8 hairy legs and 2 swaying udders

Tune in to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

*  *  *

A March mid-morning in West Texas can be cold, but today the sun warmed me through the window and I began to feel drowsy - not a good sensation for a mailman with a carload of parcels and envelopes to deliver. I lowered the window to get a blast of fresh air and felt a bit livelier. The bright color caught my eye and I saw something at the edge of the dirt road. After slowing down a bit, I realized instantly what it was and shook my head. I was not going to pick those up. I even held up my hand to cover the sight and pressed the accelerator, determined not to feel responsible for every lost item on my route. The pair of dentures could sit there and rot for all I care. I wasn’t even going to ponder the reason why white teeth and pink gums were sitting innocently on top of a blue calico handkerchief out in the middle of Texas. The thought flitted through my head and I braked to a stop and backed up until I was even with the oddity. I wouldn’t pick them up, but I could take a picture. Two minutes later I was on my way, proud that I didn’t look in the rear view mirror to see if the teeth started chattering.

I knocked on Nina's front door and waited for her to answer. She was home, but having one foot in a cast and using crutches, the lady took longer than most.

"Mornin' Buck."

"Where would you like these boxes, Nina?"

 I stepped past the open door, mindful of the injured foot, and paused in the hallway for directions. I saw she pointed toward the kitchen. When I entered the massive room, I put the parcels on the closest counter and waited for Nina to catch up. She crutched along until she, too, was standing in the kitchen.

"Just leave them right there. I've got something for you to taste."

With an expectant look on her face, she handed me a small slice of cheese from a plate and watched while I ate it. I rolled the curd on my tongue and thought for a moment before swallowing. "Orange."

Nina's face burst into a smile. "Yes!" She reached for a slice from another plate and handed it to me.

I followed the same pattern as before and contemplated the flavor. "Cinnamon."

"Yes! Yes!" Nina nearly screamed with excitement, then suddenly she was serious. "Too sweet?"

I shook my head. "No. I didn't taste any sweetness."

She slumped on her crutches, the smile returning. "You just made my day. I've been working on these for a month. I'm adding them to the cheese line. That will make six flavored and the plain. What's your favorite so far, Buck?"

"Plain."

She nodded. "Mine, too, but people like different."

I surveyed the room and saw gleaming stainless steel counter tops. The room is more than a place to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nina's kitchen is a factory for goat cheese. Her husband raises the animals and milks them. Nina makes it into curds, then presses the cheese, ages it and sells it to all kinds of places.

Nina had already processed the morning milk. The curd and whey mixture sat in the deep heating container. Another mixture looked as if it was resting in the temperature-controlled vat. Against the wall, a mechanical rod that resembled a pie-cutter was slicing through curd that had already been separated from the whey. Later she would season it, put it in molds and store it until somebody tasted it and told her it was good. For a lady who has been making cheese for ten years, she liked to have opinions from a lot of people.

I waved, turned and left the room like I had done for the past three weeks. Nina Fields gets some sort of parcel nearly every day but since she broke her foot, I normally carry the boxes into the kitchen. Three weeks earlier, she tripped over two goats and fell off the porch. It took two screws and day surgery to put her back together. Another week on crutches and she’d be back to her bustling self with only a cast to slow her down.

As I stepped out the front door, I saw them and yelled. "Nina!"

When I heard the crutching stop behind me, I also heard her chuckle. "Just give them a ride to the cattle guard, Buck. You know they like you."

I muttered under my breath and walked to the car. The goats didn't move. I knew Nina and Jaime treated the goats like pets, but some things are outrageous. The black nanny stood on the top of my car next to the circling yellow light as if she belonged. Two others stood on my hood, looking like ornaments. I started the car and hoped they would hop off, but after looking at Nina's face, I knew they weren't going to move. The goat lady gazed at her brood as proudly as any mother whose children were performing. Driving slowly, I pointed the car toward the gate, peering through eight hairy legs and two swaying udders. When I stopped, they promptly scampered from the car and trotted back toward Nina. Goats are a mystery to me, but they must not be to the lady who stood on the porch, scratching the neck of that black nanny.

