A few years back our neighbor and friend Jake was helping me hang a sign at the entrance to the drive of our family land in Leon County Texas. In truth, I was helping him because he had the knowledge to do the job right. This knowledge comes only through experience that we normally consider a guy thing, although I know women who can sling a hammer, wire a room and hang a ceiling fan with the best of them. The sign is cut out of sheet metal that has been rendered art by Don Austin, a sign maker friend the next county over. At the center is our family name—HOLLIS—and surrounding the name are representations of all the things I love—old stoneware jugs and pots, cactus, even an owl perched on a branch set inside the letter O. The design is totally Don’s creativity at work after visiting my house and seeing what I’m about—at least as far as the objects that own my living spaces.
Like Jake, Don is a guy’s guy, and his story is an interesting one as well. But this tale is about Jake, who has been friend and helper to this family since before our Daddy got down in 1980. That year a heart attack on December 15 ultimately led to Daddy’s death on the first day of spring 1981. For many years after, no one lived on these 200 acres. After Daddy’s health began to fail he wanted to have a home nearer Houston and other members of the family so that Mother wouldn’t be alone. We had cattle on the property, so Jake took care of them, produced hay from the hayfield, took care of the fences, mowed the big lawn that surrounds the house, cut firewood from fallen Post Oak trees, made sure the guard lights kept burning, wrapped pipes and then cut off the water when the temperatures fell below 27 degrees for sustained periods. When the family did spend time in the country, Jake dealt with a cranky albeit new septic system when the infrequent rains persisted at times. Frankly, I guess I don’t really know all the things that Jake kept up with, but I do know that he treated this place as if it were his own. In his nephew’s words, if there are saints on earth, Jake is as close as it gets.
On the day that Jake was hanging the sign from the back of his flatbed truck, with me holding and fetching and cocking my head just right, I realized that Jake, although he is only 14 years older, was playing father—or at least big brother, the one I don’t have—to me, and that he reminded me so much of my Daddy and a couple of uncles who could do just about anything. And like all of them, he has the patience required to see something through, in spite of challenges, complications, and setbacks. Jake grew up in the country, the product of Texas German stock, a good, conservative Missouri Synod Lutheran, who doesn’t question the teachings about God and church that he was brought up with. After serving time in the military, he became a lineman for the telephone company, and because he just knows things that lots of guys know—especially ones who grow up in the country—he can “do just about anything”. He cooks as well, at least beans and cornbread.
On that day as I watched Jake, reminded of Daddy and my uncles, I also realized that Jake wouldn’t always be able to do the things he was doing. He was then 72. I recorded my feelings about Jake, and as the fates would have, lost them when I got a new laptop in April of 2004.
When the floodgate of illness opens up, the torrent can seem unstoppable. At 76, that has begun for Jake. He was already plagued by macular degeneration, and in spite of severely compromised vision, still driving the roads, including trips into the nearby town. Usually trips between his house and ours, separated only by the county road and a short leg to our west, he usually makes on his four-wheeler. In spite of vision problems, Jake is an avid reader, sharing with me a passion for Texas history and stories and biographies of the West. These days his eyesight has deteriorated to the point that he doesn’t drive to town anymore, and he can’t read like he did. All the other onslaught of health problems began with gall bladder surgery a few months back, followed by severe stomach pain, skin allergies that led him to take his back to the door jam for frequent scratching, general lack of energy and shortness of breath, and now to a heart catheterization this very day.
In the record I lost of that day four years ago, I remembered that watching Jake made me think about my daddy and two uncles, who were married to Daddy’s sisters. Like men are supposed to be—at least where I grew up—these guys were problem solvers. Daddy truly whistled while he worked—his way of expressing pleasure at the task he was doing, as well as his unconscious artful expression. My middle sister and I picked up the same habit, but unfortunately for me, I didn’t get Daddy’s genes that enable one to fix things and make things. Like Daddy, Uncle Bud and Uncle Frog were products of pre-World War II America, exposed to farming and the Depression, and because of things they learned early, instinctively strong in work ethic.
