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We went camping at the state park there on Caddo Lake a few years ago. Was supposed to be loads of family fun! Did some fishing, caught a couple of good fish, set up tents, was going good. Started raining pretty hard, tents were leaking, we got in the truck. Had no idea until late morning, it was actually a tornado that came through. We were just thankful we were all okay.

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A few years ago in London we were standing in line to see the Queen's livery, when  a fellow behind us struck up a conversation.  After a bit, he asked where we were from -- the accents no doubt told him we weren't English -- and we said Texas.   "Texas?" he said.   "And you think it's big?" he scoffed.   "I'm from Australia; it's a lot bigger than Texas!"   Only later did it occur to us that we should have said "Yes.  But Texas is a state.  Australia is a continent!"  

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  1. Back in the day, The Stagecoach Inn was the place to go on Saturday night. Located in Stamford, Texas. In my era, singers such as Tony Booth and Jonny Bush frequently played there. Before that Hoyle Nix, Bob Wills, even Elvis played some there. It was byob and a large dance floor. I don't know when this occurred, but my dad's best friend was there and is the one who told me the tale. My parents and two more couples went to the dance. Of course the place was crowded. There were tables arranged from the dance floor to the outer wall on three sides, quite a few. The chairs were the metal fold up kind. When the couples at my dad's table, usually more than just them because of the crowd, went to dance they would return and a chair would be missing from their table. This went on for a few dances. A couple, who was not dancing, pointed and told my dad that "that feller has been taking them." My dad folded up a chair and headed over in that direction. His friend, who told me this story stopped him and asked, "what are doing with that chair?" My dad told him, "He is collecting chairs, and I am going to give him mine!" But his intent was to give it to him up along the side his head. Didn't get that far but the feller did return the chairs. Does anyone still take their hat off before going to the dance floor? I do. It is just the way I was raised.
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I would like to elaborate on the question I asked. There are some benefits to leaving your hat in the chair of the lady who said 'yes' too, 'would you like to dance?' We all know We are the best dancers in the room, but if eloquence and suave aren't enough to immediately charm your partner you might still have a chance. You get to escort the lady back to her seat to retrieve your hat! It gives her the opportunity to ask you to join her if she is so inclined. If, after the dance you feel 'trapped', you can always thank her for the dance and retrieve your hat. Maybe the tradition of removing your hat before dancing was based on this? Anyone know?

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On 2/7/2023 at 8:44 PM, Marilyn said:

A few years ago in London we were standing in line to see the Queen's livery, when  a fellow behind us struck up a conversation.  After a bit, he asked where we were from -- the accents no doubt told him we weren't English -- and we said Texas.   "Texas?" he said.   "And you think it's big?" he scoffed.   "I'm from Australia; it's a lot bigger than Texas!"   Only later did it occur to us that we should have said "Yes.  But Texas is a state.  Australia is a continent!"  


But Australia has four states larger than Texas. A couple of them are MUCH larger. That's what my Aussie friends remind me every time I talk about Texas. 😀

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On 2/4/2023 at 11:21 AM, CPunkin said:

We went camping at the state park there on Caddo Lake a few years ago. Was supposed to be loads of family fun! Did some fishing, caught a couple of good fish, set up tents, was going good. Started raining pretty hard, tents were leaking, we got in the truck. Had no idea until late morning, it was actually a tornado that came through. We were just thankful we were all okay.


Wow .. yeah ... glad you were okay.

Did you see damage from the tornado and was it close to where y'all slept overnight in your truck?

 

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On 1/30/2023 at 3:30 PM, Stars at Night said:

I can imagine how much that shotgun means to you. I have a few old things handed down and I always tell me wife that if there's a fire she's on her own ... I'm saving my grandfather's .22, some photos, and a few things that my father gave to me.

Isn't it funny how there are these possessions that come to mean so much to us and, yet, if other people inherit them they will have literally no meaning and might end up in a garage sale or given away to Goodwill?



I see it at Traces of Texas all the time, Stars at Night.  A couple of times per month I get emails from folks saying "I have all these old family photos but my kids don't want them. Is there someplace I can donate?"  I almost feel like I should start a museum for wayward photos.  It really does seem like the younger folks don't really want our old photos. Maybe they are downsizing.

