several cavalry troopers,  He was  allowed to get off the train and sit under the shade of a tree and eat a bite.  They rested a bit and then boarded the train once again and were off.  Not too much unlike our own generation grandpa was living in an age of transition. His own parents and grandparents had been the pioneers that had fought and won their place in the country against, Indian warriors such as the Apache and Comanche.  Mexican bandits and bad hombres of every stripe had traipsed through Uvalde and San Saba counties raiding and murdering as they went.  You had to be tough and you had to be determined if you were going to survive.  That generation was independent asking nothing but the chance to stake a claim in the land and make the land yield for them a hard won living.  They were honest and loyal, charitable if given a chance , industrious and resourceful. Most of them were God fearing folk with Christian values, but they were fierce and determined warriors if attacked or threatened. 

Grandpa Rollie’s generation was watching the world change before their eyes.  Trains and automobiles were becoming commonplace and airplanes were making their debut. Electricity was changing the way folks lived and worked and America was finding her place in the world as a world power. In the little railroad town of Sabinal though things were changing at a much slower pace and still the old ways were common.  In those early days of the new century Grandpa was barely more than a teenage boy, but he had learned to sit a horse nearly before he could walk.  He grew up learning how to break mustangs and mules and he knew all the canyons and trails of Sabinal Canyon. He loved to hunt with his father John Davenport and his six brothers. they hunted deer, wild boars, and panthers, even bear. In those days black bear was still plentiful in the canyons.  “Varmint”  (Raccoon and ringtail) hunting was a favorite hunt.  They hunted by lantern at night with a pack of hounds.  Rollie loved his dogs and trained and bred them especially for hunting, but by far Rollie’s first love was horses. 

Sabinal Canyon and the surrounding counties in those days was still for the most part open range.  Wild mustangs were plentiful in those days and the Davenport boys were pretty adept at capturing them and breaking them to be used on the ranch or to sell what they couldn’t use.  The method for capturing the mustangs was a pretty simple plan.  The boys would go out ahead of the herds and find a good canyon or “draw” as they would call it and build a “brush pen.”  They would build the pen out of cedar staves and prairie brush.  The pen would be built sort of like a funnel, wide in the opening so as not to spook the mustangs as they entered but narrow enough in the trap so as to be able to throw up a rope gate once the animals were cornered in the canyon.  Grandpa Rollie told a story once to my father about a time when they were out capturing mustangs in this manner.  The plan depended on teamwork from the boys and it all had to be done at a full gallop staying up with the mustang herd as they would try to outrun the cowboys and find a way to break loose and dodge them.  Rollie had been designated point rider that day. His job was to get out ahead of the herd and turn them just at the right time to send them into the canyon and into the trap.  We are not talking about wide-open level prairie like you see in the movies.  Sabinal canyon is a rough, rocky treacherous landscape and running full out with mustangs in this territory was a dangerous undertaking.  Rollie had to run his saddle pony full out hard trying to skirt around the lead of the herd and turn them into the canyon , when suddenly he felt his horse shutter and then in midstride that pony doubled his head down and flipped head over heals ,both horse and rider flipping and tumbling for about 25 feet.  Rollie said the horse died in mid air stone cold dead.  On the tumble Rollie hit his head on some rocks and was knocked out cold by the time the train wreck finally come to rest.  He said he didn’t know for sure how long he had been out but when he come to he had a pretty good headache and what’s worse the rocks had scratched and torn up his saddle pretty bad.  He said that’s what worried him the most, though he was fond of that saddle horse and was sorry to loose such a good animal. He figured maybe the animal had a heart attack or something.  He got his saddle and tack through it over his shoulder and started walking.  The brothers didn’t break stride but kept right on those mustangs , not stopping to check and see if Rollie was dead or alive.  Well that was not so unusual for the Davenport bunch.  This was not the first time that mustangs came between concern for a brother or concern for the horse.  Yep, but that’s another story. It will have to keep.

"That Will Learn Ya Durn Ya!"

