The Texas sun, a molten disc in the rearview mirror, stretched the shadow of my ’69 Pontiac Bonneville four-door into an endless, shimmering ribbon behind us. At sixteen, with a V8 roaring beneath the hood, the world was a blur of mesquite and fence posts. Sweetwater to Gatesville was a highway hymn, and 90 mph was just the cruising tempo. When it came to passing, that Bonneville didn’t just accelerate; it launched, leaping to 110 with a casual shrug of its massive engine.

We were in a hard curve, a long, sweeping left that hugged the contours of the land, when Dad spoke. His voice, usually a low rumble, cut through the wind noise and the engine’s thrum. “I hope you don’t go through life so fast that you miss it.” I turned, and our eyes met, a moment suspended between the blur of the highway and the steady gaze of a man who knew the rhythm of the earth. That sentence, spoken in the rush of a Texas afternoon, has echoed in my mind for decades, a haunting whisper even now, at a sedate 70 mph.

Life back then wasn’t just fast cars; it was a symphony of hard work and harder play. Coors beer and the smoky perfume of BBQ were constants, but Dad ensured our hands were never idle. Mowing yards until the sweat stung our eyes, felling trees with saws that sang, building fences that stood sentinel against the prairie wind, or the back-breaking, soul-crushing work of hauling hay. My oldest brother, a force of nature in human form, once moved between five and seven thousand bales in a single summer day. Five to seven thousand. At half a cent a bale, that was a king’s ransom to a kid fueled by nothing but bologna sandwiches and an unyielding will. He was a machine, a blur of muscle and grit, stacking those golden bricks under a sun that seemed determined to bake the very life out of you.

Our grandparents were the purest essence of “countrified.” Granddaddy barely scraped through first grade, Granny a year more. Their education came from the land, from the clucking of chickens and the whisper of the wind through the tall grasses. They taught us the joy of being outside, far from the flicker of a TV screen or the distant hum of a Game Boy. Country swimming meant swimming naked, a liberating plunge into cool creek water. One of their favorite pranks involved wading into the water with your pants on, ducking down, then sticking a hand inside your trousers and squeezing your fist to shoot a stream of water at an unsuspecting victim. It looked like… well, it looked like something else entirely, but it was just good, clean, country giggling, devoid of any indecent thought. We were pure-bred country kids, learning to climb trees like squirrels, shoot and eat’em too, finding endless adventure in the wild embrace of nature. Digging for dirt devils too. And watching shit bugs or dung bugs roll a fresh pile of shit up an uphill incline. And playing with hornytoads too. And throwing a handful of cactus needles into my younger brothers butt. I figured He was such a girl boy that I guessed he needed some serious toughening up and I did just that. I always was extra guarding him to keep him safe always too. Like when a Black Football Running Back wanted to kick him down bad but I pulled a switchblade out and backed JeanTom down and that shutdown Houston wanting to kick my little brother’s butt. No one was gonna hurt any of my Kin. God I love my bros but Lord Knows I hurt them too. Mean people do that. I made him tough and just as mean as me and my older brother was. Three of the meanest men my Aunt’s sister ever saw. Making another sibling tough was just a countrified rite of passage. I never was prouder of anyone but my siblings bros and sisters.

My older brother wasn’t just strong And mean; he was a freak of nature. I used to set up boxing matches for him, often pocketing a cool hundred dollars a month. Sometimes he’d just wrestle them down, his raw power overwhelming. He could lift two thousand pounds, a feat that defied belief, a testament to the iron forged in those hayfields. He was a legend in our small world, a testament to what a man could be. A Super Freak but a fine bro.

Later, I picked up Winston cigarettes, convinced they were “real good” because them Beverly Hillbillies smoked them. Winston tastes good like a cigarette should. And they hooked this young teenager. That’s the honest-to-goodness truth. And I got hooked on COORS by Commercials. But used Schlitz Beer and Pearl Beer too. Overseas they only had Black Label and Olympia and other off brand beer names.. Some of the cans were 15 years old.

But amidst the wildness, there was also a quiet joy. I loved helping my Aunt bottle vegetables, the kitchen thick with the scent of vinegar and spices. Making jars of sweet mustard relish was a particular delight, the golden concoction a taste of summer preserved. And we were fast, my brothers and I. The three of us could chase down a jackrabbit, those lightning-quick desert dwellers, though they were more speed than brains.

My older brother, ever the entrepreneur, even brewed his own beer. It was good, too, so good he sold it to the airmen at the nearby air base. He always had a knack for making things, whether it was money or a perfectly crafted brew. One weekend he made four hundred dollars. All selling Beer and he was just 17 years old. He later became an alcoholic. So was his older brother. And his older brother.

And then there was Sweetwater, a town synonymous with rattlesnakes. Hunting them wasn’t just a pastime; it was a primal dance with danger. We’d stalk through the sun-baked scrub, eyes peeled, ears strained for that chilling rattleoold.of a warning you better listen to. My brother, with his superhuman strength and nerves of steel, was always at the forefront. On one big rattlesnake, he grabbed it with his hands and pulled the snake apart, killing it instantly. He made us all eat a bite of snake right then and thar. I remember one hunt, the air thick with the scent of dust and fear, when a massive diamondback coiled, its tail a furious blur. Before anyone could react, my brother, with a speed that defied his bulk, lunged. Not with a stick or a hoe, but with his bare hands, seizing the snake just behind its head, its venomous fangs snapping inches from his fingers. Then held it aloft, its body writhing, a trophy of raw courage against the wild. It was a moment that cemented his legend in my mind, a testament to the untamed spirit of the land and the men it forged. Sometimes we’d go out and hunt rattlesnakes at night completely naked with our cowboy boots on and a flashlight that used “C” batteries. We didn’t care none. Everyone always created “Dares” and you was a coward if you didn’t do the Big Fat Dare. On moonlit nights, full moon was best, we didn’t use flashlights. But their sixteen sisters didn’t like that..

That Bonneville, those hay bales, the naked swims, naked snake hunting, chasing down a rabbit or two, the boxing rings of dried dirt, the sweet mustard relish, and the thrill of the any kind of hunt – they were all threads in the rich tapestry of a life lived fast, but never, truly, missed. Dad’s words still echo, a gentle reminder to slow down, to savor the moments, to remember the wild, beautiful, and utterly unique journey that was growing up in Texas. And most importantly, to remember the whole truthfulness of it all. They finally opened a Funeral Home in Downtown Sweetwater, Texas named Nice Place to get Grounded

😉 & U trust AI, lol

Now read a good book-