Chapter Sixteen:
A Dream Come True
Christmas Eve, 2016
It took six years for Iris to complete her dream for Thunder Valley Farm. It was nearly a generation since that GBM had killed VF. The Landry Clan had flourished.
Iris’ sons Will, Jason and Thad were 48, 46 and 32 years old. Will, a forensic accountant, had a beautiful 22-year-old daughter, Brittany, who attended Stanford to be close to him in California. He had divorced many years before.
Jason, the computer entrepreneur, and his wife who taught French had twin 18-year-olds, LJ and VF. They lived in Austin. The twins were graduating high school next semester. Both hoped to attend UT Austin.
Thad, Iris’ youngest, had finished law school and together with his wife who was also a lawyer lived and practiced law in New York. They had three-year-old Misha, a spitting image of grandfather Landry.
Vicki’s daughters Jennifer, who was 49, and Jessica, 42, both lived in Austin. Jennifer, an interior designer, was married to a carpenter who specialized in restoring old homes and her 20-year-old daughter, Marilyn, was a costume designer. Jessica was a jewelry designer who swore never to marry, although she had a long-term relationship with her beautiful friend Hope. Celebrities from near and far wore her creations at the Oscars.
Mary was still married to Todd, her dentist husband. Their sons Luke and Larry were 26 and 22. Both were married. Luke had graduated Texas A & M and was a veterinarian outside Houston. He and his wife, a nurse, had three-year-old Mason. Larry, a real estate broker, was recently married to his Australian sweetheart, a farrier, with a little “oops” infant, Monica. They lived in New Zealand.
Joseph lived in DC, where he was getting his doctoral degree and still serving a parish in the city.
The oil lease was key to Iris’ accomplishments. Texas gold. No one could have dreamed that this land had oil, but oil was there. Deep down. Buried treasure. It began with a phone call Iris received at her office in New York.
“Miz Landry?” the voice asked, in an almost cartoonish Texas accent.
“Yes?” Iris answered and asked, wondering what in the world could this be about?
“Miz Landry, I’m Chuck Thompson. I own a little oil company here in Houston called Thousand Oaks. Are you the owner of the property in Gonzales County—three hundred acres, used to be owned by VF Landry ne Krejci?”
“Hmmm.. Yes. How in the world did you find me?”
“Wasn’t hard. LinkedIn tells all about you….Well, Miz Landry, I’d like to talk with you if you don’t mind about some drillin’ we’re doin’ here in that area.”
After the eighth call, Iris agreed to meet with Mr. Thompson in Houston.
“I’m goin’ down to check on my farm in Flatonia in a couple a weeks, so I’ll come see ya.” Iris amused herself when she picked up on her native language. She told her New York friends that she was bilingual. “I speak Texan as well as English,” she would say.
* * *
The Thousand Oaks Drilling Company was nestled in large oaks and carpet grass on a dead end street in a little community outside Houston called Katy, Texas. Iris was not surprised to see a commercial business with its gaudy sign on a residential street. That’s Houston. For years she told friends she felt Houston was the armpit of Texas, and this was proof.
Mr. Thompson was prepared for the visit.
“Come on in, Miz Landry,” he said, standing outside his office just as she introduced herself to the cute young assistant in his starched button-down shirt who told her all about his studies in animal husbandry at Texas A & M.
“Just call me Chuck,” he clasped her hand to shake it and pulled her into his leathery office. An enormous plat map lay on his massive worktable, held at the corners with diamond drill bits. He pointed to it, “Lookey here, Miz Landry, see these plats? There’s your land here…” He took a colored map pin and skewered her property. “And beside it is the old Hortus property to the north and the Vala property to the south…”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“You need to see where the action’s at. These other properties are drillin’ as we speak. It’s horizontal drillin.’ You know what that means?”
“I think I know what it means, Chuck. I think it means that they’re probably getting oil from my land.”
