For at least three or four generations, my mother’s family have been voracious readers of Texas folklore, particularly those tales of early cattle ranching. My brother Jeff is as avid as I am. So today I picked up Cow People by J. Frank Dobie. In the preface, Dobie gave a brief of summary of his works, ending with a comment I found very useful for all writers. He credited a critic of style and a thinker named Bertha McKee Dobie when he wrote, “She has overlooked every line and influenced me to exercise the never sufficiently accomplished art of omission.” I took that to mean his wife and hope I can remember it. My husband insinuates the same thing.
The Dog Days of August are about to wear me down. Usually I have little trouble deciding on a topic and writing about it. But not this week. I am so lethargic all I want to do is read, not write. But here goes.
Dobie is considered one of the greatest Texas writers of the early 20th century, up there with Bedichek and Lomax. He was college educated, taught English prose at the University of Texas before getting a newspaper job. That was a time period when jobs like those were scarce. And Dobie followed his wife’s wisdom.
When Dobie interviewed, or more likely talked to an old cowhand, he only wrote down the man’s name. Later he wrote down everything he felt was relevant; sometimes with a little extra of his own contribution.
In chapter 8 Dobie covered seventeen pages with four tales, all unbelievable. He began with a piece about the Two Minnies. Supposedly it happened in Fort Worth in a neighborhood known as Hell’s Half Acre. The Two Minnies was a unique saloon with plush chairs, tables everywhere for drinks, and an unlikely wait staff quite spiffily dressed. But when the cowboy threw back his head to down his drink, he could hardly believe his eyes. The ceiling was made of clear glass that exposed about a dozen lovely women above. They were absolutely naked, not a stitch of clothing on anyone. This piece covered a few more pages than the others.
Another story told about a large herd of yearlings moved across a flooded South Fork of the Platte River. Very unlikely in my opinion. But a little embellishment never hurt any story. Then there was the tale of a cowboy loner known as Bob. It seems Bob claimed he had electricity in his body. When another cowhand bullied him, Bob took care of him by giving him a strong dose of electricity.
Last one in this chapter is related to rattlesnakes in Archer County. My grandfather was cattleman there starting in 1913. Over the years my brother and I spent many summers on the ranch. Of course, we were cautioned to watch out for snakes. The only encounter we ever had was with a pet dachshund who was so nosy that his name was Nosy. One day Nosy met with a rattlesnake and lost. Mother rushed him to the vet and for a few days the outcome was doubtful. But he recovered, never to engage any kind of snake.