the Navasota Current

My Project at Blue Bell Creamery

2012-01-25T22:16:00.006-06:00

I am very proud to add the Blue Bell Creamery in Brenham, Texas to my list of clients who have commissioned murals. Many of you have been aware that I have been working on this project since Christmas. It's finally done!

One mural greets visitors as they enter the building which houses the Country Store and the Ice Cream Parlor, another in the same room is a mural over the new Texas High School baseball museum (soon to be installed).

This is the first time I have had the pleasure of painting murals about things I have had close personal experience with... Texas wildflowers, baseball, dairy cows, and my favorite ice cream. You might say that when I go to Heaven.... my concept of it would look something like this!

Thanks for all of your interest, and I encourage you to go see it in person... and get some ice cream while you are there!

Finally, you can go someplace in Texas and see her two most beautiful wildflowers, no matter what time of the year it is!

Texas "bluebells", AKA purple gentian, which bloom in mid-summer, were the inspiration for the name of the popular Brenham-made Ice Cream.

Tony Taylor... another Navasota born songwriter- completes the year!

2012-01-15T09:33:00.000-06:00

Singer songwriter Tony Taylor is now living in Austin but still has family here in Navasota, where he was born.

Tony has a pleasant singing voice which adapts well to either country or rock, but it is his songwriting which sets him apart from the schools of hopefuls who stream from gig to gig in the Austin music scene. Tony has that knack for composing songs that become classics in your mind the first time you ever hear them. You know, like that first time you ever heard Hotel California, you knew, it was just a matter of time until everybody knew what you did. It's that way with Tony Taylor. It is frustrating that he still has yet to write that break-through song that will establish his name. But meanwhile we get to enjoy reasonable access to him.

I hesitate to pigeon-hole his sound... like many Texas artists, he defies that, as he enjoys artistic freedom and diversity instead of big record deals and fame. His stuff has integrity. And when he sings a song, you are already eager for another. I have seen him perform a couple of times ( he was sick and could not make it to our Blues Capital Revue in August) and he is consistently professional and pleasantly passionate as he delivers his song. (His album plays often at Navasota Blues Alley!)

New Years Eve he played for friends and family at a party at a private residence, where a lucky audience got a private Tony Taylor concert. What a sweet way to finish such a musical year for me and others here in Navasota, Texas. And we wish Tony a real big year, as he swims with bigger and bigger fish.

A Texas Ghost Town... and pigs

2012-01-12T22:50:00.000-06:00

What's left of the once thriving town of Courtney, Texas

I went out "picking" with a picker buddy this morning... between the two of us we have about 75 years experience in the profitable pastime. Or potentially profitable pastime...

This morning we made a couple exploratory forays... one in some old abandoned shacks near Courtney, Texas, and then we scouted around Courtney itself. I reminded Johnny about the highly coveted "Courtney bitters bottle" and we decided to cruise around and try to find a likely place to dig.

The old ghost town of Courtney, named after Jared Groce's (considered the "Father of Texas Agriculture") daughter-in-law, sports only a little church where once there were a dozen or more saloons and other mercantiles. But her ghosts are profuse. Courtney boasted of cotton gins, dance halls, schools, artesian wells and even a bridge across the Brazos River. But gone now are the pioneer families like the Groces, Dunhams and McAlpines who settled here during the Republic days. There is no marker here for Robert Dunham, former resident and one of the unlucky captives who drew one of the infamous black beans prescribed by Santa Anna. He was executed in Mexico for his part in the Mier Expedition in 1843. There is a wonderful marker for Primus Kelly, a legendary slave who accompanied his master to war.. and brought him all the way home after he was wounded. You can read about him at the roadside park on HWY 6 between Navasota and Hempstead.

I'm told Courtney was a pretty wild place... Robert Dunham was not the last hellraiser, as a railroad camp ten years later provided lots of excitement before the Civil War, when the sprawling town was infested with gamblers, prostitutes and fortune seekers; The future founders of Navasota. The H. & T.C. Railroad established Navasota a few years later, and that spelled the beginning of its decline, which was almost complete by 1960. During the 30's former Texas Ranger and Grimes County Sheriff Duke Hudson, close crony of Frank Hamer, moved here with his family.

Our finds? Three young copperheads trying to hibernate and six large and fairly fresh hog skulls scattered here and there. Ironically, right in the middle of the old downtown district, where free-roaming hogs were once such a nuisance that they were rooting around everyone's yards and gardens and the roads... and terrorizing the neighborhood, disturbing the Baptists on Sunday night fellowships as they fought under the sanctuary, busting up floorboards. Not sure what all that means... if anything... but it made a good picture. Now that I take my camera picking, I always come home with something!

We found this concrete outhouse right on the tracks... If anybody knows what this was, please make a comment!

But the real find was this magnificant Sycamore tree. I'm sure this tree saw the original Courtney-ites hustling and bustling back in the 1860's. It may be one of the largest, and certainly one of the nicest shaped Scycamore trees in the state. We'll have to visit upon it again... and paint it.

Go Down Together ... by Jeff Guinn

2012-01-10T23:18:00.000-06:00

"The true, untold story of Bonnie and Clyde." Thanks to a friend who gave me this book, I can say this book must be everything it claims to be. I never really wanted to know as much about the two gun-crossed lovers as Guinn packs into his deeply researched book, but now that I do, I can admit it was a case of my own assumptions.. that I already knew. What I already knew almost kept me from giving it a chance... having read a half dozen books about the subjects. This is by far the most thorough, and I think most trustworthy account you will ever read.

Congratulations to Jeff Guinn for a Herculean effort in finding those stones yet unturned in such a popular myth, and then making the rest of us care. You read his intimate account, hating what they did, but fascinated with their unfolding debacles and personal struggles, knowing full well where they are headed... and yet unprepared to let go of the enigmas which left a bloody trail over many states.

Bottom line, they were a couple of kids who grew up in a mean world and decided to go down fighting. Raised in religious families, they became wrapped up in injustices and frustrations and almost prayerfully entered a personal war on their perceived enemies. At some point, they knew it was just a matter of time until they were killed, and they chose to die together, taking many ill-prepared police with them in the process.

The famous Texas Ranger and Navasota's ex-City Marshal, Frank Hamer is written about in the book, more charitably than I have read by some authors, as he leads the hunt for them. Little did we know that a Louisiana Deputy pushed the panic button and fired prematurely and probably killed Clyde before the rest were given the signal to shoot. The grisly scene plays itself out much like you would imagine after that.

Still, as their blood and body parts fall out of the car, you cannot forget the kid they met in the woods just hours before whom they offered gifts and friendship. Walking up on them as they hid in the woods, Clyde offered to give him a better gun to hunt with.

All in all, an awesome view inside the criminal mind - and just as important, a smelly overview of Texas Criminal Justice and its dirty laundry in those times.

A bibliography of this blogosphere

2012-01-01T22:16:00.002-06:00

An artist far ahead of her time, sculptor Elisabet Ney shook up Texans for decades, as told in Marbel Dust, one of several books I hope you will read.

My followers probably know that a great deal that I blog about is what I have read. I am a voracious reader, although I have not always been. When I was young, books were boring piles of paper between cardboard covers that were not worth the time it took to look at the pictures. Hell, some didn’t even have pictures. They were totally worthless. But something got a hold on me… as the song goes.

I eventually figured out that I could be just as smart as the next guy if I would just invest my time in reading. I chose to read just histories and biographies… true accounts… and almost never read novels or much fiction. Life was confusing enough without letting some goofy author’s slanted world view skew mine. Of course I know now that I will never be smart… the kind I wanted to be. The kind where you always win arguments and people look up to you because you know stuff. In fact I learned the more you know, the more out of sinc you are with the masses. They never like being told they are wrong, or do not know, or they need to listen... or read a certain book...