“Yessirree. That’s what it means. And we want to be fair to you. You own the mineral rights to your place, don’ cha?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I got to tell you. The drillin’ won’t stop, but you sure as hell won’t see a penny of that oil money if you don’t let us lease your property. It’d be a shame, Miz Landry, if you let that money go to waste.”
Chuck motioned to her to take a seat. She noticed his MBA diploma on the wall. “So, you graduated magna cum laude from UT Austin with an MBA?”
“Yes, m’aam, hook ‘em!”
Iris smiled, “I’m a UT alumn, too.”
“Yep, that’s what yer LinkedIn profile said. Well, then, you know I’m talkin’ straight here. I can show you plats that cover all of Texas. The oil’s not gonna die out. We’ve done our homework on these high sedimentary fields. There’s no reason you shouldn’t profit from the drillin’ in Gonzales County.”
“I get your point, Chuck.”
“I’ve drawn up a standard contract. You’ll see we are being fair, just ask your neighbors. We have clauses for clean up, for any damage we do to fences, and actually you’ll see we usually improve the land where we drill.”
Iris was skeptical, but she would talk with the neighbors.
“And I have somethin’ for ya, since ya came all the way out ‘ere.” Chuck handed her a key fob with a polished piece of petrified wood dangling from the lock.
Iris was touched. “How in the world did you know I love petrified wood?”
“Lucky guess. This one’s from one of our sites in East Texas. Beautiful stump. We’re told it was two hundred million years old. Just a reminder that your land will continue to produce long after you are gone.”
“I’ll have my attorney take a look at the contract, Chuck, and I will be back in touch.”
She found it distasteful to accept oil money, but since she learned that the horizontal drilling would happen whether she agreed to the lease or not, and since the oil company was going to intrude on her land in that way, they should pay for it. Knowing that the royalties would flow to her heirs also helped her agree to the lease.
So, after carefully reading the lease and making amendments to it, which were agreed by both parties, she signed it.
At least the dividends gave her the opportunity to manage the land the way she wanted.
The treasure. This is what Dad was talking about all along, she reasoned.
* * *
Transformations of the good earth can take generations, or in the case of Iris Landry Cohen, they can move at warp speed. While holding down her job in New York, Iris managed to find land managers and partners to help her realize her vision for Thunder Valley Farm in just six years.
The seventy-five acres on the east side of the farm became Thunder Valley Solar Farm, helping to provide electricity to 2500 homes in the small town of Schulenberg. Another seventy-five acres in the south pasture held Thunder Valley Wind Farm, which provided power to offices and homes throughout a large swath of valley in south Texas.
Since she knew that crop and land use diversification was essential at a time of climate change, she consulted the local ag association for a premium plant to harvest. “Sotol,” a fellow named DJ told her. “Sotol can withstand the brutal summer heat, and it conserves its water intake. I’ll help you test your soil for he acidity levels to see if it will thrive.”
After spending several months testing the soil concentrations in various areas of the farm, and the dye was cast.
She learned that sotol was the u
p-and-coming alternative to tequila. The sotol plants are a variation of agave. After a few years of experimentation with the plant, she and her sotol partner began to farm sotol on fifty prime sun-drenched acres. By 2016, she had a 51% stake in her distilled spirit brand, Thunder Valley Sotol.
She leased the 20 acres surrounding the big tank and the tank itself to her other business partner, Ned Vala, who grew koshihicari (koshi) sushi rice. There were few distributors other than Iris’ partner who knew how to grow this temperamental kind of rice. Ned was a local farmer who came to her with his great idea, and coincidentally was a distant relative by way of her grandmother Bessie Vala Krejci.
Over the past few years her manager at the natural history museum in New York allowed her to spent “winter recess” on a beautiful 80-acre spread on the farm that included the terraced area of Cady Creek. This gave her the time and space to write up her paleontological research for academic journals, and to tend to business at the farm. Miles usually did not join her, at her request. She loved having the solitude of being one with the land. He said the time and distance made their marriage stronger. She agreed.