The two people you see on the front page of this blog holding their new great grandbaby for the first time is my parents, Don and Beverly Norwood.  The little boy who is the delight of Beverly’s eye is my first grandchild Cy Jackson Tolbert.  My parents had six kids.  They had five girls and one boy and I was that one boy.  Folks ask me how I made it with all those sisters and no brothers and I generally say, “ Well I’m a survivor.”  The Lord has blessed my sisters and me with children of our own and at last count Grandpa Don and Grandma Beverly are the proud grandparents of seventeen grandchildren, and two great grandchildren and one on the way due in July. As I see their joy in that photograph I can’t help but think of some of the stories about how it all began for them so many years ago.

My Dad told me that he had a job with southwestern bell out of Uvalde, Texas  and Mom was still attending High school in Sabinal just shortly after they got married.  They had just returned from their honeymoon , it was Sunday and Mom and Dad went to church with granny Pearl and Grandpa Rollie in Sabinal.  After church they went to Medina ,Texas to see Dad’s mother. During the visit she told Dad to go to his old grandparents place to pick some cooking utensils and small household items and use them for their new apartment.  They had arranged for this little two-story apartment that they had rented from an old lady in Uvalde.  They didn’t get back to Uvalde until late about midnight and Dad remembered that he failed to get a key to the door from the landlady .  Well being so late they didn’t want to wake the landlady so Dad decided that he would just see if he could crawl through the upstairs window and gain access into the apartment.  He had to crawl up and balance on the stair railing to reach the window and push it open. He lifted the screen off and then boosted Mom up through the window and then proceeded to lift all the furnishings that they got from his grandparents old place up to Mom. They finished hauling everything up and then went to bed exhausted from the effort.  Early next morning Dad expecting to have to crawl back through the window absent-mindedly just opened the door and went out to the car and then realized that the door had been opened the whole time.  They laughed at their folly for days after and even now when they retell the story they laugh all the more.

                                                 

The Kencheloe Raid

One of the many stories that Granny Pearl used to tell was of a vicious Indian attack that had been perpetrated on friend of hers named Mrs. Kincheloe. Mrs. Kincheloe was a pioneer wife and mother and had lived near Utopia, Texas.  They were neighbors and friends with our folks in those days.  My ancestor John Mcnew Davenport was a founder of that settlement along with a man named Capt. William Ware. Ware had been a captain in the Texas Revolutionary army.  Granny used to say that that old woman had suffered many things and told how that on several occasions in private when telling her story about the Indian attack, Mrs. Kincheloe would lift her dress and show the ladies the many scars and wounds left by arrows and Indian lances.  It was a horrific tale of desperation that granny related to us as kids of how that alone on the prairie, husband gone to town, the Indians saw Mrs. Kincheloe alone and unprotected.  The poor woman barricaded herself in their cabin along with the kids and held off the savages with just her husband’s rifle that she barely knew how to shoot.  The cabin had many cracks and holes in the walls in the rough-hewn logs and the Indians shot their bow and arrows through the cracks in the walls wounding Mrs. Kincheloe many times. 

This story has been chronicled on many occasions in some of the most famous of Texana history collections including Texas Indian Fighters, by A.J. Sowell, and also a book entitled The West Texas Frontier, by Joseph Carroll McConnell. Here is the account by McConnell, which can be found at: http://www.forttours.com/pages/kincheloe.asp 