During my brief stint at preaching, an action born of devotion to a specific BOOK, and something I took quite seriously, I was routinely challenged, doubted, even insinuated to be a heretic; supposedly adding where the Apostle John had forbidden! My only defense was I did not write the book, I was only using my gift of “prophesy” as it is known in Christian circles, that is interpreting, and teaching what it said! The reaction by some of the more outspoken was to keep my challenging gleanings from the book to myself.

Be that as it may, the very fact that you are still with me here is proof that YOU are a reader. So I will share with you some of the books which have made this past year or so a profitable experience. I have read more books this year than those listed here, but these are the ones I heartily recommend. Some are rereads and some are quite new.

When I read a book, I usually read it the first time to feel out the author. I am very wary of their agendas. If after the first read I trust them, I drop my suspicious, almost belligerent filter and read it again for the life changing experience they intended. So most of these books have passed through my filter, and are GUARRANTEED to be worthwhile…

Marble Dust, by Marjory Goar: The biography of Hempstead’s most famous citizen, German born sculptor Elisabet Ney. An inside view of German aristocracy, Victorian era Hempstead, Texas, as well as the dramatic life of Texas’ greatest, if not her most controversial sculptor.

The Alabama – Coushatta Indians, by Jonathan B. Hook. A great study of these fascinating people, and their long relationship with the people of Texas. Although the author never quite provides answers to great and fascinating mysteries about this tribe, he faithfully tells their story from their own perspective.

Spanish Adventure Trails by Ballard and Beals: Eight tumultuous adventures of the Spanish Conquistadores. The most engaging is the one about Cabeza De Vaca, but all together they give a great overview about the Spanish conquering of the American West; Chapters on Columbus, Cortez and Coronado. I thought I knew these men and their travels, but this Junior High reader has become one of my favorite refreshers. What is important about this book, to me, is how it explains how the personal faith of each of these men worked in their favor… The organized religion of the time may have gone awry, and Catholic ambitions blurred with the Spanish lust for gold, but many of the soldiers who put boots on the ground, who endured terrible hardships and deprivations for their homeland were quite noble and inspiring as they wandered all over the southwest.

No Quittin’ Sense by Rev. C. C. White. Thank you Sherry Humphries for loaning me this treasure. A tender, heartbreaking, inspiring biography about a black preacher who grew up in the below-poverty Jim Crow- East Texas cotton fields, who over time became a most revered philanthropist in Jacksonville, Texas. The tales of his loves and tragedies and ultimate Civil Rights victories should be required reading in our public schools, sure to inspire children, and yes, adults of every race and culture. A triumph of love and persistence.

Galveston- a History of the Island by Gary Cartwright: I inherited a signed copy from my father, and I’m so glad I did not pitch it to the garage sale pile; A thorough, winsome, even Michneresque dissection of one of the oldest and most important cities in Texas history. Galveston is Texas’ closet and it is full of skeletons.

From the Karankawa Indians who summered there to the pirate Jean Lafitte, to the Civil War Battle of Galveston to the battle between the Moody’s and the Kempners, this book gives every reader the best understanding to date as to why the 1900 Storm, which drowned 6000 Islanders, was not the only crippling disaster this coastal badland had to endure and overcome. This one colorful city was the home to many outrageous characters who gave Texas its bluff, and great stuff of legends; Samuel May Williams, the man who financed the Texas Republic, black boxer Jack Johnson, Confederate General John Bankhead Magruder, food entrepreneur Gail Borden, underworld kingpin Sam Maceo… After reading this, you’ll either be drawn to the Island like a wharf rat, or so repulsed you will never want to go there again. Rich, fun and worth the read.

Bellaire’s Own Historical Cookbook, by Gay and Hawks. Much more than a cookbook, an illustrated history of a tiny suburb of Houston that would not be swallowed up, and the history within explains how and why. And the food sounds scrumptious!

Adventures in the Unknown Interior of America. By Cabeza De Vaca: a painful, engaging diary of the man who saw much of virgin Texas, perhaps more than any other single man, even up to this day. Fascinating descriptions of the native peoples, their traditions and habits, and the pathetic condition he and his men found themselves after being shipwrecked on the coast. They were reduced from hundreds to a half dozen, wandering naked, hungry, desperate, from village to village, yet nearly worshipped for their abilities to heal the natives of almost everything; Incredible journey, incredibly true! Little did we know, De Vaca eventually returned to Spain… in shame… only to be thrown into prison for years… until he was released to go through similar trials in South America! What lessons about politics, faith, and human endurance!

Famous Firearms of the Old West by Hal Herring: Met the author one day in Blues Alley, while he was here working on his next book. Small, quickly read, but loaded with concise, insightful studies of the most famous gunmen of the West and their guns, with much material I have never read anywhere else. Special details about Pancho Villa, Tom Horn, Geronimo, Buffalo Bill, Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, and much more; As I said in my review of the book, it is the kind of honey hole that would give anyone the upper hand in campfire discussions where you want to trump everybody with your superior knowledge of Western lore. Obviously then, for me, essential reading.

The Battle for Pusan by Addison Terry: This engaging book, a National treasure in my mind, was written by the husband of one of my painting partners from Washington County. I never cared to read anything about the “forgotten war”… the Korean war, and then I met Rebecca and her husband “Ad,” and never knew he had written such a thing until years had passed, and I talked of my own attempts at writing.

Little does anyone around here know that his book has become considered one of the most accurate and important books about the Korean War. And here is part of the reason why: He wrote it right after the war, while recovering from wounds in battle. Still fresh in his memory, he gives detailed descriptions of pivotal battles from early in the war, where he obediently served his country with cunning and valor, and rare talent for artillary.

It is a firsthand account of how a bright kid with field glasses and basic mathematical training could crawl out beyond the front, numerous times, and call in artillery strikes with deadly effect. Terry did it over and over until he was shot up in the process, leaving the carnage and terror behind forever. He wrote the story and then misplaced it, for around FIFTY years, and then submitted it for publishing… probably too late for him to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, but in time to live to see his story published in many languages and praised by military enthusiasts all over the world.

My Life on the Plains by General George Armstrong Custer: Here is one of those great examples of that literary filter I was speaking of. I read this book while doing research on an old tintype I acquired, ready to despise Custer all the more after the read. Then I had to read it again! Then I had to read his wife’s even more insightful book about the same period. General Custer caught me off guard.

After the War Between the States, he and his sporting wife travelled by wagon from Louisiana to Hempstead where they began an earnest love affair with all things Texas. Custer tells of his fond adventures in Texas and beyond, long before his fatal mistakes while fighting the Sioux. Custer loved dogs. He loved horses. He loved to ride and he loved the out of doors. So obviously, Texans loved him, and in spite of all the bad blood because of the war, he still managed to gain their respect and left with many friends and treasured gifts. Don’t read this if you just have to hate Yankees, and Indian fighters, because it will turn your whole simple world upside down.

Tenting on the Plains by Elizabeth Custer: Long poo- pooed by historians as defensive and self- serving, Libby Custer’s passionate accounts of her adventures with her famous husband were left to rot on library shelves because her husband became a sort of American Scapegoat. But between the lines of her shameless husband-worship are precious details about their travels, things a general would never mention, that make the two an endearing military couple, on the frontier adventure of a lifetime.

Libby tells of Custer’s lovable boyish nature, his frequent hunts with Hempstead planters, relishing the Texas lifestyle where still unreconstructed Texas was known to be heaven for men and dogs; Blowing incessantly on a cow horn to call his hunting dogs into action, fighting off alligators, Texas winds and homeless urchins, tearfully visiting with the deaf and blind, the Custers have won a place in my hard Texas heart.