When Daddy died, I was already well into adulthood, finished with a career in teaching and trying to establish myself in the world of private enterprise. I was way past the point of teaching—at least the point of being interested in building a box or a life-sized dove house, or tinkering with the lawnmower. All I ever really learned to do was change the spark plugs in an old truck one time with Daddy’s help, clean the filter and change the spark plug in the lawn mower (and if that didn’t solve the problem I was SOL and done with it!), and help him with minor building projects and fence building. Oddly, Daddy always chose to work on fence in August—in Texas!—and I remember the agony of being out there in the sun on a Sunday afternoon. My biggest outdoor help to the family was yard work, helping with the menagerie of livestock that we had once we moved to the country, and trying to stay ahead of Daddy’s instincts to junk and make clutter. Every once in awhile I would take on the garage, move things out, sweep, and attempt to throw away things that seemed useless to me (Daddy would risk life and limb stopping on the blacktop roads of northwest Harris County to stop and pick up a bolt). Before I could reach my personal objectives, though, everything would come back into the garage at Daddy’s insistence. Ironically, these days I’m lousy at staying on top of the junk I accumulate—much of it valuable because of its age and other merits.
While I recall that Uncle Bud’s outbuildings were always fairly well organized, he certainly had his share of tools and projects in progress. Uncle Frog really had the “bring it home” mindset. Even more than Daddy and Uncle Bud, Uncle Frog could make something out of anything, sometimes giving totally new meaning to an object, other times enhancing while letting the object maintain its intrinsic integrity. All three men shared the same passion for junking, and I clearly inherited that gene, although I have taken it quite a few rungs up the ladder. I call most of my stuff antiques and Texas relics.
Daddy’s vehicle legacy at his death was a truck that had frustrated us all to no end. You could drive it from point A to point B, cut off the engine, and then find upon trying to fire up the SOB that it just wouldn’t turn over. Give it a little time and it mostly likely would start. It had done this from the time it was still in warranty, but the GMC dealer couldn’t correct the problem. Does that surprise me? As things must be, the truck always failed at the worst time—for example, while pulling a loaded trailer down I-10 toward San Antonio, 100 miles from home, in the parking lot while grocery shopping. It met its fate in the Wal-Mart parking lot some 20 years ago. My middle sister had borrowed the truck from Mother to go Christmas shopping. Headlong into the local Wal-Mart, she certainly had no inkling that someone would want an old yellow GMC with an ugly aluminum camper top. Wrong. On that day it did start, and I guess made its journey to a chop shop. Talk about poetic justice!
I didn’t have as much time to observe Uncle Bud as I did Uncle Frog, but one memory of them is etched in my mind. While the evil GMC was still in the family, Uncles Bud and Frog came to my rescue in the hospital parking lot (what’s the deal with parking lots?) of Heights Hospital in Houston on one of the last nights of Mamaw Hollis’s life. She was about to die at age 93, although her goal had been to make it to 100. Ironically, she outlasted all three of her sons. I don’t remember why I was driving the truck that night, only that I had been to visit Mamaw. Uncle Frog and Aunt Mary and Uncle Bud and Aunt Frances were there. Back in the parking lot, I attempted to start the truck, it chose to throw its weight around, and I went back into the hospital hoping that my uncles could rescue me. We all trekked to the parking light. They raised the hood, looked around, shook their heads, scratched, turned on the ignition switch and the engine turned over. They didn’t really do anything. The comfort they provided came from their ability to do what certain guys can do—sometimes just a matter of being there. The important thing is that they were there for me. They were Daddy, my uncles, and they were Jake. That night I realized that like Daddy, someday neither of these uncles would be there to help me out in the parking lot—to think about a problem, scratch their heads, tinker a bit, and make everything all right.