Her platinum LEED-certified freestone “farmhouse” was built within inches of the discarded 2-story shack her father grew up in. The open-air ranch style home with its bamboo floors featured multiple accessible guest quarters, fireplaces, running water and six compostable toilets.
The day after Thanksgiving, 2016, Iris sent hand written invitations from New York to her children, grandchildren, sisters, brother, in-laws, and their children to come feast and celebrate Christmas at Thunder Valley Farm outside Flatonia.
Everyone except Bits.
Bits was persona non grata at her house.
“No presents,” she wrote, just as VF had done, “just bring love, a covered dish or wine, a story about the family and a sense of humor.”
* * *
Christmas at Thunder Valley Farm was perfect. A norther blew in the day before, making it a chilly 60 degrees. Faery lights illuminated live cedar Christmas trees lining the entry to the farmhouse, and freshly harvested mistletoe hung above the doorway, encouraging hugs and kisses for each person who entered. Miles sat at his expansive keyboard he had brought along, and played Christmas music from his favorite songbook.
“The Jews knew how to write Christmas. And I can say that with pride as one of the tribe,” he said gleefully, as Iris handed him a glass of wine and kissed him on the forehead.
The front of the house was wrapped like a Christmas gift with fresh greenery around the pillars accented with wide red ribbon and bows.
Inside the house, ruby red poinsettias in their gold baskets filled the hallway and outlined the steps to the sunken dining area.
Twenty-seven family members showed up—four siblings, one spouse, a partner, widowed sister-in-law, seven grown grandchildren with six spouses and seven great grandchildren. Iris drew up a family tree and printed it on the back of the menu, placed at each seat so everyone could get to know each other better. After all, they were dispersed around the United States and New Zealand. All of the cousins got along well and were always glad to see each other and listen to stories about the ranch and the farm.
Bits, who had no children, still lived at the ranch outside of Austin, in an even larger hacienda than her original home. Long ago, she had alienated every one of her siblings by stealing Silvercreek Ranch property and selling it, creating her mini empire of ranchettes. It was common knowledge that she dare not show her face. Everyone knew she was not invited, or welcomed.
The family tree diagram looked like this:
The attention to detail was reminiscent of the historic days of the O-Bar. Tables were set with Comanche-style earthenware. Nameplates were holy card replicas with pictures of saints and the person’s name on the back. Tables and chairs had been hewn from downed old oaks on the property. Silver dollars were placed beneath each plate, just like VF had done at the ranch, and his mother before him right there on the farm.
The youngest grandchildren (who were VF and Virginia’s great grandchildren) jockeyed for seats at their table while the infant Monica dosed in her car seat.
The menu was organic and local: fresh game hens, dressing made with fresh sourdough bread, local eggs, and fresh herbs, garden vegetables of cabbage, broccoli, sweet potatoes, and a large arugula salad with Thunder Valley pecans and tangelos. Only the fresh tamales were not local—Mary brought them from Austin.
“My favorite,” Iris gushed, as she hugged Mary, and accepted the large platter of pork and cheese tamales.
Dessert was Grandma Krejci’s Czech recipes: poppy seed kolaches, poppy seed cake, VF’s favorite, pecan and peach pies. An enormous bowl of hazelnuts sat on the fireplace mantle.
Iris wore VF’s old “Bah, humbug” Christmas stocking hat as she brought out a large Top 10 chart with nine questions and set it up on an easel.
“Something to chew on,” Vicki chimed in, referring to the Top 10 as everyone gathered in the large dining room with massive skylights.
Some sat quietly while others murmured or giggled.
Father Joe stood and offered the blessing. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Dear Lord, we thank You for this feast and we ask Your blessing upon these hyperactive children and soon to be stuffed adults that we may all learn the meaning of Your words, ‘Love one another as you love yourself.’ May we learn to love ourselves and treat each other with dignity and kindness all the days of our lives.”
