Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  VF felt the wind at his back as he and his colt galloped through the night. The wide expanse of dark skies amplified the meteorite shower above and around them. “This is a beautiful night, don’t you think, Colt?” VF asked his steady steed.

  “I feel free!” the colt answered. “I feel free with you as my guide.”

  VF was laughing as he awoke. He had never had such a beautiful dream.

  In the morning, his father, who towered over him at 6’3”, said, “Son, I know you’ve wanted your own horse, and when you start school later this year you’ll need a horse. I think Hortus has a colt that can be trained.”

  VF was beside himself thinking of all the places they could go together. He and his colt would ride to the mailbox; pick up the ice for his mother’s icebox down by the railroad tracks and race to his favorite hideout on Rustler’s Hill. All of the adventures that would happen between now and age 18 when he would go away to college would be enhanced with a galloping horse by his side.

  “Will you promise me that you will take care of your horse? This means you’ll have to be sure he’s shod properly, and has enough grain to eat, and is watered daily down by the creek. You have to brush him down every evening, and hang the ropes and the saddle in the right places. These things are important, son. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” VF answered. He knew what was necessary and if he could train this horse, he would do whatever it took to care for him.

  “OK, then, let’s see what Hortus has for us.”

  Together they rode over to Hortus’ farm on their wide-backed bay, named Kráska, Czech for “beauty” because she was.

  Hortus was in the corral with two other horses—a mare and a high-strung colt. VF was stunned. This colt was smaller than in the dream, but other than that he was a dead ringer.

  “Vincy,” Hortus said after he and the father had talked for a while, “come here. Take this rope. Let’s see what you can do.”

  Hortus handed VF the lead that was tied around the colt’s face and head.

  The young boy felt the electricity between him and colt. Immediately he held out his hand and the colt snipped at him. He held it out again and again. The colt snipped again and again. He stroked the side of his neck, touched his front leg. The colt snipped.

  Hortus and VF’s father laughed as they stood against the wooden rails of the corral, arms crossed, pinching snuff.

  “Got to try to canter him, Vincy” Hortus yelled.

  “I’m gonna call him Snip. He needs a name first,” VF yelled back.

  The day was getting hotter and VF’s head and neck were already soaked. “So, Snip, let’s walk.” VF led his colt around the corral, over and over for a half hour. Then he began to get the colt to run by command.

  Within three hours, VF was bareback riding Snip in the corral.

  “OK,” Hortus said, “he’s yours.”

  VF’s father looked at him and said, “you will care for him or suffer the consequences.” VF knew that this was a magnificent gift, even though no money had exchanged hands.

  “Yes, sir, I will care for him.”

  Even at this tender young age, VF was determined to be the best guardian of his horse.

  Over the years they grew up together, Snip and VF were inseparable. When he started first grade that fall, Snip was his best companion. Even when he formed a binding friendship with Fred Wiseman, VF thought of Snip before all else. Snip had the best horseshoes, was washed weekly and brushed nightly. Snip ate the farm’s best grains, and wasn’t worked too hard. VF saw to that. Snip even learned to drink from the ladle at the well.

  On his tenth birthday, VF was given a hand-sewn Indian blanket for Snip that was so strong and beautiful that VF had tears in his eyes when he saw it.

  VF trained Snip to gallop like a racehorse—with complete abandon. Snip had a velvet stride and VF often rode him bareback. He even taught him tricks he saw at the local annual circus. Snip could rear up on his hind legs and smile. He could dance at VF’s command. VF loved to show him off, and once he learned that Snip was a chick magnet, he taught Snip to “talk.”

  In high school, VF liked to show the cutest girl in the class that Snip could say hello. Darla was her name.

  “Darla, you want to hear Snip say hello?” VF asked her as he dismounted one morning.

  Darla giggled, “Sure, Vince, show me what Snip can say.”

  “Snip, say hello to Darla,” VF said.

  “NEEEEEEEE….HAHHHH.”

  Darla peeled over in laughter. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard.”