The Mexican Kickapoo Indians by Felipe and Dolores Latorre: The Latorres moved into the last bastion of Native American tradition, hidden away in Old Mexico, quite unaware of the chasm of cultural differences they would so artfully uncover, which give us a long overdue view inside the un-Americanized Native American mind. Who knew there were displaced Indians, long since expunged from the Great Lakes region, who found refuge in Mexico after all relations with Texans had come to bloody results and distrust, and these unconquered Native Americans would hold on to their traditions perhaps more fiercely than their kinsmen on the Reservation in Oklahoma.

A great story on several levels… Academics verses primal instincts, warring perspectives on history, ethnology, psychology… the Latorre’s loving patience and diligence, the Kickapoo’s fierce independence and suspicion, the Mexican’s pragmatism, the American’s hardness and ambivalence; Everyone grows with this book, which certainly should be a treasure to every Native American, as a glimpse into their world as it was.

Lt. Charles Gatewood & His Apache Wars Memoir by Charles Gatewood: If you have not seen the movie Geronimo, go watch it first, but the movie barely does justice to this American hero, who helped bring Geronimo out of Mexico into Federal custody.. alive; Something short of a miracle. Gatewood was truly the Indian’s trusted friend, and the movie shows that, but it cannot tell the whole story; An Army Lieutenant caught between his orders and the love of a primitive people who looked to him for advice. As Jesus said, a man cannot serve two masters. Gatewood followed his heart, and was a man of integrity and principle, but the sad fact was he was undermined and betrayed at many levels inside the U. S. Army, infested with jealousy and corruption, who ultimately sent him off to Colorado, where again he served with distinction, actually peacekeeping during the Johnson County War!

He was finally vindicated, and authorities eventually recognized him for his essential service during the Apache Wars, but he never lived to see his manuscript published. It is a story, once again, of the kind of Americans we never see in the movies, who stand for something bigger than greed or gain, and who sacrifice everything for their beliefs.

The Choice

2011-12-31T20:13:00.000-06:00

The Choice, an original acrylic painting by Russell Cushman.

A year ... what is it?

To man 12 increments of time, approximately four weeks each. The measure of our age, our debts and our marriages.

To God, years are but endless waves in an infinite sea. Each has width and breath, and variations, each is full of life, yet each is only a link to the others. They are not important in themselves. A thousand years is a day, a day a thousand years.

We remember good years, bad years, we dread and yearn them as if they have substance. But our hopes and memories would be just as powerful without them. They are merely the pigeon holes we put our attitudes in.

What are years? What is a year?

Another chance to start over. Another chance for hope, love, and maybe even completion.

A year is a door. An opportunity in a sea of possiblities. For each of us, this coming year will offer an open door... for some adventure designed for us by the Almighty. If only we will step through it.

So for me, saying "Happy New Year" just doesn't cut it.

But for some a year is a game we have played before, and we know the rules.. the possiblities, the probable results. It only offers more of the same... it is merely the passing of time. A measure of our expectations and our disappointments. It is a door, but one that shuts out change, optimism or dreams.

This painting is called "The Choice." Every person gets to make whatever they will out of the door. Everyone, every year, closes the door ... or steps through it.

A long time ago, I resolved to be one of those who steps through the doors I find in my path. I did not want to miss out on a thing. I have no regrets. He has laid down a wonderful path, sometimes one little stepping stone at a time, to more opportunities than I could ever recognize, understand or appreciate. I made my choice.

May your choices in the coming year be blessed, and lead you to fulfillment and serenity, and a greater awareness of His hand in your next 12 increments of time. So Happy STEPPING THROUGH THE DOORS OF GOD-SENT OPPORTUNITIES!

Stunning color in Texas

2011-12-28T00:00:00.000-06:00

The grounds of St Paul's Episcopal Church, in Navasota, Texas.

This shot taken near my home, at the Center of the Universe, where drought brought on the most beautiful autumn display we have seen in years.

Happy Birthday, Master: Some thoughts on Jesus.

2011-12-25T20:46:00.002-06:00

C. S. Lewis put it bluntly. The famous athiest cum author and theologian said with fearless resolve that Christ was "either the Son of God or a fried egg." He saw no room for compromise. Either he was who he said he was, or he was a delusional nut-job. You could not find anything useful from the ramblings of a nut job, so a less than Son of God Jesus had no usefulness to those who cherish intellectual integrity. Else they be in delusion as well.

It is all or nothing. No smokey gray prophet, well intended but misunderstood, not really miraculous but a great teacher or some other kind of new age mumbo-jumbo. Son of God, or nut job.

If he was a nut job, it would take a lot of mental calisthenics to arrive at that. All of his followers had to be duped... priests, physicians, soldiers, fishermen, tax collectors, fallen women, even a thief on the cross. Then they had to steal his body, to perpetuate the scam, keep the secret and grow their numbers against all odds... all so everyone could be thrown to the lions, to the amusement of the Roman authorities... Every one of his disciples was persecuted, killed or imprisoned. If it was a lie, it was one which appealed to those with a death wish.

Then they had to scramble to live, to find refuge, to perpetuate the incredible fabrication... for what? To make sure their children suffered the same fate? Why? For pride? Stubbornness? A big joke on mankind? So Christ was a fried egg and his followers mere delusional, perhaps suicidal dreamers. That would take a lot of faith, given what happened after that.

Because this amazing God-man Jesus, whichever he was, who many would reject on grounds of logic and science, had more impact on our world than any other single man. So much so, we take it for granted, never even think about it.

Christians believe he was the Son of God, in fact, a member of a multi-faceted Deity, with three distinct manifestations. He was the human part, the One we could see, hear and touch, and relate to. But he was also there in the beginning: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." The Apostle John gave us the idea that Christ was there.. in THE BEGINNING.

Jesus was not only the Son of God, he was THE WORD, the breath of God, the spoken words, the translated thoughts, all the living, earthly evidence of the Creator; The Creator himself. We speak of the Bible as "the Word" but it is just an inspired paper document recording the message of God. And that message was all about Christ.

So no wonder our calendar reflects his world-changing life. For much of the Western world, our years, soon to be 2012, count back to his birth here on earth. Not bad for a fried egg.

The Western world then proceeded to become the most prosperous, inventive, powerful culture in human history. Today, even in decadance and near collapse, it is still more blessed than any other culture in the world. And most of its decline is due to its unfortunate evolution away from its spiritual roots.

As I have written, compare the Christian icon of Santa Claus, to all other figures in childrendom. Santa is the most loving, active force for their benefit, a symbol of God's Grace and goodness. The culture of Christ, His fruits so to speak, are always grace and love and charity. The Western world leads the rest in charity around the world, at every natural disaster, plague or human tragedy. Thanks to a fried egg, some would say.

Coca Cola made a soda pop bottle back in 1923, a slight modification of their 1915 model, and it was patented on December 25, 1923. Today we call it the "Christmas Coke." It is a popular collectors item. I can think of no other icon in our culture so... quintessential. A major company born in the United States, their product a delightful beverage, that appealed to the American sense of wholesomeness and idealism, choosing, not coincidentally, to put the birthdate of Christ on every bottle. Almost like saying, at every sip, "Merry Christmas." [Yes, I know, the original recipe for Coca Cola had a little cocaine in it, an understandable inclusion at the time]

Funny, a hundred years later, this company is the most recognized symbol in the world... next to THE CROSS. Coca Cola should remember that, that is what it built its umage on, as it stands on the edge of a slippery slope.

After Rome fell to the pagan hordes, Christianity soon filled the void of leadership and vision for the world. As long as Italy and Spain and France and England kept their Christian orientation, they were great powers. As their faith wavered, so did their influence on the world. Germany failed to ever be a world power because she never truly took up the cross.

It has never been a foolish thing, to just associate oneself with this alleged Son of God... or his followers. The children of Israel, now represented by the Jews, have partnered with the Western powers for centuries. It was Christiandom that finally gave them a place on the map.

