Before Texas Changed: A Fort Worth Boyhood

Chapter 2

2. Although we had left East Texas, my parents continued to take Jim and me on frequent visits back that way, especially to Grandma and Grandpa Murph's house in Gladewater. Years earlier, one of my grandmother’s younger sisters had died giving birth to a daughter. The little girl, named Carol, was taken in by my grandparents and raised as their own. Much younger than my father and his brothers, she was treated more as a little sister than a cousin. I thought Carol was great. She wore her blond hair in pigtails, loved playing outdoors, and could run as fast, if not faster, than Jim and I. The three of us spent hours throwing rocks, scampering over the red, hard ground, and pushing each other in an old swing that hung from a tree in the front yard. Visits to that little house were memorable occasions. Grandpa Murph, usually in overalls, would take me by the hand, lift me over his head, and make a grand pronouncement. “How’d you get this tall? How big you plan to get?” He would then lead Jim and me around, showing us the latest sights and catching us up on what had happened since we were last there. The tour usually included a trip out back to check on his chickens and get an update on their condition . My worst experience there related to one of those chickens. Grandma Murph had announced that she wanted to have fried chicken for supper. Grandpa told Jim and me to come with him and see how this was done, so we followed him outside and watched as he picked up a hen and carried it into a small shed. “Come on in,” he said, “and shut the door behind you.” 19 I knew immediately that this was a mistake but had no idea how big. Wearing overalls, his sleeves rolled up, he said, “You boys stand right there,” pointing to one of the walls. “Don’t move. Just stand there, and I’ll show you how this is done.” He then grabbed the chicken by the neck and began swinging it around quickly like he was turning a crank. Jim and I, horrified, pressed our backs against the wall, trying to get away. Suddenly the chicken fell to the ground, headless. Grandpa Murph had the head in his hand, and this beheaded creature was running around the tight quarters of the shed, crashing into the walls and splattering blood everywhere. Suddenly we were trapped in a room with a headless, bleeding, running chicken, with no way out. Making matters worse, I was wearing shorts and just knew this thing was going to crash into my legs. Part of me wanted to watch and make sure that did not happen , and part wanted to cover my eyes and blot out this horror. It was worse than my worst nightmare. I did not want my grandfather to know I was afraid, but could not conceal the obvious. While he laughed and yelled, “Look at that crazy thing!” I was doing a dance trying to get out of the way and to open the door at the same time. When the chicken finally stopped running and fell over, Grandpa picked it up and opened the door to let us out. Daylight had never looked better. Jim and I ran out the door and headed for the house with Grandpa walking behind us, carrying our meal-to-be, laughing. He came in the house telling everyone that we still had a way to go to become seasoned chicken-neck wringers. “You should’ve seen ‘em. Their legs were moving faster than the chicken ’s.” My father also thought this was funny, but several years would pass before I saw the humor. The mental picture of that scene lingered a long time. It is really an image of more than that day, more than a headless chicken. It is the memory of a man whose life was rough and physical and boisterous and whose laugh still rings somewhere inside me. b e f o r e t e x a s c h a n g e d 20
Our move to Fort Worth, while taking us farther from Grandma and Grandpa Murph, placed us nearer my mother’s family in Cleburne. Following her divorce, my grandmother had married a man nicknamed Happy, which suited him well...