Today I am especially aware that life has once again changed forever. Jake, who has helped me help him so many times—hanging a sign, building a fence around my yard, running water out to an open shed in my garden—Jake with whom I swap books, drink an occasional beer, talk about the forecast for rain, reminisce about his growing up years in Westfield—Jake who counsels me even when he doesn’t know it—Jake can’t ride the tractor like he did anymore, and we’re all the lesser for it.
Harold Hollis (December 6, 2003 – Normangee Texas)
Like Jake, Don is a guy’s guy, and his story is an interesting one as well. But this tale is about Jake, who has been friend and helper to this family since before our Daddy got down in 1980. That year a heart attack on December 15 ultimately led to Daddy’s death on the first day of spring 1981. For many years after, no one lived on these 200 acres. After Daddy’s health began to fail he wanted to have a home nearer Houston and other members of the family so that Mother wouldn’t be alone. We had cattle on the property, so Jake took care of them, produced hay from the hayfield, took care of the fences, mowed the big lawn that surrounds the house, cut firewood from fallen Post Oak trees, made sure the guard lights kept burning, wrapped pipes and then cut off the water when the temperatures fell below 27 degrees for sustained periods. When the family did spend time in the country, Jake dealt with a cranky albeit new septic system when the infrequent rains persisted at times. Frankly, I guess I don’t really know all the things that Jake kept up with, but I do know that he treated this place as if it were his own. In his nephew’s words, if there are saints on earth, Jake is as close as it gets.
On the day that Jake was hanging the sign from the back of his flatbed truck, with me holding and fetching and cocking my head just right, I realized that Jake, although he is only 14 years older, was playing father—or at least big brother, the one I don’t have—to me, and that he reminded me so much of my Daddy and a couple of uncles who could do just about anything. And like all of them, he has the patience required to see something through, in spite of challenges, complications, and setbacks. Jake grew up in the country, the product of Texas German stock, a good, conservative Missouri Synod Lutheran, who doesn’t question the teachings about God and church that he was brought up with. After serving time in the military, he became a lineman for the telephone company, and because he just knows things that lots of guys know—especially ones who grow up in the country—he can “do just about anything”. He cooks as well, at least beans and cornbread.
On that day as I watched Jake, reminded of Daddy and my uncles, I also realized that Jake wouldn’t always be able to do the things he was doing. He was then 72. I recorded my feelings about Jake, and as the fates would have, lost them when I got a new laptop in April of 2004.
When the floodgate of illness opens up, the torrent can seem unstoppable. At 76, that has begun for Jake. He was already plagued by macular degeneration, and in spite of severely compromised vision, still driving the roads, including trips into the nearby town. Usually trips between his house and ours, separated only by the county road and a short leg to our west, he usually makes on his four-wheeler. In spite of vision problems, Jake is an avid reader, sharing with me a passion for Texas history and stories and biographies of the West. These days his eyesight has deteriorated to the point that he doesn’t drive to town anymore, and he can’t read like he did. All the other onslaught of health problems began with gall bladder surgery a few months back, followed by severe stomach pain, skin allergies that led him to take his back to the door jam for frequent scratching, general lack of energy and shortness of breath, and now to a heart catheterization this very day.
In the record I lost of that day four years ago, I remembered that watching Jake made me think about my daddy and two uncles, who were married to Daddy’s sisters. Like men are supposed to be—at least where I grew up—these guys were problem solvers. Daddy truly whistled while he worked—his way of expressing pleasure at the task he was doing, as well as his unconscious artful expression. My middle sister and I picked up the same habit, but unfortunately for me, I didn’t get Daddy’s genes that enable one to fix things and make things. Like Daddy, Uncle Bud and Uncle Frog were products of pre-World War II America, exposed to farming and the Depression, and because of things they learned early, instinctively strong in work ethic.