The next time you see an old coke bottle, try to think of any German or Saudi Arabian beverage you like to drink. The next time you look at a calendar, try to imagine history without Jesus. Think of who else our calendar should have been centered around. You know, the savior we should have been celebrating every year.

No, he was no "nutjob," God forgive me if that mere suggestion offends Your Perfect Highness.

Else most of Western history has been a mistake, out of sinc, built on lies, a coincidence where chaos gave birth to order. (NOT!) Coca Cola was not shy about embossing his glorious day on every bottle for around twenty five years. Today, let's try to give this day the honor it deserves. The day we recognize the birth of the Son of God.

Happy Birthday Master

Coca Cola, once a subtle if inadvertant ambassador for Christ.

A Day like no other day.

2011-12-25T18:57:00.003-06:00

It was an extra special day. A day like no other day, a day when God, that personage we believe made the Sun and all the planets and spun them into their orbits, stepped out of Himself and into humanity... to touch His own creation, so that we might be One forever.

We do not know the exact time or place, but around two thousand years ago he was born to a woman on a road trip, in Bethlehem, a Middle Eastern village and celebrated by the lowly sheepherders who were invited by angels to witness his birth. His name was Jeshua, "God among us," but the general Hellenization of that part of the world rendered it Jesus. He explained much later that he did not come into the world to comdemn it, but to save it. So we celebrate this wonderful time on this day. December 25th. Symbolically, perhaps the most important day in HIStory.

His mother was a pure young virgin, yet impregnated by the Creator while betrothed to his earthly father, who was understandably overwhelmed and confused by the whole scenario. To some a degree, the world still is.

Whoever he was, the world was never the same. Had it been a contrivance or a deception, his coming and ministry would have been outed, but instead his followers ultimately brought a revolution in thought and deed; Love your enemies; Love one another; To not treat women as possessions but as partners; and treat children as gold; for "He who is last shall be first."

"He who seeks his life shall lose it. But he who loses himself for my sake ... shall find it."

A descendant of King David of Jerusalem, his aged aunt had already given birth, miraculously, to a cousin that would later announce him as "the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world." The son of a respected Jewish priest, he was called John the Baptist, a Nazrite priest so compelling he inspired religions in his own right. But thirty three years later, as a "voice crying in the wilderness" he told those gathering at the Jordan River, those who would listen, that he was not worthy to loosen his cousin's sandals.

And even though this newborn King caught his own countrymen by surprise; stagnant and corrupted, others were more than ready. Wise men or "Magi" from afar were already on the way to pay homage to him, bringing gifts from all over the Middle East and the Orient. They had been told by the stars of his coming, even led to his birthplace. To all of them... the parents, the shepherds, the angels and the wise men, it was a day like no other day.

So jealous was the king in those times, he ordered all the baby boys of Bethlehem killed, rather than risk competing with a worthy rival. Herod was not a Jew, and word of this newborn king was a piercing threat. This was a real person, with real impact, God in the flesh, who was opposed by the powers of evil from the very first day. But he was no ordinary child. Truly it was a day like no other day.

As he grew into manhood, his parents and family knew he was set apart, no common boy, and an old man looked into him and saw a light; THE light unto the world. Foretold by celestial signs for the pagans of Persia, Asia Minor and Egypt, his life had already been written in the ancient Jewish scriptures, where the prophets of old saw glimpses of his wonderful gifts and powers.. and sacrificial death. He was to be bruised for our transgressions, broken for our iniquities. He fulfilled all of their prophesies required of a Savior. A Savior like no other.

Christians, or followers of Jeshua the Messiah, believe that He was unique in the world, incomparable, literally God among us. As fantastic as His story is, they believe it is no more so than the infinite Universe, or the rest of His Creation, which man still cannot begin to explain, or replicate.

So today we celebrate this awesome, perfect expresssion of love. A mission from God. Born in a livestock shed. Praised by the Heavenlies. A short life that changed human history, and reconciled us with our Maker.

On a day, this day, a day like no other day.

Icons of our Native American heritage

2011-12-21T10:12:00.000-06:00

I don't know a whole lot about these wonderful handcrafted baskets. I just know they are the only items you find floating around in our Texas material culture that speak of our original peoples.

Woodland Indians, dispossessed of their native lands in the American South, migrated to Texas even before the Republic years. Cherokee, Shawnee, Kickapoo and some unique peoples associated with the Creek Nation known as Coushatti or better "Koasati." Today they enjoy the only official Native American "reservation" left in Texas. All others were banished before the Civil War.

The pre-Republic understanding they had with General Sam Houston seems to have preserved them miraculously unto this day. Known to occasionally get caught up in warpaths against whites with their kinsmen, the Coushatta as we know them today became peaceful neighbors and today are celebrated citizens.

And they make these wonderful baskets.. out of.. pine needles! Yes, the Koasati, some of whom are based in Louisiana, make these delightful pine needle baskets, and some are effigy baskets of ducks, turkeys and owls and even bees. Sometimes they adorn them with pinecone scales and colorful stitching. I have collected them for years, always on the hunt for something authentically Indian... especially TEXAS Indian. And beside these baskets, there is not much left of the forest dwellers of Texas past.

I assume, as in most Native American customs, that it is mostly the women of the tribe who create these treasures. If you are lucky, you find them with the maker's tags attached to the baskets, telling you exactly who made them. Below is a photo-postcard from the 1960's of Coushatta women in native dress.

The Christmas spirit... every day at the Woodlands Mall

2011-12-19T21:48:00.002-06:00

If you follow me you know I know Santa personally and follow him around during the Christmas season. You may have read previous blogs where I explained how my eyes have been opened to the importance of this hard working elf and his impact on our cultural psyche. Here are fresh photographs of him at work at his substation in the Woodlands.

Santa has been at this for a very long time, and has seen a lot of changes over the years, but through it all, the children are still very much the same, and worth all of his efforts.

Santa and Mrs. Claus take an evening stroll, adding a bit of fantasy to an already idyllic Christmas shopping experience at the Woodlands Mall.

Of course, I could not resist tweaking the photos with my computer magic... making them look more like old book illustrations, just to add to the Christmas spirit. I think we could make a pretty cool little Christmas book with these!

The Blues Alley Cats ... and pigs

2011-12-11T11:54:00.001-06:00

No brag, just fact... but the Blues Alley Cats set up in front of the store before the parade and added their gift of music to the festivities. It was a perfect Texas winter night, around fifty degrees, full moon shining down on the town as if to represent the promise of the future. And the Cats lit up mainstreet.

Misslette sang some Christmas songs for the gathering crowd, and demonstrated the generosity common among our local musicians, who often give themselves and their talent away for everyone's enjoyment.

Due to poor timing, the whole band did not fire up until the parade was arriving a couple of blocks away, and had to take a temporary halt. And unfortunately, after the parade was over, the town-folk scattered as if someone was going to ask them to dance. They were gone in literally an instant. Perhaps they were headed to one of the last showings of Happy Hollandaise at the Navasota Theatre, or taking their little ones to see Santa at City Hall, but my band was not phased. They came to play. And what a great job they did, with only a handfull of listeners.

This reminds me of the You Tube vid I saw where a world class violinist set up and played in a New York subway, only to be ignored and abused. Nobody had time for art. For beauty... for something new and inspiring. Nobody gave a damn about the guy, whoever he was, giving away something they did not understand or appreciate. Yet people have paid big bucks to hear this man in great concert halls, all over the world.

Even Jesus understood such misplaced talent... and I have thought of his words often... "Do not cast your pearls before swine...." Jesus knew that we often are much more giving, perhaps indiscriminately, to the wrong targets, and said our "pearls," when sewn in such a way, would only be trampled into the mud, by mindless beasts.

Maybe having to purchase it qualifies a person as one worthy of getting to experience art. Sure some unenlightened but wealthy boors (the outside world's definition of a Texan) will buy it just because they can and still be unworthy... but I have more often seen lovers of art buying it when it is almost a sacrifice, because of their deep appreciation.