Everyone said “Amen” in unison.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Father Joe ended the prayer.
Father Joe no longer stuttered in front of family. Sometime after Virginia’s funeral, the stuttering ceased. Later he confided in Mary that he had found his true love. At age fifty-five he was getting another degree, a Ph.D. in anthropology. He wanted to teach at a Jesuit college. “Hopefully Georgetown,” he told Mary.
“In DC?” Mary asked.
“Yes, I love it in DC,” Joe answered, big smile on his face.
He continued, “I always wondered why I loved comic books when I was a kid. Now I know—comics are really an anthropological study. You read about different cultures and people. They are abbreviated, yes, like graphic novels but they are anthropological nonetheless. So, now, I get to really slice and dice the analogies.”
Now, he was so much more confident than before he began his doctoral studies. He sat, unfolded his napkin and began the conversation. “Mare, how’s the Pony Camp?”
“Joe, it’s an equine assisted therapy center for people with learning disabilities.” She laughed. “It’s going great guns!”
She paused, enjoying a bite of farm fresh salad. “Did you know I opened the Silvercreek Dispute Resolution Center?”
“I didn’t. I need to send some of my former parishioners there!”
“I housed it in the fortress, after the renovations. I built more bedrooms, baths, a larger kitchen. It holds up to 30 people. We’ve had a lot of traffic in just a few months.”
“I’ll have to come see it one of these days. By the way, congratulations Justice Landry on your election to the Texas Supreme Court! And how’s your better half? Did you get him to vote for you?” Joe asked, referring of course to her husband, Todd.
“Thank you. Thank you. I think he did cross the line and vote for me. He had an emergency dental surgery to take care of. He’s good. He’s thinking of specializing in elder dental care, so he’s taking courses in that. He’ll be here tomorrow and you two can chat, if he doesn’t arrive sooner. And…how are your studies going?”
“I’m defending my thesis in January,” Joe replied. “I’m very excited about being finished. I’ve found a thrilling subject within anthropological medicine.”
“Is this since you worked in Mozambique?”
“Yes, Mozambique and Zimbabwe.”
“What’s your thesis?” Mary asked.
“It’s about HIV and altering anthropological habits of the males of Mozambique.”
“Really? I had no idea you were interested in HIV.”
“Well, the priesthood brings a lot of trials and tribulations to the forefront, Mary. One learns things one never imagined when one is in the religious order.”
“I’ll bet,” Mary said as she raised an eyebrow, thinking about one of her court cases involving a young beautiful parishioner and her confessor.
Vicki’s daughter, Jessica, sat beside Mary and thought it time to change the subject. “Mary, have you seen my mom’s wildflower farm?”
“I saw it last week, Jess! It’s gorgeous! Forty acres of beautifully cultivated Texas wildflowers. She said she just got the Whole Foods concession for Central Texas. I’m so glad she decided to do something with that part of her land. Just makes sense. It is the most fertile piece of the property—Dad had a huge vegetable garden there.”
Jessica motioned to the nosegays at the table. “All these Indian paintbrush bouquets are from her greenhouses. After last summer’s intense heat wilted the crops, she built state-of-the-art greenhouses, using the topsoil from that pasture. Now she grows year-round.”
Jason, Iris’ middle son, turned to Jennifer. “Driving down to the farm today I kept thinking about how Granddad used to show us how to string fencing on the ranch.”
“Uh huh… he held the barbed wire with his teeth and would pull it!” Jennifer smiled broadly.
“Yeah, the Paul Bunyan method,” Jason said, laughing hard and loud, clapping Jennifer on the shoulder. “He never had a cavity!”
The cousins remembered a lot of their time with their grandfather.
“He was larger than life,” Will gestured as he overheard his brother, “I still think about the time out at the ranch when I was about 4 or 5 and he gave me this big metal pail and told me to fill it with stones around the fortress. So I filled it with all these pebbles. Took me about an hour in the hot sun, dragging the damned pail all over the yard.”
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