When Daddy died, I was already well into adulthood, finished with a career in teaching and trying to establish myself in the world of private enterprise. I was way past the point of teaching—at least the point of being interested in building a box or a life-sized dove house, or tinkering with the lawnmower. All I ever really learned to do was change the spark plugs in an old truck one time with Daddy’s help, clean the filter and change the spark plug in the lawn mower (and if that didn’t solve the problem I was SOL and done with it!), and help him with minor building projects and fence building. Oddly, Daddy always chose to work on fence in August—in Texas!—and I remember the agony of being out there in the sun on a Sunday afternoon. My biggest outdoor help to the family was yard work, helping with the menagerie of livestock that we had once we moved to the country, and trying to stay ahead of Daddy’s instincts to junk and make clutter. Every once in awhile I would take on the garage, move things out, sweep, and attempt to throw away things that seemed useless to me (Daddy would risk life and limb stopping on the blacktop roads of northwest Harris County to stop and pick up a bolt). Before I could reach my personal objectives, though, everything would come back into the garage at Daddy’s insistence. Ironically, these days I’m lousy at staying on top of the junk I accumulate—much of it valuable because of its age and other merits.
While I recall that Uncle Bud’s outbuildings were always fairly well organized, he certainly had his share of tools and projects in progress. Uncle Frog really had the “bring it home” mindset. Even more than Daddy and Uncle Bud, Uncle Frog could make something out of anything, sometimes giving totally new meaning to an object, other times enhancing while letting the object maintain its intrinsic integrity. All three men shared the same passion for junking, and I clearly inherited that gene, although I have taken it quite a few rungs up the ladder. I call most of my stuff antiques and Texas relics.
Daddy’s vehicle legacy at his death was a truck that had frustrated us all to no end. You could drive it from point A to point B, cut off the engine, and then find upon trying to fire up the SOB that it just wouldn’t turn over. Give it a little time and it mostly likely would start. It had done this from the time it was still in warranty, but the GMC dealer couldn’t correct the problem. Does that surprise me? As things must be, the truck always failed at the worst time—for example, while pulling a loaded trailer down I-10 toward San Antonio, 100 miles from home, in the parking lot while grocery shopping. It met its fate in the Wal-Mart parking lot some 20 years ago. My middle sister had borrowed the truck from Mother to go Christmas shopping. Headlong into the local Wal-Mart, she certainly had no inkling that someone would want an old yellow GMC with an ugly aluminum camper top. Wrong. On that day it did start, and I guess made its journey to a chop shop. Talk about poetic justice!
I didn’t have as much time to observe Uncle Bud as I did Uncle Frog, but one memory of them is etched in my mind. While the evil GMC was still in the family, Uncles Bud and Frog came to my rescue in the hospital parking lot (what’s the deal with parking lots?) of Heights Hospital in Houston on one of the last nights of Mamaw Hollis’s life. She was about to die at age 93, although her goal had been to make it to 100. Ironically, she outlasted all three of her sons. I don’t remember why I was driving the truck that night, only that I had been to visit Mamaw. Uncle Frog and Aunt Mary and Uncle Bud and Aunt Frances were there. Back in the parking lot, I attempted to start the truck, it chose to throw its weight around, and I went back into the hospital hoping that my uncles could rescue me. We all trekked to the parking light. They raised the hood, looked around, shook their heads, scratched, turned on the ignition switch and the engine turned over. They didn’t really do anything. The comfort they provided came from their ability to do what certain guys can do—sometimes just a matter of being there. The important thing is that they were there for me. They were Daddy, my uncles, and they were Jake. That night I realized that like Daddy, someday neither of these uncles would be there to help me out in the parking lot—to think about a problem, scratch their heads, tinker a bit, and make everything all right.
Today I am especially aware that life has once again changed forever. Jake, who has helped me help him so many times—hanging a sign, building a fence around my yard, running water out to an open shed in my garden—Jake with whom I swap books, drink an occasional beer, talk about the forecast for rain, reminisce about his growing up years in Westfield—Jake who counsels me even when he doesn’t know it—Jake can’t ride the tractor like he did anymore, and we’re all the lesser for it.
Harold Hollis (December 6, 2003 – Normangee Texas)
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