Bottom line: You cannot force art on people. It is pointless. My former sister-in-law had a saying she learned that became one of our favorites... "You can't teach a pig to sing; it will be frustrating for you, and it will be frustrating for the pig!"

I don't mean to pick on pigs... but if you saw the movie "Babe," about a baby pig prodigy, it too had a classic chapter title, that explains everything about this pig paradox; Two little mice popped up at the bottom of the screen, and giggled, "The way things are!"

Navasota, Texas shows its inner heart... at Christmas.

2011-12-11T11:07:00.002-06:00

The Spirit of America... can be found in small towns all over this great and blessed Country. And there is no town in America feeling its blessings any more than Navasota, Texas. It is here where you will find Americans who still know from Whom these blessings come...

Compare this colorful homespun Christmas parade, complete with Santa on an antique firetruck, and high school bands, crazy cars and Sonic drink cups sprung to life, led by our beloved lawmen and firemen who risk their lives often for us, and followed up by a a real life Western sheriff, Don Sowell, and his Junior Posse, (I'm almost getting choked up here...) but compare this wholesome, unified, festive, multicultural, multi-denominational statement of freedom and tolerance, to most other main streets in any other countries in the world; The flags and lights and sweet kids waving... Unlike their own strongholds, the extremists and terrorists have not shut this down.

This is nothing less than the fruit of Christ, even enjoyed by those who have no idea who He is, and this kind of display will always erupt anywhere there is true joy. Things like Truth and Freedom and yes, Love still guide the small towns of America. May it ever be so.

Thank you Lord for what YOU gave us!

Now help us preserve it!

Box o' Chocolates yummier than ever!

2011-12-02T22:48:00.002-06:00

Texas Blues History! Luther Moore finally bought his own resonator! But it was still in transit, somewhere in Kentucky...

We call our informal jam session at Blues Alley the "Box o' Chocolates." Just like the famous line in the movie Forrest Gump: "Life's like a box of chocolates because you never know what you're gonna get!"

Over the past year it has become a family... our local music family. Like families, this group of indivivuals have an unexplainable need to get together, knowing full well that the gathering often serves to highlight our differences. Still, the sense of belonging, of joining in the making of musical magic is irresisitible. Friday night the music was especially nice, when the Jacob Austin Band showed up and injected a strong bluegrass sound to our blues-rock foundation. Jacob just listened and when it was his turn, found blues in his bones, just like he knew what he was doing. It was sure fun to watch, and his sweet mandolyn sure spiced up the evening.

The family harmony of the Jacob Austin Band

Our "Sister" Misslette and "Uncle Smokey" had to miss because of a gig at Field's Store, but Chris Puente came and played his soulful American roots songs, and Luther Moore made everything feel like blues with Jenny's resonator.

Chris Puente

Jenny played, and our two jam-anchors George Ward and Jett McFalls were back between gigs, adding to the magic, which went down like a chocolate covered cherry.

George Ward can flat fingerpick that Fender!

An old artist friend: David Woods

2011-12-01T20:57:00.003-06:00

The son of Mr. Alex Woods Jr. and Mrs. Mosie Lee Woods, David Woods grew up in Montgomery, Texas and attended Montgomery schools. He was born 1953 in Navasota, Texas and grew up working in the cotton fields of Grimes and Montgomery Counties and learned to pick and chop cotton to help feed his family before he was a teen-ager. He remembers forsaking his education in order to meet the expectations of the cotton producers, who pressed him and most of his siblings into service every year at harvest time. But today he draws inspiration from these experiences of his childhood.

There was always around half a dozen children around the Woods household, and times were hard, so as a child David learned to make new toys out of cereal and cigar boxes, entertaining himself and others with his native creativity. He first began to draw and make posters while in school, and eventually realized that he had real talent in art.

David met me one day in 1979 in Plantersville at our family store, and showed me some of his paintings. He shyly showed me these wonderful little miniatures of Texas black folklore. An instant friendship began that day and I helped David make the transformation from miniature paintings to full sized oil paintings on canvas. Eventually he fell in love with acrylics, as they fit his fast, hard-edge style. For about a year he shared my studio in Navasota, where he began his art career.

This painting by David is one of several we have in our gallery at Blues Alley

David was a quick learner and soon attracted collectors around the area, who loved the paintings of his authentic childhood memories. He was commissioned to do major works for local ranches and businesses, and one large portrait of Security State Bank in Navasota (Now Wells Fargo Bank). David worked for the American Basket Factory in Navasota for years, painting Texas folk scenes on their baskets and wooden products. He later worked for Christian Enterprises, now relocated in Tyler, where he continued to use his talent as a decorative artist until they left Navasota.

One peculiar anecdote I remember when he first started was when he had a one-man show at Security State Bank in Navasota. His magnificent paintings adorned the bank for several days and then suddenly the bank was caught in a quandry, feeling pressure to take them down. Some black citizens seemed to object to the artwork, saying it was an insult to them. They found nothing redeeming about his works. Steve Johnson, the bank Vice President who had arranged the show decided to leave them up. He argued sincerely that David's works were done by a black person, about blacks and their heritage, and that he was just offering space to let that story be told... "It's history!" he exclaimed, "You can't argue with history!" Alas it still was not considered "PC" and the work was retired prematurely. Ironically, David Woods suffered prejudice from his own.

Like Leon Collins who came along much later, he sells mostly to white collectors, who seem to appreciate and care more about the story of black struggles and their roots. Every year David pleases fans by showing his works at the Navasota BluesFest, where he has also been known to pick the guitar as well. He has been the official artist of the event for over a decade.

David poses with his display at the Navasota Bluesfest.

David has done several gallery exhibits and was interviewed by Ray Miller and appeared on the Eyes of Texas, where his talent was showcased for Houston area television viewers. He has also been written about in the Navasota Examiner over the years, and the subject of one their feature articles.

David's works are realistic, but largely painted from his imagination. He loves to depict the dignity of people engaged in hard work, and the atmospheric effects that Texas humidity has on the landscape. He loves to paint the world he was born in, just one generation from the horse and buggy days, mule-drawn plows and water sipped from a hand dug well. David paints the old Southern angle of Texas, when blacks made up one half of the population in his hometown, and took pride in their role in building the State. He represents the last generation that can tell the story of Texas plantation life, fresh from his own experience. After painting professionally for over thirty years, his message still rings true and timeless, and will someday remind all of us of who we were and how far we have come.

David was the model for this commission I did for Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Moore.

The Bess Factor

2011-11-30T22:27:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I had an extremely varied selection of visitors in Blues Alley, from a bum on the streets to a 91 year old west Texas philosopher... and John Echols, who lies somewhere in between.:) Like many conversations in recent days, these individuals found themselves discussing with me the obsession of most people I run into: The slippery slope our civilization is descending on.

The elderly gentleman had done something about the problem, and had a calling card plastered with wonderful wisdoms, like: "For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat." (the Apostle Paul)

And something much more intriguing... "The average age of the world's greatest civilizations has been two hundred years. These nations have progressed through this sequence: from bondage to spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to great courage; from great courage to liberty; from liberty to abundance; from abundance to complacency; from complacency to apathy; from apathy to dependence; from dependence back again to bondage." (Alex Tyler)

Everyone seems to agree. We have gone too far, and it started way before the current Administration in Washington, who has the honor of heaping on the last straws. But we cannot blame the President or the current Congress for most of the mistakes we made which have us now sliding into an abyss like crushed aluminum cans into a recycling vat.

More than our economy, which is a total scandal but could be resolved, we are even more concerned for our children. The ones who, seemingly in mass, are moving back home, broke, jobless, divorced, often with children in tow, to take refuge in our largess. I dare not take stock of how many of my friend's daughters are living with their parents, struggling with life, usually raising their babies without benefit of a male bread winner. These are beautiful young women from good families, the kind that used to make their daddies proud.