 

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On 1/30/2023 at 1:44 PM, Stars at Night said:

Glad to hear that your mom lived through both events, although the second one ended badly for your second cousin.

I've read other accounts from people who say the same thing about near-death experiences, that they saw themselves as from a vantage point as if they were floating above the room.  That's pretty odd but it seems to be what many of them say. 


It seems to an almost universal experience.  I wonder what causes that?

 

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This is a photo of my Mom's family taken at Allen's Mill in Albion, Red River Co. 
Grampa Bill was the Foreman. They lived in the "big house." 
Whenever a new worker was hired, they built him a two- or three-room house on the mill grounds. 
The people that owned the mill set it up that way so the employees didn't have to travel 30 miles to work each day, in Post-WWI Northeast Texas. 
When the Depression came and the mill closed, the owners tasked Grampa Bill with making sure the employees didn't steal everything of value 
out of the mill, while they waited for it to be restarted (it never was). 

Grampa Bill ended up working for the Texas Forest Service as a fire-watcher. His tower is about five miles from the mill, right on State Route 37. 

25837_1257194196642_8085405_n.jpg

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20 hours ago, El Diablo said:

This is a photo of my Mom's family taken at Allen's Mill in Albion, Red River Co. 
Grampa Bill was the Foreman. They lived in the "big house." 
Whenever a new worker was hired, they built him a two- or three-room house on the mill grounds. 
The people that owned the mill set it up that way so the employees didn't have to travel 30 miles to work each day, in Post-WWI Northeast Texas. 
When the Depression came and the mill closed, the owners tasked Grampa Bill with making sure the employees didn't steal everything of value 
out of the mill, while they waited for it to be restarted (it never was). 

Grampa Bill ended up working for the Texas Forest Service as a fire-watcher. His tower is about five miles from the mill, right on State Route 37. 

25837_1257194196642_8085405_n.jpg



This great state was built by men like your grandfather just quietly doing their jobs day in and day out.

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When our youngest son was in Junior High in Duncanville, Texas, he had an assignment to have one of his parents write an original poem. I took on the task, but the teacher said my offering (below) was not quite what he had in mind.

 

My son asked me to write a poem.

A school project he said

My peers just laughed, but I’ll show ‘em.

I’ll write a poem that’ll be read.

 

I’ve already reached the second frame.

This is a piece of cake!

My poems will earn me fortune and fame.

The world is mine, for heaven’s sake!

 

But, panic sets in. Inspiration grows thin.

The third frame is already here.

Such wisdom and wit are trapped in my pen.

Trapped there forever, I fear.

 

Lord, let this be the final phrase.

For my sprint has slowed to a crawl.

I sit at my desk in a hopeless daze,

And realize I’m no poet at all.

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One summer (probably '59 or '60), three friends and I worked for the Rainbo Bakery in Harlingen, Texas giving out free samples of their bread and other products. It was part of a campaign to combat Buttercrust Bread’s push into the Valley market. The job was a riot with that crew. Rainbo turned the four of us loose all over the Valley in a bread truck that was fitted with speakers and a sound system. We could play pre-recorded music and announcements, or we could make impromptu live announcements. “Kansas City” was our favorite song among those available for us to play and we just about wore it out. I wish I could report some mischief on our parts, but, alas, we kept pretty much on the straight and narrow.

 

One notable thing about the job, however, was a particular permanent employee at Rainbo who, I think, was a former boxer. If you poked him in the ribs and said a word, any word, and I mean any word, he would repeat it very loudly. Now, we did have some fun with that in restaurants, but it was kind of dangerous. You see, the kicker was that the poke in the ribs would also trigger a solid, involuntary right hook. The game was to get him positioned just right, poke him in the ribs while saying your word of choice, and watch as he repeated the word and coldcocked your buddy. You never knew where the punch would land. It could be in the face or a body shot. It was funny to everyone but the target. You had to be on guard all the time.