Indians Attack the Home of Mrs. R.H. Kincheloe

During October of 1866, Mr. and Mrs. Kincheloe and their children, lived in a picket home about three miles east of Utopia. A Mr. Borland, his wife and children, lived on Mr. Kincheloe's place, about 100 yards away. R.H. Kincheloe and Borland, had gone to the ranch of Jas. B. Davenport, who lived about nine miles to the northwest, for the purpose of helping thresh wheat. Inasmuch as no Indians had been reported for some time, the women folks were left at home unprotected, excepting by a Mexican sheepherder employed by Mr. Kincheloe. Mr. and Mrs. Kincheloe's frontier cabin was not chinked and daubed, and as a consequence, there were cracks within the walls. Late one evening three Indians appeared near the Kincheloe home, where Mr. Borland and her two daughters were staying while Mr. Borland was away. But the Indians were driven off by four vicious dogs. Again and again, during the silent hours of night, the dogs continued to bark. Early next morning, three Indians appeared again near the Kincheloe home, and this time roped a horse near the gate. Since the Mexican did not show himself, the Indians soon saw the women and children were unprotected. Somehow the Indians evaded the vicious dogs, and in a short time were charging toward the house. Mrs. R.H. Kincheloe took a seven-shooting Spencer rifle her husband had brought back from the army, and with this she several times caused the Indians to fall back. Mr. Kincheloe had never explained to her just how to manipulate this weapon. So it seems the Indians finally discovered the rifle would no shoot. They ventured closer and closer. John Ella, the sixteen year old daughter of Mrs. Borland, managed to leave the house, jump off a nearby cliff, and hide in the brush. George Ann, a fourteen year old daughter of Mrs. Borland, crawled under the bed where John, Charlie, Buddy, and Eliza Kincheloe, were hiding. When the Indians apparently discovered that Mrs. Kincheloe was unable to shoot her gun, they finally ventured up to the cabin and through the cracks of the wall began driving arrows in her body. Her little son John, who was about seven or eight years old, was doing all he could to pull the arrows out, and at the same time trying to protect himself under the bed. In a short time, the heroic Mrs. Kincheloe was wounded about twelve times, and when the Indians discovered she had begun to weaken, they pushed open the door. The blood-thirsty scoundrels, not being satisfied with the many wounds they had inflicted in Mrs. Kincheloe's body, speared her under the shoulder. She now handed the gun to Mrs. Borland, whom the Indians shot and almost instantly killed. Mrs. Kincheloe fell upon the dirt floor and it so happened she lay in such a way, her wounds bled outward instead of inward. After the Indians had gone, little Johnny Kincheloe and George Ann Borland went to the home of a Mr. Snow, who lived on the Sabinal, about two miles away, to convey the sad news. In due time, relief began to arrive, but practically all were of the opinion that Mrs. Kincheloe, who had been so badly butchered, had no chance to recover. But she was brave and told her husband when he arrived, and others, that she was going to get well. We are pleased to report that this heroic frontier mother did recover and lived for forty or more years, but her old scars never ceased to annoy her.

Note: Author personally interviewed: Capt. J.C. Ware, of Waresville, a brother of Mrs. R.H. Kincheloe; also interviewed others who were living in that section at the time. Mrs. McConnell, the author's wife, and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. A.H. Bryan met Mrs. Kincheloe about twenty-five years ago, at old Dixieland, on the Pecos, and heard her several times personally, relate the story.

"Ole Man Sides"

Years ago when my children were little and I was a bit younger myself I knew an old man that lived in Pleasanton, Texas named Ed Sides.  I first met Mr. Sides in Mason, Texas where I lived with my folks.  My Dad was the preacher of the Church of Christ there and he had met Mr. Sides, taught him the gospel and baptized him into Christ.  I remember him as a jolly old fellow and always full of humor and mischief. Mr. Sides was a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman and went door to door all over the county selling those cleaners.  He tried hard to sell one to my Mom but they were pretty pricey in those days and vacuum cleaners were not high on the list of priorities for a family with 6 kids on a preacher’s salary.  As a boy in Mason I didn’t really get to know Mr. Sides much until years later when we moved to Pleasanton, Texas.  Mr. Sides by coincidence had also migrated there and settled down there in the sunset of his years.  I was grown and married by that time and began to get to know “Ole man Sides” as my father used to refer to him.  One of my duties as a deacon of the church in those days was to go to the old folks homes and elderly shut-ins and serve communion and visit them at home.   I found that service to be sometimes difficult but often rewarding as I spent time with those old folks in the last years of their lives.  Sometimes I would take my kids with me and the old folks always enjoyed that.  Mr. Side’s wife had passed on and at this time he was living in a government low-income housing apartment.  Mr. Sides had diabetes and he was always having problems in circulation to his feet and lower extremities. He told me he had stepped on sticker burs one day and having little feeling in his feet he didn’t realize that his feet were becoming badly infected. Long story short, sadly the doctors had to remove his legs just under the knees because they could not control the infection and felt it was the best way to preserve his life.  After the surgery he spent the rest of his life in the local Retama nursing home in Pleasanton.  One Sunday while I was visiting him there he told me a most amazing story.  Mr. Sides had fought in World War 2 as a crewmember of a Sherman tank.  I can’t remember what unit he told me he was a member of but I remember he told me that he was fighting during the battle of the bulge.  He may have been part of Patton’s 3^rd army but at this point I can’t verify it.  As a side note here, the Sherman’s were a much inferior tank to its German counterpart.  In fact they were so badly outmatched that the Sherman tanks were considered death traps when engaging the German tanks.  Our Sherman’s had much lighter armor and smaller guns, compared to the German tanks with much thicker armor and the big 88 inch gun that could easily make scrap metal out of our tanks with one shot.  The Sherman’s best advantage while engaging the German tank was to maneuver to get an up close shot and if possible shoot the softer rear armor or catch the tank while passing perpendicular and hit the thinner side armor near the turret. In a straight up shoot out with the German tanks the Sherman’s didn’t stand a chance.  The German “Tiger” tank could knock out a Sherman from much longer distances.