One of the better preachers I ever knew, Dr. Jim W. Adams, once coined the phrase that has stuck with me... when he said (twenty years ago!) our children are like hot-house tomatoes. They looked like people, acted like people, but they had been raised in a false environment, and like hot-house tomatoes, would be tasteless and useless... raised in a "hot-house" they would shrivel if ever exposed to the real sun. They would never survive. Adams explained that it was the sun... the heat, the rain, that made a vine-ripened tomato taste so good. Same with grapes. It was the conditioning that the elements provided through wind and temperature changes that made hardy plants, and good fruit.

Conditioning. Yet we worked like hell to save our children any suffering... as if that was a bad thing. We gave them everything we never had. We never made them do any kind of chores, like we had to do. We indulged them far beyond what our parents would ever approve. We never required that they get part time jobs while in high school, you know those kind of jobs where a kid is paid what he is really worth (it would have been illegal!) ... or do anything like work. We let them while away their childhoods staring into computer screens and jabbing buttons on games that we did not understand. And we wonder why they have no coping skills, no people skills. No survival skills; Hot house tomatoes.

Even sadder, we had fewer chidren, so they had less opportunities to learn about sharing, teamwork, anger management, and reconciliation. So they are getting married later and later, and... in turn they are having even fewer children, until.. our culture just goes extinct in an orgy of selfish fulfillment. All while others from impoverished cultures flood in to enjoy this wonderful country we created. We are handing it over in bulk, while we watch our culture fade, our influence in this Nation be trivialized, as our numbers diminish.

So what went wrong? I call it the Bess Factor. We completely abandoned it. For centuries, families functioned as a work unit. Most of that work was agricultural, but the "Bess factor" still worked in cities where young people contributed to the family welfare and even the community; Paper routes, grass mowing, baby sitting. I did all of those, but I like to point to Bess for my most effective "conditioning." Bess was our Guernsey cow, she had to be milked twice a day, and produced around three gallons of milk per day. We raised two teen-aged boys and numerous suckling calves on her.

The Bess Factor; Bess had to be fed, watered, sheltered, milked and yes, LOVED. Having a living organism dependent on me to make sure she stayed alive and healthy and content was life-changing. Life-giving. And for that she gave my family milk. That was a relationship. My first reciprocal relationship. If I came out and cussed her or threw the buckets around, she hunched her back and refused to be milked. She would kick the milk bucket into the next county. If a talked nice to her, she dropped that milk like I was her firstborn. I learned responsibilty to something bigger than my selfish teen interests. Something real-life; To negotiate, to bring in the milk, every morning, day after relentless day. When it was freaking 16 degrees, sleeting, or amidst hurricanes, or just hot as Texas can be. And to share that duty with my brother. To churn butter, crank ice cream, shoot skunks in the feed bin, scoop cowpies, and even more eductional things; To understand the powers of Nature when the cow was in heat. Suddenly she could jump a barbed wire fence like a wildebeast! I learned how to wrestle a beligerent, gluttonous calf who did not want to be taken off the cow. And I drank a lot of wonderful fresh milk. The milking gave me large powerful hands. My handshake was quite firm for a skinny kid. I could bring bigger men to the ground. Many complained that I hurt them; All those hours in the milkshed, sweet-talking Bess.

I rolled my sleeves up so my bulging forearms could be seen, looked like Popeye. I wore the red wing boots that I wore in the barnyard with pride to school. Other kids were fluffing their heifers in 4H, while I was selling milk to the neighborhood. I dreamed of my own dairy someday. I had part time jobs... sacking groceries, bartending, cedar cutting, hay hauling. When I went to college, I could, and did work my way through school. Until my art professors told me to get lost. By the time I was twenty, I had my own remodeling business, worked at a restaurant, worked as a projectionist on campus, sold my artwork, whatever it took. There was not net to catch me. And I made it because of the Bess Factor.

So when your children move back home... start over... buy a milk cow...

See how long they stay!

Clay and Me and Human Proclivity

2011-11-28T20:39:00.003-06:00

When I was in Kindergarten... really, when they handed out the clay, the kids automatically passed theirs to me. Insisting that I do what I did. Whatever you called it. I took requests but mostly made some things just for myself, and really played in the clay, but always with fascinating results. So it was when I was five years old that I knew I had something other people did not. Whatever it is.

It is kind of hard to describe the feeling, when someone like me sinks his hands into the clay. It's like grabbing ahold of... infinity. The whole Universe. You think for a moment, that you could just about make a facsimile of anything, if you had enough clay. It is a natural high, to hold the clay and press it between your palms and begin to imagine what you might make with it. When I was five it was horses and Indians and cars and monsters. That was the Universe as far as I was concerned.

The bear above was my first clay object that actually got fired in a kiln. I was thirteen years old. Later when I was enrolled as an art major I was told by my professors in art school that I was not an artist, but an illustrator and not to come back to major in art at NTS the next semester. So I have been trying to give it a name, whatever it is, ever since. I finally forgot semantics, and decided that I liked to do it, and other people wanted to own it, so I would continue, whatever it was.

Some stoneware I "threw" on the wheel while at SHSU.

Later when I finally got my art degree at Sam Houston State, I was required to take "Ceramics." Begrudgingly I paid my tuition and bit at the bullet, the very idea of requiring me to.. plaaaayyy! In the claaaaay! Seemed like such silly thing... I loved it so much I took it again happily. I had forgotten how much I loved forming and shaping and creating. I finally learned to throw on the potter's wheel. Learned to mix glazes, fire in a Raku kiln. Had a blast. Later my younger brother married a real potter, Titia Arledge at Mudpie's Pottery, and I have worked in her studio in Salado long enough to create my own line of sculpted stoneware. These whimsies are just some of the fun I've had.

There is such a fine line between a potter, and whatever it is you call what I am, that I feel like I really understand potters and pottery. But I am just a novice with throwing stoneware. You can see from these examples, some of my efforts on the wheel, that help me appreciate the wheel and what it can produce. But the wheel is only that half of it.

Stoneware "Temperance" jug made by John L. Stone

It turns out that potters, and people like me, whatever that is, have been playing with the clay for eons. A fellow named John L. Stone in Limestone County, Texas made the vessel you see above... not so different from the results I had when I let it fly. Thanks to Brandt Zipp, and his wonderful website article, we know that Stone was a master potter, trained in the "Anna" Pottery school in Illinois, throwing for the Firebrick & Tile Company, who had the talent of a sculptor, and who ocassionally allowed his gift for form to trump his knack for function. There were probably lots of potters just like him, but perhaps they never gave themselves permission to play in the clay. And that's why one of Stone's plain jugs bring around $50.00, (unidentified) while the one here sold for an astronomical amount. People seem to recognize the difference, whatever it is.

It is "high craft" to some, called folk art by experts, but it is much more... this human proclivity with clay. That only a minority can do.

If not some form of art...

Then what?

Texas Treasure Hunting!

2011-11-27T21:18:00.004-06:00

OK, so it's not gold or diamonds. But antique hunting, (I am not talking about shopping) especially bottle digging and other such endeavors have been some of my most favorite pastimes. The idea that I could acquire something, absolutely free, that some people were actively looking for, and would give me money for it if I found it, was planted in me very young. When we used to go deer hunting in far central Texas, we would hunt for geodes in the afternoons between hunts. We never found a good one, but that was just the start.

When we decided to move to Plantersville, we purchased an old parsonage in the Heights in Houston and were preparing it for relocation when I discovered my first real good find. Underneath the old house somebody, perhaps the parson, had rolled and an old whiskey jug about ten feet from the back door step. As I was loosening the plumbing, something was in my way, a muddy mass of something .. looked like a stoneware or glass jug but it was hard to tell in the dark...