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On one particular Sunday in '60 or '61, I got a ride from San Benito back to Texas A&I in Kingsville with a friend named Ken who drove a 1950s model Oldsmobile 88. We were clippin’ along pretty good and, while we were talking back and forth, the Border Patrol checkpoint sneaked up on us. Ken had to brake really hard to stop in time. By then, one of the officers on duty actually jumped out in front of the car, and drew down on us with his sidearm, thinking we were trying to run the stop. That was a little scary.  The officer gave us a stern warning and sent us on our way.

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33 minutes ago, Gary said:

On one particular Sunday in '60 or '61, I got a ride from San Benito back to Texas A&I in Kingsville with a friend named Ken who drove a 1950s model Oldsmobile 88. We were clippin’ along pretty good and, while we were talking back and forth, the Border Patrol checkpoint sneaked up on us. Ken had to brake really hard to stop in time. By then, one of the officers on duty actually jumped out in front of the car, and drew down on us with his sidearm, thinking we were trying to run the stop. That was a little scary.  The officer gave us a stern warning and sent us on our way.



That's a great story. I have some French geologist friends who rented a couple of 4wd vehicles in Dallas, drove to Big Bend, and were on the River Road, which is a 51 mile long road that is TRUE high-clearance, 4WD-only in the most remote area of the park. They were slowly moving along when the Border Patrol flew up in a helicopter and  5-6 heavily-armed men get out and scared the hell out of them.  The made them step away while they searched their vehicles ... my friends are PHD's who'd gone to graduate schoot at UT.   They got it sorted out of course but after all their stuff has been taken out and examined.  Some of them had done graduate school at UT-Austin and prior to this incident they all LOVED Texas and the U.S. but ... damn.  This was about 25 years ago. 

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This is not your typical Texas Story, but it's my story and it happened in Texas, so here goes.  

 

In the afternoon of the first day of school, we were all supposed to take a nap on a towel that we had brought from home.  Though I tried, I could not sleep (and nothing has changed as of this writing).  My nerves had taken command of my body.  I don’t recall if I made a request to go to the bathroom, but for whatever reason, nature’s call took over before I got there.  I had soiled my Monday undies.  I broke into tears and my sweet teacher took my hand before any of the other children awoke and took me into the bathroom, where she washed out my soiled Monday and my anklets, which we now call socks.  I am not sure how she dried them, though I suspect it was on the playground equipment.  By the time my classmates awoke, I had been re-assembled and ready to learn my ABC’s.  Funny how the bladder of a six-year old makes a repeat performance at age 76, but that really is more than you need to know. 

After elementary school had been completed, Ms. C. asked me if I wanted to help her grade papers.  I happily did that and that ritual continued until I entered High School.  She was so special, and if I have any amount of self-confidence, I owe it in great part to her. 

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This didn't happen in Texas, but it's about something very Texas – Whataburger. Back in the day, my wife and I lived on Whataburgers during our last two years at Texas A&I in Kingsville. After graduating college in 1963, I took a job in New Orleans. That was a time when the city”s famed international cuisine did not include Whataburgers. There wasn't any decent Mexican food then either. We had to drive to Baton Rouge for something passable, but I digress.

 

After about two years on the job, one of my work assignments took us to Pensacola, Florida, where we were pleasantly surprised to find a Whataburger restaurant. A short time later another assignment put us in Biloxi, Mississippi for two or three months. One Saturday, while trying to come up with an idea for lunch, we remembered Pensacola and made the round trip of 200+ miles there and back just to get some Whataburgers.

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On 1/21/2023 at 4:38 PM, Temple Belton Killeen said:

I went to school in a small Texas town. It was so small that, if we needed to, we could swing by the superintendent's house to get the keys to the school on weekends. We were viewed as trustworthy I guess.