Before I left the gate, my phone rang and I listened to Jake, the sheriff, as he gave me the brief message. I had to chuckle as I gave him the directions to find the dentures. Cell phones are great for sending pictures and I guess Jake remembered the image I sent to him earlier in the day.

 Mrs. Smith got sick of Mr. Smith clacking his teeth together, bundled them up in a handkerchief and hid them until he promised to use the teeth cement. But she forgot where she hid them. How they got from her house, three miles south, to County Road 3258 was a mystery, but she did remember using a blue calico handkerchief. Jake only knew this because he had lunch with his mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and his father couldn’t eat for lack of his teeth.

Some mysteries are never solved and it looks as if this one might fall into that category. I’d keep my eyes peeled, though, for a clue as to how Jake’s father’s teeth ended up on the side of the road. You never know what you will find out here on these caliche roads.

Vacation audiobook

A limb went missing....

Tune in to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

*  *  *

Anna Ortiz needed stamps. I took the money from the envelope and replaced it with her requested Valentine booklet that had an assortment of heart postage. As I closed her mailbox door, I noticed an object in the ditch that didn’t look like a rock or something I’d seen before. Probably a tool that gleamed in the sunlight. Lots of tools bounced off of pickups on these rough dirt roads. It was about a hundred yards up, so I drove slowly to see if it was usable. As I got close, I blinked and looked harder, thinking my eyes were tired since the route was nearly finished. I was on a country road, surrounded by pasture and cotton fields. What I saw had no business being in a ditch.

I put the gear in park and sat, staring at the prosthetic leg. A sneaker was attached to the bottom, but from my distance, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman’s shoe. The sole wasn’t worn much, nor was the upper part of the apparatus torn or dirty. Do I leave it or take it …..where?

I couldn’t think of an appropriate place to store a lost prosthetic limb. Why would someone discard the piece on the side of the road? That object had a story behind it, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, remove it from the ditch. A person would be more likely to come back to it here, than anywhere else.

Still, I felt guilty as I abandoned the limb that clearly belonged on a person’s body. I drove away from it, but glanced in the mirror several times as if waiting for it to hop up and yell, “Take me, take me!”

Three miles later, I deposited Mr. Mann’s two envelopes, two circulars and postcard from New Zealand into his mailbox. I recognized the photo of the glowworm cave at Waitomo from the one my son sent me several years ago. There isn’t another sight like it and the destination is on my list of places to see.

 I always breathe a sigh of relief when finishing the mail route. I did it now, only the sigh sounded deeper than normal. I knew why. Melanie Anzt was getting more provocative every day. This morning she met me at the mailbox wearing the most see-through negligee I had ever seen. For a woman to wear practically nothing in the middle of February meant something. I’m definitely flattered but all kinds of things are wrong with the situation, the least being, I can’t play on US Postal Service time. Clearly she’s a lonely woman and not happy, since just arriving in the area. Having a husband who works in the oilfield and gone all week doesn’t help. That marriage is doomed to failure if something didn’t change, and quick, because one of these days, a man will come by who doesn’t mind playing on company time.

Jobs were scarce around these parts, but that lady needed to be around folks so she could flirt a little, without causing a disaster. The flash came to me. Brilliant! Edna at the café had been complaining of working too hard. Her protégée, Brenda Yager, left for the university in the fall, and the replacement was not successful. Melanie could flirt all she wanted as long as she knew how to pour coffee and take orders. I called Edna and made the suggestion, telling her where to find Melanie. She seemed receptive.

The drive back to the Post Office was short and I had a smile on my face when I walked through the door. Then I saw Gus’ scowl. The postmaster’s wrinkles were deeper than normal.

“What’s wrong?” I waited before signing out, just in case the problem was Post Office related.

“Did you leave two boxes at the Angles this morning?”

I thought for a moment before the picture of the long boxes was clear. “Yes, about as long as … fluorescent light bulbs.”

“That’s exactly what was in them and Mrs. Angles says they are smashed to bits.”