Soon I heard the whoops of my father and brother as they reported that I had slung them a one gallon Henke & Pillot jug, in excellent condition. Henke and Pillot later became Henke & Kroger... Of course we argued about who found it... I had just found a lump of mud. My brother washed it and found the old whiskey/wine jug within. Needless to say, I have the jug today. Texas advertising jugs are a very big deal. For the record I have sold some just like it for $250-$300 wholesale and I know they have sold for much more.

We soon learned to examine grown-over dumpgrounds, old wells and cisterns, outhouse holes (if they were old enough) and rotted, abandoned out-buildings. Attics often produce cool things, if the heat hasn't destroyed them. Often, the nearest depression in the ground near an old homestead is a dump, where old bottles and metals survived.

Brad Seigler has sent me this photo of a very early Texas pitcher he dug up in an old dump near Rusk, Texas. He collects old medicine bottles. Thank goodness he did not just chunk the old clunky clay vessel, as it may be one of the earliest I have ever seen. My guess it is an early Leopard or Cogburn, but it could be an experiment... and not even a potter we know about. He has been offered quite a bit for it, probably because it was dug up, and very near a known early pottery producing area.

When we moved to Grimes County, it was not long until I knew where the good digs were... or had been. Great finds had been found behind downtown Navasota, where the old Cedar Creek had been filled in during the Depression era. There had been a fantastic deposit in a lot adjacent to the old Horlock Bottling Works. Hundreds of collectible bottles had been found there during City construction projects, as the City owned that lot and used it for various water treatment processes. They were always digging up another stash of old bottles. And it seemed everybody used to be a bottle collector. Many of the old guys in Navasota had great collections, and would show them off from time to time. Still, there are many bottles we know existed that we have no complete specimans of.

Some of my buddies used to walk the creeks looking for old dumps. And sometimes we would actually just wade in the creek and sometimes kick up an old bottle that had worked free from some ancient dump along some old backwater. Just the other day, one of my bottle digging buds found a Horlock "slug" bottle, Coca Cola logo in script embossed on the back side, in great condition. They used to bring around $100.00. The guy with him had just said he was looking for one... and what he supposed they were worth. Then my friend pulled it out of the creek. "How much do you want for it?" The guy asked.

Having just established a price, you can imagine what my bottle-noodling buddy said!

“Thanksgiving”: A Civil War Tradition!

2011-11-23T17:49:00.003-06:00

We Cushmans were raised on Pilgrim lore... That's my brother Ralph in that authentic Seventeenth Century posterboard hat... and me as Squashtoe...

The Legacy of the Mayflower pilgrims is stepping out in Faith, even in the worst of situations, in a spirit of gratitude.

Most Americans think they know what Thanksgiving is all about… and that includes it beginnings. I can assure them right now they don’t. And you’ll be surprised, hearing this from a Pilgrim descendant, what this National holiday is or was really about. You may know of my Pilgrim lineage, out of Robert Cushman, one of the men who chartered the Mayflower... but our celebration of Thanksgiving is only indirectly related to him or his fellow Pilgrims

The year is 1863. President Abraham Lincoln has watched as his happy marriage, his Army, even his beloved Country has gradually fallen apart. In the throes of the American Civil War, which is not going well for his side, he received news in late September of the bloodiest and deadliest two days in American History. A total of thirty-five thousand men from both sides of the conflict were either wounded or killed at the Battle of Chickamauga. Lincoln’s brother-in-law, Confederate General Ben Hardin Helms is found among the dead.

A couple of days later, Union General Sibley led a victorious attack against the Sioux Nation, ending the “Great Sioux Uprising.”
The blood of red and white, blue and gray, dried comingled on the war-torn soil, from North to South.

President Lincoln had gotten a plea from a woman with a passion for national unity, one Sarah Josepha Hale, editor of Godey’s Ladies Book, and an all around National do-gooder, who wanted to unify all the various annual observations of thanksgiving throughout the Country. Finally after a fifteen year campaign, she convinced President Lincoln to make a Presidential Proclamation, establishing an official National Day of Thanksgiving and Praise. On October 3, 1863, he did just that. Here is the proclamation that William Seward, his Secretary of State, wrote for him:

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defense, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility and Union.

But what about the Pilgrims? You ask. The Pilgrims had a “harvest feast” every October at the end of the harvest season and celebrated it with a big banquet. They invited some of their Indian friends and everybody brought something to share. The first Harvest Feast was a bit sparse, as their crops had not done well and their efforts to raise wheat and barley and peas went unrewarded. But there was lots of corn! The adopted Indian Squanto, their farming mentor had helped them with the native plant, so there could be fresh corn, hominy, cornbread and yes, grits.

But other Indians brought in some deer, and the pilgrims shot some ducks and geese, and the pilgrim women found some clams, wild plums and leeks and watercress to round out the meal. Somebody had made some good old homemade wine from the plentiful wild grapes in the area, which was a big hit.

As far as we know, no turkey. No pumpkin pie. They had cranberries but historians are pretty sure they had not figured out yet what to do with them. So our Thanksgiving traditions do not come from… the first thanksgiving… Those are things more likely representative of the Victorian (Civil War period) palate.

Whatever it was, the Pilgrims of old, the first thanks-givers, had a great time and did it for generations, every year, to remember what they had all been through… and what God had delivered them out of.

Perhaps that was Lincoln’s Thanksgiving intention as well; Probably inspired by the Pilgrims, he was determined to be grateful, and lead his nation in gratitude, even though his heart was broken and he could not see any light at the end of the tunnel. Just days after the beleaguered President made the proclamation for Thanksgiving and Praise, he was invited to make remarks at the dedication of a battlefield cemetery where thousands of Americans had died, and the battlefield had been tidied up so they could pray over it. At Gettysburg. Lincoln gave his short address, thinking that it had been a big failure. Just like the war… Just like that silly proclamation about Thanksgiving. And sadly he was assassinated before he ever saw the Country healed from his war, or blacks truly enfranchised, or the tradition of giving thanks practiced all over the United states of America. All 50 of them.

But according to Abraham Lincoln, Thanksgiving is something you do as a matter of Faith, even when you cannot find much to be thankful for. True Faith starts with gratitude. .. Unconditional gratitude.

You thank the Almighty, and put the ball in His court… you plant the seed, and you wait upon Him for it to grow. You never give up. You hold on, in fact you do greater things than you ever thought possible. Lincoln knew, it is when we are at the end of our ability, the end of our rope, and we admit it, when God steps in and does the rest.

That way we know who and what we are, and who and what God is. Lincoln knew God was waiting for somebody down there to acknowledge Him (not just ask Him for victory in battle!), and that had to start with being grateful for whatever God in His mercy had allowed, in His wisdom, for each and all of us. And as it turns out, that is something we need to do quite often, and as a Nation, every year.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Pumpkin Pie: A Thanksgiving Essential

2011-11-23T13:27:00.002-06:00

Ma’s Pumpkin Pie Recipe

Mmmmmm, Mmmmmmm!

While checking out at the grocery counter, the cashier flippantly remarked that he was amazed at our purchase of two small pumpkins. Pie pumpkins. For making pumpkin pie. He went on to explain that he would be afraid to eat anything made like that… My wife retorted that it was the only way to go. And it sure is if you are on the eating end of it.

The kid at the grocery counter is the product of a lesser race, that eats everything if it is packaged at some factory, where they put some kind of blessing on it I suppose, which makes it edible. But you are of my race, that appreciates real stuff, good tasting food, the best in life, and I know because you are reading this blog!

This blog is dedicated to my grandmother, Bertha Spraggins, who always made a big Thanksgiving meal for her family, and always made the best pumpkin pie.

After considerable haranguing, my wife agreed to let me post her (my grandmother’s) recipe for pumpkin pie… it is very basic, almost impossible to mess up.