One Sunday my friend Bob and I had to go to the school for some reason, though I can't remember why. And we weren't hoodlums or malicious vandals or anything, but this was an opportunity to run around the school unfettered. We could look in lockers, run down the hallways .. do whatever we wanted.  I was in one part of the building and came back to find Bob trying to break into the library by jimmying the lock on the door with his comb. He was bent over the lock, trying like hell to get into the library. I went into the band practice room and noticed a pair of cymbals.  It was absolutely 100% dead quiet. I grabbed that pair of cymbals, sneaked up silently behind him as he was doing this "illegal" thing that he should not have been doing, and crashed those cymbals together as loudly as I could. I don't believe I've ever seen anybody jump so high, not even Michael Jordan. He threw that comb straight up in the air and looked like he'd been shot.  He denied it but I swear I saw a bit of urine soaking through his jeans. Even as I write these words I'm laughing about it and even today he still calls me something that rhymes with "bass hole" when I bring it up.  I'm lucky he didn't have a heart attack. 

Oh, the stupid stuff we used to do for fun in that small town. I think back on it now, 45 years later, and it all seems so innocent.


This is a great story, Temple Belton Killeen ... I can imagine how quiet it was in that empty school. It feels like some of the quietest moments of my life have been in a school when nobody else was there.

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Okay ... I merged all of the existing threads. I think ALL of the one million stories should go in one thread so PLEASE posts new stories in this thread.  That way all you have to do to see the new ones is click on the thread and it should take you to the first post you haven't seen. Otherwise, you can just click on the end of the thread to see the newest posts.  Much easier. Y'all will see. Should have done this to begin with.

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On 1/23/2023 at 8:01 PM, Cowpoke said:

This is a tale told to me a long time ago, by a uncle (on my daddy's side of course). There is no mention of this in any research, and I have in vain tried to locate such. Also, the tale was spoken to me with a glint in the eye of the storyteller and that leads me to believe it has no merit, although I see some similarity to the logic.  Back when settlers were moving in the area was ranchland. Aspermont was a general store, and a saloon which with gals as 'hostesses'. Being a cowboy only resulted in pay once a month, which the cowboys readily spent  on various resources offered at the saloon. So the hands would venture to town once a month. It was told to me that, the original spelling was three words. Somewhere down the line a 'S' was dropped so there is no "double S" and a 'H' was removed from the end word. Then the letters were scrunched together! Happy trails.

 

The title is 'How Aspermont Got It's Name. Kinda lost without reference lol.

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15 hours ago, Cowpoke said:

The title is 'How Aspermont Got It's Name. Kinda lost without reference lol.


I apologize. Apparently that's what gets lost when I merge posts. I'll edit your title.   I'm hoping that this is the only time I have to do it here.  I should have made it like this from the beginning


 

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On 1/29/2023 at 1:37 PM, Dave said:

The following are 2 stories of my great great great grandparents.  The first story is a direct copy from the obituary of JK Miller as reported in the local paper and the second is a story that has been told over the years of JK Miller’s wife, Orrean, sometimes spelled as Arrean Miller.  The two stories are 180 degrees from each other but illustrates the life spent in the development of Texas.  The first part of JK's obituary is typical information but the last part, although some may find offensive, is a depiction of life at those time.

 

John Kinsey Miller Dead

The death of few pioneers has been received with more sincere regret than that of J. K. Miller.  His death occurred the morning of Jan. 18 at 7 o'clock at the home of his son, Dr. William Miller at Basin Springs near Sadler, after a brief illness from pneumonia.  Mr. Miller, who was remarkably hearty and active for his eighty years of life, had been apparently as well as usual up to a few days ago, for his relatives residing here were only noticed of his serious illness early this morning and his son, J. N. Miller, reached him too late to see him in life.  The remains were brought to Denison January 19.  Services were held at the Layne school house west of the city, Monday afternoon at 3 o'clock and internment will be in the Coffman Cemetery near there.

John Kinsey Miller was born in Macon County, N.C. December 10, 1826. He came to Texas in 1852 and was one of the first settlers in Denison.  The trip to Texas was made in a wagon, for which two months were necessary.  He settled five miles west of Sherman where he lived till '60 when he bought property which later formed two additions to Denison.  His first home, built more than forty years ago, still stands at No. 1401 West Walker St. and slightly modernized and improved is remarkable for it stability and comfort.  Sherman was only a village of three general merchandise stores when Mr. Miller first came to this section and a large pecan tree stood where the present Grayson County court house is located.  During the Civil War Mr. Miller served as a frontier guardsman and scout under Colonel Bolden and Colonel Diamond.  He endured all the hardships of those perilous times and up to the time of his death clearly told interestingly of indian attacks and hardships of the settlers in obtaining the necessities of life. He watched Denison grow from its early infancy.  He traded fifty ponies for part of the land that now forms some of the most valuable of Denison property and grew cotton where Denison Hotel and other down town business houses stand.