“When I handed them to the boys, I didn’t hear any moving glass and they seemed well cushioned.”

“Boys?”

I nodded. “The twins must have been home sick.”

“She didn’t mention boys. Said when she found the boxes on the front porch, they looked as if they’d been run over by a truck.”

I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. 

He nodded. “I’ll call her. Those boys must not have been too sick.”

The smile was still in my head when I left the Post Office, but the more I thought about that leg lying in the ditch, the more I tapped on the steering wheel. No sense in staying up tonight worrying about it. Another day in that ditch and a wild animal or rain would ruin it.

Thirty minutes later, a sneaker attached to a metal contraption sat beside me on the front seat. It looked to fit a woman. When I gripped the metal firmly to take it into the sheriff’s office, I had a strange feeling that I was handling a body part that I had no business touching. It was an odd sensation.

Six eyes stared at me as I walked through the doors. Mandy Watkins, the dispatcher and secretary blinked repeatedly, but I knew she was staring at the leg in my hand. Jake, the sheriff, stood up from his desk and walked toward me, a slight smile appearing on his face. A stranger sitting in a chair beside Mandy merely looked at me as if he’d look at anyone walking through the door.

“Where did you find it!” Jake asked me as if the entire county had been looking for the object I held in my hand.

“In a ditch on Farm Road 3260, close to the Ortiz’s.”

He snapped his finger. “I knew it! Mandy, call the Highway Patrol and tell them Jason Dean is at his parent’s house.”

Jake slapped me on the shoulder, took the prosthesis and dropped it on his desk. “Good work, Buck.”

For the second time today, I felt my eyebrow rise in question. He laughed. “Jason Dean stole a car in Lubbock last night after assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. The car happened to belong to a young lady who wasn’t wearing her…” He eyed the metal object on his desk. “…jogging leg. I knew he’d go see his momma. He always does when he’s in trouble, but we had no cause to search the place.” Jake eyed his desk again. “Now we do. It’s just lucky for us, that he tossed the leg out on the same road where his parents live.”

“I delivered a package to Mr. Dean today. Jason was sitting at the kitchen table. I saw him through the window.” I wondered how violent Jason Dean could be.

Jake’s face grew serious. “What time?”

I tapped my finger against my leg, thinking. With a slight shake of my head, I hesitated. “Ten thirty, maybe eleven.”

“We’ve been watching the house since noon. No one has left. The car is probably in the barn.” He slapped me on the back again. “Thanks again, Buck. The officer Jason hit died this afternoon.”

I felt my eyes widen. “What did he hit him with?”

“A brick.”

I exhaled slowly. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Dean?”

“The daughter’s on her way now. We’re hoping she can talk her brother into giving himself up. Jason doesn’t know he killed the man.”

After leaving the office, I scratched my head. Some days aren’t worth getting out of bed for – I felt my face match Gus’ normal scowl. Rescuing the leg did not turn out to be what I had hoped. Some stories don’t have happy endings.

Pottery Plus!

Wine in a bottle

Tune in to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

*  *  *

After signing out at the Post Office, I flipped through my mail while walking to the car. The headline on the flyer surprised me. I checked the address to make sure it was my name and then wondered why I was on the mailing list. I looked at the smaller print. I sure didn't have 725 million dollars to buy the Waggoner Ranch. It is a Texas icon, though, and seems well worth the price as it is nearly the size of Rhode Island.

The Waggoner ranch spans six counties in northwest Texas, one of the largest estates in the United States. As I read, I whistled in amazement. The ranch has 1,200 oil wells, 30,000 acres of cultivated land, and includes 510,000 acres. The sell price includes hundreds of quarter-horses and thousands of cows. It also includes hundreds of homes and has been held by one family for over a hundred years.