  “Snip can count to three. Watch this, Darla.”

  “Snip,” VF commanded, “count to three.”

  Snip looked at Darla and lifted his right foot, held it high in the air, and brought it down once, twice, three times.

  VF gave Snip a loving pat on the nose. “Good boy.”

  Darla was more than amused. She was entranced.

  The following year, leaving Snip behind gave VF more stress than having to leave his mother when he went off to the University of Texas at Austin. It seemed a universe away from Snip.

  When he first got to the campus in his overalls and work boots he felt pangs of guilt that he would not be talking with Snip and riding Snip each day.

  He signed letters to his mother each week with “Prosím, dejte nějakou čerstvou kukuřici,“ which meant please give Snip some fresh corn.

  When the semester ended, or a major holiday like Christmas gave him time to get back to the farm, VF first ran to find Snip, saddle him and take him for a long, long ride. Then he would greet his mother and father.

  He would talk to Snip, share his dreams and secrets, and end the day brushing his beautiful satin coat`. But those days became fewer and far between semesters and summers of hard work selling bibles and picking cotton to pay for his college.

  VF’s mother and father did not ride Snip, nor did his grown stepbrother or stepsisters he left behind. Snip grew older and suffered from arthritis, according to the local veterinarian.

  VF was beside himself when he saw Snip on a holiday his senior year before starting law school.

  “Snip,” he confided, “I miss you. I’m so sorry I haven’t been here for you. Are you in pain?”

  Snip looked at VF with his giant black eyes, blinked and lowered his head as if to say, “it’s over.”

  “No, it’s not over. I’m older. I’ll be away more. But that’s all. Just wait for me. Wait for me. Two years. I’ll always be back. I’ve been admitted to law school. Do you know what that means? Snip! Be happy for me.”

  Snip reared his head, snorted and nodded twice, as if to say, “I am happy for you.”

  Two long years passed as VF became a law graduate and Snip became lame from his arthritis. VF was certain that horses suffer from depression. That was his diagnosis. If he could only come back to the farm permanently, or bring Snip with him on his adventures in life.

  But he would never be able to do either. The clouds of war were brewing and Snip certainly could not join him in the war, nor could VF permanently come home to the farm ever again.

  After his graduation, VF visited his parents and Snip. He was about to join the Army Air Corps and his future was uncertain. What was certain was his love of Snip.

  He walked from the farmhouse and spotted Snip in the back pasture.

  He whistled that high-pitched, singsong whistle that said, “I’m here, Snip! Come let’s play.”

  Snip galloped over, no sign of arthritis.

  “Snip! You’re healed! What have you been eating? Can I have some?”

  VF didn’t need to bridle Snip. They walked over to the barn as old friends, seemingly holding hands. VF’s hand on Snip’s neck.

  “Snip. I have some news. I have to go into the Air Corps. I’ll learn to be a pilot, Snip!”

  S
nip stopped in his tracks.

  “What’s the matter, boy?”

  Snip pulled up his front hoof and brought it down once. Hard. Then twice.

  VF understood. “Ahh….you’re right. Two. Two years. Yes, it’s been two hard years. Hard for both of us. And now I don’t know how many years it will be until we see each other again. I have a steady girlfriend. I don’t know how long it will be until I see her again, either.”

  That information did not seem to amuse Snip. He brayed.

  “Snip, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Everything is uncertain. I don’t know what to do, except my duty to my country. If I have to fight, I’ll fight to keep our country safe.”

  Snip calmed down and followed VF into the barn. It smelled of mold and sunshine. They walked over to the faded Indian blanket, where the ropes and saddles hung. It was twilight, and there was a large hole in the roof. The moon was rising.

  “See that, Snip? See that full moon?” VF motioned to the roof. “Same moon we saw the first night you learned to gallop. Remember?” VF paused. “Those were good days. We’ve had a great time together, Snip. Wherever my duty takes me, I’ll be thinking of you. Those times we had together—well, they’ll give me strength, Snip.”