Mr. Miller was married December 25, 1846 to Miss Orrean Tabor who died in 1903, after fifty seven years of happy married life.  Of this union fourteen children were born, three having died several years ago.  Surviving are eight sons and three daughters, together with more than a hundred grand-children, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren.  Daughter, Mrs. G. T. Rowland, was the first born in Denison  The surviving children are:  Mrs. M. A. Teague, Barstow, Texas; J. R. Miller, Lubbock, Texas;   B. J. Miller, Marlin, Texas; J. F. Miller, Olustee, Okla., G. Miller, Atoka, Okla.; J. N. Miller, Mrs G. T. Rowland and Mrs. F. Jennings, all of Denison and Dr. Wm. Miller of Basin Springs, Texas.

Mr Miller was for many years a consistent member of the Baptist Church and at the time of his death was a deacon in the Mt. Pleasant Baptist Church, west of the city.  He was a charter member of the Odd Fellows' lodge at Denison, having been a member of that order for fifty years, and at the time of his death was a member of the Sadler lodge --- Denison Harold.

Mr Miller was well known in West Grayson by older citizens in the earlier days, but Denison has claimed him as her own for near a half century, and his city paper has shown in the above, how he lived, how he died, and how he was admired and loved by those to who he had contributed so much in building and governing a city.  But few of his comrades in the area are now living; but the history of the frontier regiment commanded by Col James Borland in his operations against the hostile Indians, on our northwestern frontier, during the war. name appears in connection with many deeds of valor, endurance and privation.

Col. Bourland was under orders at the time, from General Henry E. McCulloch with headquarters at Bonham, Texas; and the defense of the whole frontier line devolved upon his regiment.

Kinsey Miller was the chief scout of Lieut. Col. J. R. Diamond.  He was young, strong, active; and as to his sound judgement and cool calculating courage, the writer has often heard Col. Diamond say of him: "Kinsey Miller was the bravest man I ever knew.  He always road the best and swiftest horse in the regiment.  He usually kept two or more horses and always held himself and one or more of them ready and waiting for orders, knowing, as he said, that either one of them could out run any Indian pony on the range.  He performed most of his daring operations at night -- just before day.  And it was always said by officers and men, when Kinsey Miller set cap close down over his eyes, and rode toward the sunset, now look out boys, Kinsey Miller will pilot the red skins into camp by early sunrise."

The remark referred to his habit of attacking a body of Indians (no matter how many) and then playing off and away from pursuers, on his trusty horse. He would watch them as they would string out tandem, and as the leading brave would take his place far in advance, Miller would tone down his mount, until the foe would reach a spot within range of his rifle.  One shot was enough for that Indian.  He would continue this mode of dismounting his pursuers, until on some occasions, the report of his gun or pistol was heard in camp, and most of the Indian scouts were dead behind him in the grass.

Mr Miller was the grand-father of Mrs. J. H. Clark of Whitesboro, who with other relatives mourns the death of this noble man and patriot

 

 

Orrrean Miller as been handed down over the years

One day while at a close stream Orrean Miller was washing cloths when she happened upon a young Indian man with a broken leg.  After some convincing Orrean was able to use pieces of her dress to set and bind the Indians leg.  She knew he needed further help and tried to make him understand she would be back with a buckboard and her husband to take him back to the ranch.  When Orrean and JK returned they found the Indian had left and were unable to find him.

Several days later one morning Orrean found a dead deer hanging near the ranch with a piece of her dress she had used to bind the Indians broken leg.  Days later she found a dead turkey hanging near the house, again with a piece of her dress used to bind the leg.  From time to time they would discover more game left by the Indian she had helped.

Their story continues to mention that when groups of Indians were spotted near the ranch the Indians would swing wide of the Miller ranch and never bothered the Miller’s.