Mr. Sides told me that during the bulge he had won a silver star.  Time now fades my memory but he may have meant he had gotten a unit citation and not a personal silver star.  The Silver Star is for bravery in action above and beyond the call of duty.  If indeed it was not a personal medal awarded to him then it should have been.  This is the story of how he won that medal as he related it to me. “ We were traveling down a little dirt road, he said.  The weather was snowy and cold and we were going slow not knowing what was up ahead.  The grousers on our tracks (the metal cleats that grab the ground on a track vehicle) were worn out cause we couldn’t hardly get resupplied.  The German’s had cut us off and we had to make do with what we had.  As we went down a little hill and were turning a little to the right the ice on the road made our tank begin to slide and after a bit we slid right off the road and landed in a ditch.  We tried to move back and forth and try to rock the tank out of the hole but it was no good , we were stuck.  As luck would have it though the tank had landed in the muck in such a way as to be kinda hidden from view from further down the road.  There was a kind of embankment that the tank was wedged against and we were able to elevate the barrel of our gun and turn the turrent over the ledge a bit and had some movement of the turret.  Wouldn’t you know that after a while a German tank come clamoring up the same road headed up our way and we knew we were in trouble.  We sat there quiet a while and then got to figuring what we were gonna do.  We thought about just leaving the tank sit and head back up the road and hope we could flag down somebody to come pull us out, but when that German tank appeared we didn’t have much choice anymore.  We knew that as soon as we fired the jig was gonna be up cause we probably wouldn’t get a second chance.  Maybe we could just fire and then abandon ship and make a run for it.  We decided in the end to just take the shot and hope for the best.  So we waited until the tank got close enough that we could get a pretty clear shot at the turret.  We hoped maybe we could at least disable the turret or something. We fired our gun and I’m not just pullin your leg I saw that shell arc and hit that turret square on and bounce up straight off the top. We figured we were gonna see that turret turn straight back at us and that would probably be it, but would you believe that tank just sat there idling on the road and did nothin. We waited a minute and expected it to do something but to our surprise, nuthin.  After a while we couldn’t believe our luck and decided it was time to get out of our tank.  We strapped on some hand grenades and took our 45’s and started skulking down the hill toward the tank.  It never moved or showed any inclination to fight.  We couldn’t believe our eyes but decided we had better try to finish it off if we could. Finally we snuck up to the tank and not seeing any movement, we jumped up on top of that tank and opened the hatch ready to shove some grenades down the hatch when to our surprise we peered into the tank and low and behold every crewman in that tank was dead.  We could only figure that somehow that shell we lobed at it had created such a concussion inside that tank that it killed those men. The good Lord was with us that day I’ll tell ya.’

Many years have gone by since Mr. Sides told me that story.  I have since learned much more about the battle of the bulge and what it meant for Ed and his crewman to have made the choice to stand and fight with that German Tiger rather than to just abandon ship and retreat.  Those men knew that if they let that German tank keep going up the road unchallenged than there were many fellow soldiers behind them that would have to face that tank with much less than a Sherman to meet the challenge.  Behind them were men huddled in cold snow filled foxholes with little food and little ammo and surrounded by the German Army.  Ed’s crew made a difficult choice that day, an unselfish choice.  I think a courageous choice to say the least.  Thankfully the good lord allowed Ed to survive that battle.

Today as I watched my grandson hunt Easter eggs for the first time and watched children breaking a rabbit shaped piñata I thought about “ole man sides”.  I hope he enjoyed the dividends of peace in his remaining years as much as I have enjoyed them. He earned them.  The dividends of peace have been to me a precious gift given by men like “ole man sides.”