Dan Waggoner established a ranch in 1849 in the Texas panhandle. Twenty years later he began buying land and enlarged his holdings tremendously. His son, W.T., continued the expansion until it was known as the largest ranch in Texas under one fence. The ranch became an estate in 1923, with W.T as executor and his three children on the Board of Directors. He was in a jam because his three offspring were not the business sort. His daughter, Electra, came home from a world tour with a butterfly tattoo on her leg. His son, E. Paul preferred bourbon and all-night poker games, and his son, Guy, was married eight times. None of them were interested in ranching. W.T died in 1934 and through the next decades, siblings and heirs sold their share of the estate until only two remained, being equal partners. It seems neither could agree on the future of the Waggoner estate so a court stepped in and made the decision for them. The legend ranch would be sold. What a legacy.

But Texas is a big state and has lots of legacies. Starz has its share - cotton farms being one. The northwest area of Texas grows sixty percent of the state's cotton. Over the years for lots of reasons, boll weevils being one, production moved from the coast to the panhandle of the state. Land has remained in families over generations, as well as the knowledge of how to till it. Inventions have improved the cotton-farming world tremendously and little hand labor is required these days. It wasn't always that way. Families often traveled to the panhandle of Texas just to hand pick cotton during the fall. Sometimes a farmer had too much land in cotton to harvest himself and sold it as is to anyone who wanted to pick the entire field. Others preferred to pay for the hand picking.

Jim Ryals and his wife, Cecil, from East Texas bought a field to harvest back in the 1920's. They and their three small daughters lived in a wagon drawn by mules and picked cotton every day by stuffing it in large bags they pulled down the rows. Jim didn't have a wagon to dump the cotton into, so they made huge piles of it at the end of the field, planning to borrow a wagon to take it to the cotton gin when they finished. They worked hard and piles of white grew tall with every dump. It was their only source of income for the year, living on a rented farm in East Texas where they only grew crops to exist and feed the farm animals. Traveling to the panhandle of Texas was a big investment, buying the crop in the field was an even larger one. It held the couple's hope of buying their own land in East Texas, no longer living in someone else's house on someone else's acreage.

West Texas has one major natural phenomenon - wind. Rarely is there a day that air doesn't flow and often, so strong, it becomes destructive. Jim and Cecil Ryals witnessed that destruction first-hand. Nearly all their cotton was picked and piles of white stood at the end of the rows, high and bright in the sunlight. Then the wind began to blow, uncommon in the fall. The air filled with dirt and bit by bit, the white cotton that once stood high in the field disappeared until finally, only blobs of dirty gray were left at the end of the rows of bare cotton stalks.

And that was the end of their adventure to West Texas. But it wasn't the end of cotton-growing. Just as most farmers do, they gather their reserves after bad years and make it through the winter to plant again in the spring, hoping and praying for a better year. It's the never-ending hope that becomes the backbone of legacies.

 Besides the cotton farmers who've passed their land down through generations, the grape growers are doing the same. Our part of the country is now the most concentrated grape-growing region in the state. My friend, Edgar Givens is growing grapes, too. He only has sixteen vines. Said he'd start small and see if he could make some good wine before expanding.

The second year after planting the two-year old vines, he raised a whopping crop of grapes. After much discussion as to the right time to pick them, he gathered all his grandkids in the backyard so they could stomp them. It was all very sanitary as he had two kiddy swimming pools, one filled with water for rinsing feet, the other for stomping grapes. I did notice the kids sometimes forgot to rinse before stomping, but I didn't say anything. He had plenty of beer and bar-b-que and all were having a grand time.

A year later, after he'd fermented, strained and racked the wine numerous times, he finally bottled his brew. I received one of the prize possessions and reverently placed it on its side in the wine rack in the kitchen with instructions to let it age one more year. Two days later as I was watching television in the den, I heard a loud POP followed immediately by shattering glass. I jumped up and went into the kitchen, thinking some animal had found its way into the house. It took me a minute to determine exactly what happened. The cork in that wine bottle must have shot across the room and hit the window. The cork lay amidst the glass on the floor. Even worse, the wine had spewed with it because dribbles were bubbling from the bottle, the rest strewn across the floor and running down the wall under the window.

I told Edgar that the cork blew and suggested he store his wine in the garage and not in his house. I didn't tell him the window broke or the wine made a huge mess. I did add, though, that the little bit left in the bottle tasted rather good.