One day when returning from town Orrean saw a group of Indians approaching her so she whipped the horses into high gear and headed to the ranch.  When the following Indians saw her turn into the ranch they ceased the pursuit and left her in peace.



Thanks for posting, Dave!  I just can't imagine the courage/tenacity it must have taken to load up a wagon in North Carolina and then travel two months to Texas in it when there are all manner of dangers present. That indian/deer story is something else!

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On 2/25/2023 at 8:08 PM, Gary said:

This didn't happen in Texas, but it's about something very Texas – Whataburger. Back in the day, my wife and I lived on Whataburgers during our last two years at Texas A&I in Kingsville. After graduating college in 1963, I took a job in New Orleans. That was a time when the city”s famed international cuisine did not include Whataburgers. There wasn't any decent Mexican food then either. We had to drive to Baton Rouge for something passable, but I digress.

 

After about two years on the job, one of my work assignments took us to Pensacola, Florida, where we were pleasantly surprised to find a Whataburger restaurant. A short time later another assignment put us in Biloxi, Mississippi for two or three months. One Saturday, while trying to come up with an idea for lunch, we remembered Pensacola and made the round trip of 200+ miles there and back just to get some Whataburgers.



When you've got that Whataburger jones, nothing else will REALLY scratch that itch. I've driven long distances in the middle of the night just to reach Texas because I knew that Whataburger would be open 24 hours.

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On 1/28/2023 at 5:53 PM, Capn Ron said:

Every year we went out to the deer lease during the off season to fill the feeders and bait the area with corn. This was done in hopes of luring the deer to the area so that when the season opened we would be able to bag that big buck. Sometimes I would ride in the back of the truck with an open a bag of corn and use a make shift scoop to throw corn out behind the truck as my father drove around the lease. This particular lease was located out in the red dirt region of West Texas. This part of the country was brushy and filled with jack rabbits, cactus and rattle snakes. 

On this day we were driving through the lease with bags of feed, when dad suddenly hit the brakes. He had spotted a Rattlesnake which had decided to warm itself in the morning sun. The snake was coiled up on one of the many rocks which jutted up from the dry ground. Dad slammed the truck into park and we both jumped out into the air. I was unaware of what he was planning as I watched him grab the broom out of the truck and run towards the snake. "Stay Back!", He shouted as he rammed the bristled end of the broom down on to the head of the snake. I soon felt a sense of excitement welling up inside my chest as I watched six feet of snake writhing violently under the pressure of the broom. "Go get the rifle boy!", Dad shouted as he fought to keep the snake pinned. I ran back to the truck and found the .22 rifle on the window rack, shoved the full magazine in and clicked the safety switch off. "Hurry up boy!", Dad shouted. I ran the loaded rifle back to dad and as I passed it to him he said, "Here Boy, Hold this Broom!" I grabbed the broom without hesitation and pushed down as hard as I could to keep the snake's fanged end in place as the tail rattled and its long body jerked to and fro.

"When I say move, you move!", dad commanded. "Move!!"

I lifted the broom and ran backwards away from the angry snake! I heard a POP!! My father was always a dead shot and he had in fact shot that angry writhing serpent right through the head. I brought a machete from the truck and we cut the head off and that was that... or so it seemed...

Dad taught me to never kill any animal unless we plan to eat what we killed. Of course, taking the skin and rattler from this snake as a souvenir was an added bonus. The headless body of the snake continued to writhe as he hung the snake from a low tree branch for skinning. He had tied the snake by the noise making end and started the incision just under the rattler working the knife downward, when suddenly, the still living nerves of the six foot snake caused the body to arc upwards as if it were attempting to strike my dad in the neck! But there was no head or fangs attached as it had been severed with the machete and where there once was a fang toothed head, there was now only a bloody nub. The sudden striking movement of the headless snake startled dad and caused him to lurch backward.

That is when he lost his footing and unfortunately found himself sitting on a cactus plant. That was the first and last time I ever saw a man using a hunting knife to shave cactus needles from his back side.

I'd say that was a well earned rattle snake hide!

Are you the Cap'n Ron, from City Data, that I spent playing Texas Trivia with? If so, it's, nice to "see" you again:).

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