Visiting My Ancestry - The Story of Tom and Buena Davis, part 1
For me, it began with a love story. But not a romance. It was a story about the love that a child has for her grandparents. Over time, the story evolved into an investigation of the history of these people who had been the bedrock of my childhood…the when and the where of it all. And even more recently, an exploration and analysis of the psychology of my ancestors. The what and why of the life they carved out for themselves. And very, very often, the “HOW”. An attempt to understand the cloth from which I’m cut, so to speak.
I’ve no doubt that my memories of Tom and Buena Davis have a patina of nostalgia that I absolutely do not want to polish away. If they didn’t view the time spent with me through the same lens I look through when I ruminate on our times together, then I don’t want to know it. Those days were perfect to me then. They remain perfect today. In my rememberings, I walk a tranquil dirt road back to times that were free of the cares of adulting. On these walks, I find my inner child, alive and well. She takes me by the hand and says “I’ve been waiting for you! What took so long?” Obediently, joyfully, I let her lead me back, back, and back until I stand once more before the screen door of the ranch house. I grasp the handle, swing the door wide with a creak and….
My Papa Davis, the name by which I referred to my paternal grandfather, loved me. Perhaps it’s because I only had him in my life for a few short years, or maybe it would have been this way had he lived until I hit my 20’s… but there was never a rupture of any kind in our relationship.
Papa and Mama Davis lived on “the ranch” at Sonora, Texas. My family and I lived in Stephenville, but made frequent trips out west. I’ve been told that every time one of those trips came to an end, and mom and dad were trying to pack me into the car to leave, that Papa and I would both cry.
It’s funny how scents can evoke such vivid memories. Whenever I smell grapefruit, I’m taken back to that linoleum covered kitchen table in the ranch house. A hearty breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and toast was served up daily, along with a grapefruit half sprinkled with sugar and topped with a maraschino cherry. I washed it down with a cup of cowboy coffee as I watched Papa sop up the egg yolk with his toast. I ate fast, wanting to be ready when he stood from the table, grabbed his sweat-stained felt hat, and tucked a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, a small spiral notebook and a stubby pencil into his shirt pocket. I knew that meant we were headed outside for the morning chores, which to me were never something to be dreaded at all, but the sweetest fulfillment of all the things that made life wonderful.
It never occurred to me to offer to stay behind and help Mama Davis with the kitchen clean-up. I was born to accompany Papa as we climbed into his faded blue pickup with wooden sideboards. The inside was dusty and the vinyl seat cover was cracked. The floorboard was littered with chunks of cow cake, wire cutters, old leather work gloves and bits of grass and dirt. The gum wrappers however, had better go in my pocket because that was “trash”.
The windows were always rolled down and the dawn air smelled of dust and growing things. Mourning Doves called and quail whistled “Bob White… Bob White”. I tried my best to imitate them but hadn’t gotten hand of whistling OR blowing bubbles with my chewing gum yet, to my frustration. Killdee Birds ran the caleche road in front of us as Papa shifted gears and I hung onto the door handle as we bounced toward the barn.
It was a big red wooden affair with rock walls and sorting pens made of long boards nailed to posts set deep into the hardback soil. In the dark and cavernous shearing shed, two high metal racks stood ready for the long bags that the wool would be collected into as the sheep or goats were shorn. Tucked away in a corner closet was a working toilet and sink, which was pretty ritzy for 1970. The adjacent part of the barn was the tallest part, accommodating a hayloft accessible by a built-in ladder. A huge door slide to one side so that a pickup could be driven into the barn and parked in the perfect position to catch several bales of coastal hay tossed down from above. Underneath the floor of the hayloft, horse stalls and a tack room drew me like the moon pulls the tides. There was only one other building in the barn area that could get me as excited as that horsey smelling stable area and that was the shed across the road from the barn that held a collection of cane fishing poles and a tackle box full of bobbers and fishhooks.
After the morning chores were done, if Papa felt good (I didn’t know the cancer that would eventually take his life was already draining him of energy) chances were I would have my choice of riding around the trap on Methuselah or and taking a couple of those cane poles down to the tank to catch a mess of perch.
Sitting up high on the ancient brown gelding as he plodded in circles made me feel daring and grown up. Sometimes I could coax him into a trot that bounced me considerably and required me to grab the saddle horn to keep from falling off. My feet couldn’t reach the stirrups and my legs were still too short to get much of a grip on the slick sides of the saddle and no matter how hard I kicked and smooched, we rarely graduated to the smooth gait of a lope. No matter, I was the queen of the cowgirls as I put him through his paces unassisted, although Papa was never out of sight. He’d sit in the shade and scratch in his notebook until he decided it was time to go back to the house for lunch. If he couldn’t convince me to dismount in anticipation of a sandwich, he could appeal to my conscience by telling me how tired Methuselah must be and I wouldn’t want to make him lame by pushing him past his limits, would I? The old horse looked fine to me, but I sure didn’t want to mess up my chances of riding him again the next day, so I didn’t argue. Much.
Other days, I preferred digging earthworms out of the mud that a leaky concrete water trough provided. We’d put them in a coffee can filled with dirt and coffee grounds and ride down to the pond. Papa would tie a stringer to a stick and jab it way down in the shallow water at the edge of the tank, and we would collect the fish we caught as we sat in the shade on lawn chairs Papa had unfolded under the big mesquite tree that grew on the bank. I’d concentrate intently on the bobber, willing it to go under all the way so I could give the pole a quick jerk upwards to set the hook. I learned early on how to bait a hook and hold a perch so that the spiny fins couldn’t puncture the skin of my hand.