  VF cradled Snip’s head in his arms and kissed him on the nose. He slept beside Snip in the old barn that night.

  A rooster woke VF the next morning, crowing nearly in his ear. VF stood up, dusted off his jeans and long sleeve shirt.

  “Snip? You ready for a ride to Cady Creek?”

  Snip did not get up.

  “Snip?”

  VF didn’t think twice. He drove his dad’s Model A to the vet and brought him back to the farm.

  “He’s gone,” the vet said to VF after examining him, as they both looked at the lifeless horse. “Looks like a fever.”

  VF had his own diagnosis. He knew Snip died of a broken heart.

  VF would never love a horse as much as he did Snip. He would never love any animal again. He would treat the animal as an animal—a cog in the wheel of future fortune. That day VF dragged Snip’s body behind the Model A all the way to the culvert below the railroad trestle. There the carcass would have exposure to the vultures. VF removed his hat and said a prayer.

  That was the day that VF promised himself that, come hell or high water, he would have his own land. A ranch. With horses, cows, sheep, deer to hunt, and a back pasture to ride. He heard his mother’s words “mladý chlapec, který nemá nic, má všechno“ and decided it was not true that a boy who has nothing has everything. A boy who has nothing has nothing. He decided some day he would have it all.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Thunder Valley Farm

  April, 2010

  VF Landry was a prescient person. Growing up on the O-Bar, a 300-acre farm located between Houston and Austin, he knew when and what kind of storms were brewing, when drought would set in, and what the land could bear. He understood the whisper of the wind, the tell tale sign of paw prints and footprints.

  All of his life, he heard stories that the farm held some serious gold. There was an old Indian burial mound believed to be from Shoshoni or Comanche Indians on the far corner of the O-Bar’s hills. Rustler’s Hill, he called it. He felt, from the time he was a child, that gold was buried close by, mainly because his neighbor Nate Hortus said he saw it buried there in 1911.

  After he purchased the land from his ailing father, and moved him and his mother into a house in Flatonia, he bought a hand held metal detector called a Bounty Hunter to see what he could find. He spent a week on the land sweeping every area he thought could contain that treasure chest, coming up with old spoons, some tin cans, a few quarters, bullet casings, and quite a bit of garbage.

  Then one day he decided the best use of his time would be to walk the land and describe his feelings to his children, who he hoped would take up the exploration, in an audiotape. He gave the tape to each of his kids. Except for Vicki, Iris and Mary, no one listened to it.

  After his death in late 1994, Iris acquired the property as the bequest from her parents, with her mother’s approval. She was so busy with her job in New York and her family that she wasn’t able to do much with the farm except to lease it for grazing rights to a fellow from Houston in order to pay the real estate taxes. She thought about it constantly, though. In her spare time she mapped out various things she would do with the land after her mother’s passing. She asked agricultural specialists for their opinions on the best crops to plant and began to talk with neighbors about her plans for the land.

  One day when Vicki was caring for Virginia, she found Grandpa Krejci’s farm journal from 1905-1930 in one of VF’s file cabinets, and gave it to Iris. The crumbling leather-bound book was a carefully constructed, handwritten month-to-month diary of tabulations of the growth of various crops on the farm, along with monthly rainfall, temperatures, and soil quality. It was all in Czech.

  When she received it, Iris opened it appreciatively, gently touching the skillful handwriting of her grandfather and noticing what focused attention to detail it showed.

  She held on to the journal, knowing it would be helpful in her research to discover how best to use the land.

  Over sixteen years since she acquired the property, all she accomplished was to have a lot of mesquite and huisache underbrush cleared from a 100-acre pasture.

  Iris decided to interpret the journal when Google translate was born. She learned that her grandfather had planted everything from vegetables to grains. She knew that feed corn, wheat and oats were staples. She was surprised to find he had also grown sugar cane (to make molasses), cotton, and rice—some with greater success than others.