Talkin Turkey

In honor of April fools day I am reminded of a story that grandma told me about a field hand that worked for her father in law.  John Davenport.  Grandma and her husband Rollie lived and worked on the family ranch up in the hills between Sabinal and Con Can , Texas .  Grandma said that often times the men would come in from the field at dinner time and eat and rest a bit in the heat of the day. After a while they would put their hats back on and head out to finish working the fields.  Grandpa had a field hand named ole Ben that lived and worked on the ranch and was almost like one of the family. Ole Ben was a prolific Tobacco chewer.

In fact he was a thrifty fellow and was known to chew the same chaw for days before spitting it out and starting a new chew.

It was his habit to come in at noon for dinner with the rest of the men and take the chaw out of his mouth and place it on the rafter above his head just as he would step through the back door into the screened in back porch of the house.  Now Grandpa Rollie has seven brothers and at this time several of them were young teen boys.  Grandma used to say those brothers were as sneaky and mischievous as they came. Some times down right mean as a snakes she would say, and those boys constantly were bedeviling ole Ben.  Now one day the men came in for dinner as was their custom and ole Ben came right along with them and like always set his chew in the usual place on the rafter.  Those boys waited until Ben was washing up and they snuck out the front door, ran around to the back and crept up to the rafter and got that chaw.  They ran out back to the Turkey yard and squatted down and rubbed that chew in the Turkey droppings on the floor of the pen.  Then they crept back into the back porch and put the chew back on its perch on the rafter just as it was before.  Mrs. Davenport called those boys to wash up and sit down and finally after all was settled they said grace and began to eat.  Those boys could hardly contain their giggles as they waited patiently through the mealtime and short siesta that followed and finally heard the usual “Wep I guess we better get back out there and hoe da row.” Ole Ben got up and put on his hat and walked out to the back porch, reached up with one hand and grabbed his chaw and popped it in his mouth like always.  He walked a few steps off the porch and stopped.  He shifted that chaw from one side and then the other and gave a quizzical look.  Then he just shrugged and said “guess it’s about time to change brands!” He proceeded on his way to the field, never breaking stride. Those boys just rolled with laughter as Ole Ben went back to the field.

HEART STOPPING FIRST IMPRESSION

One of my favorite stories about my great grandmother “ Granny Pearl” was the one told me by my brother in law Todd .  Todd married my youngest sister Judy and now lives in San Antonio, Texas.  Just shortly after Judy and Todd married they were driving with grandmother from Plainview, Texas where my parents were living and where Todd and Judy met.  It was the first time that Todd had spent much time with grandmother and they were driving along just enjoying small talk and getting to know each other better.  Todd told me that he was a little nervous about spending time with grandma and was hoping to make a good impression.  I’m sure granny was probably telling a story or laughing about something which sort of got Todd’s mind off his driving.  He wasn’t noticing that he was going over the speed limit and realized only too late that he was barreling down the road at a pretty good clip.  A highway patrolman spotted him, switched on the lights and tailed Todd’s car in hot pursuit.  Todd’s heart sank when he looked in the rear view mirror and realized that his hopes of impressing granny pearl just took a turn for the worse.  As is customary for most Texas highway patrolman the first thing you hear from them when you roll down the window is usually “ Hello sir, Is there any reason that you are exceeding the speed limit today.  Is there any emergency that you may need to declare?” Of coarse you are staring into very dark sunglasses with a look that says this had better be good cause I’ve heard um all fella.  Well at this point Todd was about to confess that there was no emergency when to his surprise grandmother suddenly grabbed her chest and began breathing hard and complaining of chest pains.  She was swooning and saying, “Oh my goodness, I think I may be having a heart attack.”  Of coarse what would any one do? They were all greatly alarmed at an 80plus year old woman in heart distress.  The officer decided that this was emergency enough and waved them on telling Todd to get her to the nearest emergency room.  “Yes Sir”, Todd exclaimed as he was once again off on the road headed for San Antone.  Grandmother waited until the officer was well behind them when she sat up, and chuckled and started laughing in that unmistakable laugh that was so unique to her.  Granny evidently not wanting Todd to get a ticket faked the whole thing.  She was not having any heart distress at all but had put on probably the best acting performance of her life.  I don’t know what kind of impression Todd made on Granny that day, but Granny sure made an impression on Todd.  They quickly became friends that day and were so until she passed away almost a decade later ironically of a heart attack.