And when the temperatures rose to a minimum of 70 degrees, I was allowed to swim in the rock stock tank, kept full to the brim by the turning of the windmill by the hot currents of air that baked the moisture from the west Texas sky. The water was cool and tinted green by the moss that covered the inside of the circular wall of the tank. Large goldfish nibbled at my toes and brushed by my legs as they propelled me awkwardly around the edges, bobbing up and down in my life jacket. I chaffed at having to wear the hated thing. I was sure I could swim as well as any mermaid, but I was only allowed to glide through the water sans flotation device when Dad was in there with me. But I could manage to tip over enough to push my face under water and open my eyes to look at the murky world below the surface. Did you know that water can taste and smell green? At least, that’s how I remember it.
Mama Davis grew roses. Lots of roses. They occupied the southwest side of the yard, a fragrant and colorful sticker patch. Look, but don’t touch. Large pecan trees dipped gracefully over the rock wall that surrounded three sides of the yard. The front lawn was well kept and guarded from potential destruction by livestock by an ornamental metal fence. A Lilac bush bloomed in spring and a metal swing set waited for my brother and I to challenge each other to see who could swing the highest without causing the frame to buck out of the ground. In the near-dark of evening, fireflies danced in the air that took on a mysterious sweetness that called up a touch of melancholy because that, along with the lights going shining bright out of the row of windows that overlooked the front porch, meant the adults would soon be calling us inside and reminding us that we weren’t actually the bosses of our own lives. Baths and bedtimes were non-negotiable, but if we didn’t argue, we were treated to jello and a story.
The wall beside Mama and Papa Davis’s reading chairs held a built-in bookcase. One shelf was filled with children’s books. Some were gilded with gold leafing on the edges of the pages. Some had three dimensional pictures set into the front cover. Some had beautiful color illustrations that gave the characters faces and the landscapes definition. All were a magic rabbit hole for my imagination. My favorite book though, was not one of the newer additions to the library. Rather, the covers of this book were worn and the title was stamped in large black letters on the front. “Billy Butter”, it said, and a simple sketch of a goat with round balls mounted to the tips of it’s horns gave a clue that the story was about the adventures of a mischievous goat kid and the farm family that cared for it. It was published in 1936 and judging from the wear of the cover, it must have been one of my dad’s childhood favorites.
Mama and Papa Davis raised Angora and Spanish goats in addition to polled Hereford cattle and sheep. To successfully manage this on a 1700 acre ranch in Sutton County Texas was no easy feat. Grass was not plentiful and the limited resources meant practicing range management was essential if the herds were going to support themselves and the family.
An excerpt from Papa’s obituary (Devil’s River News, August 19, 1971) reads:
“Mr. Davis was an outstanding ranchman and citizen of the Sonora community for many years. He was one of the premier breeders of Polled Rambouillet sheep in the United States and a long time breeder of registered Angora goats. Fleeces from Davis’s sheep won many regional, state and national shows at Sonora, Brownwood, San Antonio and Denver. He had the top fleece at the New Mexico State Fair in 1970 and the champion Rambouillet fleece at the National Western Wool Show in Denver this year. He has also shown the champion mohair fleece at the Texas international Wool & Mohair Show at San Antonio. A number of his sheep have been shipped to India and other countries to start breeding flocks. He was a member of the American Rambouillet Breeders Association; the Texas Sheep and Goat Raisers Association and the Angora Goat Breeders Association.
Mr. Davis was an early and continual supporter of performance testing of rams at the Sonora Experiment Station. He also pioneered testing rams on the ranch. A great supporter of 4-H Club work, Davis was presented the Sutton County 4-H Contributer’s Award for superior service.
He received the Outstanding Conservation Ranchman Award from the Edward Plateau Soil Conservation District in 1953. He did extensive pioneer work in gathering and planting native and introduced vegetation on his ranch. He was a great wildlife enthusiast, raising and releasing hundreds of quail and other game birds. For many years he tried to acclimatize Mule Deer to the area, and produced a number of rare mule-whitetail deer crosses.”
In 1978, my Dad, Rodney Ellis Davis, submitted a Family History to the Sutton County Historical Society, who Published “Sutton County History 1887 - 1977. He ended his contribution with these words:
“They (Tom and Buena Davis) were disciples of soil, water and wildlife conservation. Due to hard work, they were successful ranchers on a place small by Sutton County Standards.
When I read these accounts, I realize that my grandparents had many layers. I knew them first as my retreat, my place of joy, my earliest treasure, those whom I revered as flawless. I’ve come to know them, posthumously, as mortal beings, just like myself, prone to mistakes and missteps, capable of love and hate, joy and misery, grief and gratitude. They fell in love, married, had babies, lost children, survived the great depression and the drought of the 50’s. Tom and Buena Davis faced tragedy and grief that would lay most of us out flat in this day and age. The grit of their ancestors flowed through their veins. I hope some of it has passed down to me as well. Their story is the prequel to mine. And over the next few months, til the well runs dry, I’m going to dip deeply into the waters of the past and share my cup with you.