  This new insight gave her inspiration to invite Mary and Vicki to spend a work week in early April 2010 exploring the 300 acres and listening to their father’s history lesson. Each sister made a commitment to stay in Flatonia (the closest town, since the boyhood house on the farm had been razed years ago) at a B&B and each day spend four to five hours driving around the land, learning about its history and its capabilities.

  Iris was hoping for some approval about her ideas for the farm from her sisters. Their land on Silvercreek Ranch was outside Austin; this land was closer to Houston. She wanted them to know what she was planning, and get suggestions for the future of the O-Bar, which she had re-named “Thunder Valley Farm.”

  Iris had VF’s tape converted to an MP-3 file, and sent it to Mary and Vicki so they could bring along their iPhones and all three would be able to sync as they rode the property in Iris’ rented Jeep.

  “Where should we start?” Vicki asked.

  “Let’s begin at the main gate,” Iris suggested, as she drove up to the property. They turned on the narration.

  This is where I first saw him. That black infant, held closely in the beige blanket as he passed by in his mother’s arms in the little horse and buggy the family kept. I’ve never seen a young woman with a sadder face. She looked like she had been struck by lightening. She was lily white. The Valley didn’t take kindly to mixed races. My mother was always kind to them before they left the valley. She gave them blankets she made, and fresh bread and eggs.

  “What do you think happened to that baby?” Mary asked.

  “I heard he grew up in Houston. Then became a football star for Texas Tech. Got his business degree. He went into the refinery business in Texas City I think.” Vicki knew a lot.

  “Speaking of refineries,” Mary interrupted, “did you all hear on NPR this morning about that the Deep Water Horizon oil rig exploded last night? Tons of oil have been released.”

  “Well, that just shows we should pump more from the land,” Vicki said.

  “OK, girls. Back to the O-Bar. Do you think because grandma was kind to the mother and black baby was the reason Grandpa Krejci was visited by the Klan?” Iris asked.

  “Let’s find out—what does t
he tape say?” Vicki jumped from the Jeep and opened the large gate. They drove to the middle of the property and listened.

  I was about 10 years old when the white sheets came on horseback. I recognized the horses, and at first since it was October, I thought maybe this was a precursor to Halloween. Then Daddy told me, my mom, and my half-siblings to stay put. He came out of the house, asking what was going on. I heard them say ugly things to him about being a Catholic, about not wanting anyone on this land who worships statues or takes orders from Italy. I didn’t know what they were talking about, since we were descended from the Czechs, and there were many other Czech families around. They spit on him, rode around him in a circle. I thought they were going to harm him, but he was a big guy—6’3” and strong as an ox. Nothing scared him. They finally rode off. The next day we found a burned cross down by the fishing tank.

  Everyone got out of the Jeep and looked around. “Remember, Vicki, where the barn was, before Dad razed it and all the other buildings?” Iris pointed due south, took a stick and ran past an old stone water well. “It was here.” She made a line in the sandy loam, beside a large Texas oak. “Remember? And the silos—the silos that held wheat, barley and that awful corn—they were over here. Oh, those silos—they were claustrophobic!” She ran 20 yards to the south and dug another line in the soil.

  “Of course—the barn had stalls for the horses, and hay covered the dirt floor.” Vicki remembered it well. “Remember hiding up in the loft when we played hide and seek? I remember when granddaddy had a big celebration dinner one Sunday. I was 13 or 14. Friends of theirs came from all over. There were long tables stretched out with all kinds of food—a real feast. A really cute guy, one of the Haas brothers, and I were playing in the loft. I remember he kissed me. I think I was hoping to fool around more, but Dad called for me.”

  “And remember the wretched outhouse? It was over here.” Iris walked another 10 yards to the northeast.

  “Who could forget it? The Sears catalogue! Sometimes I became so engrossed in that catalogue. I hated to use it.”

  Mary was horrified. “What did you use it for?” She looked at the exasperated expressions on Iris and Vicki’s faces. “Really? You wiped yourself with pages from a Sears catalogue?”