For two pies… (the first one always just disappears) you need:

Ingredients
One pie pumpkin, which after butchering and boiling should yield around 5-6 cups of pumpkin meat.
6 eggs
2 cups of sugar
1/2 stick of real butter
TEAspoon of Cinnamon (or a little more!) & Teaspoon of pumpkin pie spice.
2 deep dish pie shells

Directions:
Cut pumpkins into wedges that you can handle… it takes a sharp knife, a thin blade works better. Remove the fibers and seeds from inside the pumpkin and skin the outside rind with a potato peeler.

Boil the pumpkin meat for around 25 minutes… do not overcook. Check and pull the chunks when they are soft like a baked potato. They should be a beautiful light orange, and basically mushy.

Blend ½ stick of butter with the sugar thoroughly in a mixer till it is a cream. Then add 6 eggs, and spices and mix well.

Fold by hand the pumpkin meat into the mixture, it should be runny like pancake batter.

Ready to bake!

Pour mixture into shells, fill back and forth until each is about the same.
Place pies on cookie sheet (they might bubble up a bit) and in oven at 350 degrees. Bake for about an hour. Check after about 45 minutes, and watch for them to turn that pumpkin brown and for the pies to firm up considerably. The crust should be a light golden brown.

Save and freeze any excess pumpkin meat for pies at Christmas!

We eat them without topping but I’ve heard Yankees put stuff like whipped cream or as my wife says, “that canned crap” and that is where you lose us, but at least you know the pie was made right!

NOTE: Leave comments so I know how it turned out!

My current project! For Blinn College in Brenham, Texas.

2011-11-22T11:43:00.001-06:00

I have been commissioned by Blinn College to sculpt a ten-foot tall steel sculpture to be placed in front of the Blinn Band Hall. Working with the Music Department, especially Larry Campbell, the Music Director there for many years, I designed a contemporary form that says music... and if all goes well it will also make music!

What you are looking at is the maquette for this project, a tin miniature.

The shiny windy silvery part will be made to be like keys, that can be struck to make different "notes." Construction is to begin very soon on this, the first sculpture for that campus!

The moment of truth... final maquette of young Marshal Frank Hamer

2011-11-22T11:30:00.000-06:00

These are photographs showing the progress from the model and the drawing concept to the final proposal of my Marshal Frank Hamer monument. If all goes well the City of Navasota will approve of the design and I will get started on the life-sized sculpture to be placed in front of the new City Hall. I'm getting pretty excited. This sculpture will also be cast in bronze, for anybody interested in a two footer, of one of the greatest Texas Rangers of all!

Perhaps the hardest thing in the beginning was to find a model... somebody to BE the famous Texas Ranger and Navasota City Marshal Frank Hamer for me, so I could get the concept rolling. Hamer was every bit of six foot three inches... This former Navy SEAL graciously posed for me, and I knew the rest would be easy. Thank you J_. M_.! In a big way, this sculpture is a tribute to all the brave men and women who make the world a safer place for us as Americans.

I started the proposal with one of artist Payne Lara's new armatures, now on the market, and WOW what a great product it is. Payne is a highly recognized and sought after Western and wildlife sculptor here in Navasota, and has used his vast experience in creating bronze sculptures to design these commercial armatures for the sculpture profession. He has thought of every possible requirement for a sculptor to get a sound start on sculpting a human form, in several different sizes. This armature saves the professional artist days of prep work. Yet if he cannot sculpt, it gives him no unfair advantage.

As you can see, when the actual clay form is created, there is no longer any trace of the armature. Here young Frank comes to life... without all the accessories of a Western lawman...

Now armed and ready, topped with his big hat, Marshal Frank Hamer steps out of history into the art world, ready for the City monument committee to see him.

When a maquette design is approved, I will go to one of my favorite places, the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame in Waco to see if they have any artifacts there to help make this sculpture as authnetic as possible. That ought to make a great blog!

Who let the dogs out!

2011-11-21T21:29:00.000-06:00

A hoghuntin' buddy of mine running his catahoulas.

I know you are out there! At way over 16,000 pages now turned on this blog, a full one quarter of them have been turned this past month! Thank you for the hits, and please let me know what your areas of interest are by making comments! Either way, whether you join and become a follower, or leave anonymous verbal abuse, your participation is important and appreciated!

Crystal Gayle: Life + Art = Maximum Capacity.

2011-11-21T09:17:00.004-06:00

Perhaps the greatest professional hurdle for this entertainer was being the sister of the most famous country female singer of all time.

That big, warm smile, that sterling voice, that untouchable class... make Crystal Gayle the hard act to follow.

A word to fans: Get out of the house! Do you remember being young and going to places and experiencing life, real life, and LIVE MUSIC? It’s still out there and better than ever. And that music you loved? Still out there and better than ever. And you know what? It means more to me now than it did then.

I’ve heard a lot of crap since then.

Sunday I got to attend a concert of one of my all time favorites… perhaps my favorite female vocalist, Crystal Gayle. You know, Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue, Loretta Lynn’s baby sister, the one with gorgeous flowing hair down to her knees. The one who sings Country music without an accent, probably the best, classic, the most expressive vocals in the genre. That Crystal Gayle. I’ve loved her sound since the first time I saw her, and here is the point… she’s still got it, better than ever, Crystal Gayle is as good as she ever was, and she is one of the best.

Watching her hop around the stage, smiling that wickedly beautiful smile, pinky finger extended, singing in that strong, evocative, artistic style, took me back, to a place… I have always been. But for some reason the music triggers my awareness of how far we both have come, and yet we are the same people. Crystal Gayle is living her life right to its maximum capacity, and she inspires her audience to do likewise. What are you doing with your capacity?

More importantly, what were you doing on Sunday afternoons?

There to do two back to back shows, her venue Sunday was Dosey Doe, in The Woodlands, who had a good crowd but not what it should be for this Country legend, who brought along Peggy Sue, her lesser known sister and a tight Nashville studio band to help perform her many hits and a few of Loretta’s. Where else could you set in such great surroundings, eat a delicious meal, drink your favorite brew and hear the greatest songstress (many would agree with me!) in my generation? What would that be worth to a real fan?

What is it worth to experience a real star, first hand, someone of timeless quality, a woman who has had the energy to make so many great albums, enrich so many lives, and get up on a Sunday afternoon and "give it to you," as W. C. Clarke says, with genuine sincerity, like it is the first time she has ever done it? Dosey Doe is on I-35 around thirty minutes from everywhere in the Houston Metroplex. You were home watching TV, probably football, and just thirty minutes from the opportunity of a lifetime.

I’ve been to hundreds of football games. After they are done, they are done. You take nothing home with you. I do not remember any games in particular, no matter how exciting. Games are matches of power and wits, winners and losers, a never ending cycle that accomplishes nothing more than temporary excitement and the irretreivable expenditure of time. Years ago, anything beyond High School level sports appeared so tainted and commercialized I just did not enjoy it anymore.

Just look at Wall Street. When the love of money is the driving force, you end up with mostly ruthless mercenaries. Sports is the form of entertainment where we watch others take for themselves. Art is the one where to we give to each other.

So not surprisingly, I remember every artist I have been to see. Every performance with its givers and receivers, yes, blessings all around.
The next time you have a choice, choose art, of any kid, and you will begin to feel smug like me, better off than everybody else… and you’ll enjoy the giver, not to mention the small, peaceful, intelligent crowds.

Merry Christmas... in The Woodlands, Texas

2011-11-20T22:53:00.002-06:00

The Woodlands, Texas became a wild throng of seasonal joy Saturday. These folks know how to put on a festival!

For one special evening, all disbelief is suspended, as myth and artistry join together.

Santa brings Christmas cheer via the waterway between the Marriott and the park.

When it comes to beating Houston traffic, Santa has his ways...

This year The Woodlands added a spectacular laser light show to the evening's attractions.

The kids can even have snowball fights. Just like the days we used to... never have.