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1 “He was the bad boy from Rosebud—always has been.” —Ellen Roberts, Former Justice of the Peace, Falls County The rolling hills of central Texas cradle a hamlet called Rosebud. It lies in the Blackland Prairie. With the luck of ample rain, the dark, rich soil supports a diversity of crops. But the land can be unforgiving as well. During periods of drought the waves of brown grain, chest-high dead cornstalks, or emaciated cotton plants prove that nature rules and serve as witnesses to the death that can overshadow the otherwise lush and living countryside. The inhabitants of the Blackland Prairie are as diverse as their homes. Sprawling ranch-style houses exist alongside crumbling trailers—some with elaborate steps, porches, and roofs that cost as much as the trailers. In some cases, almost within arm’s length, expensive satellite dishes bring the world, good and bad, to televisions in small living rooms with rotted particle-board floors. Once, the hamlets of the Blackland Prairie catered to small familyowned farms. Today, the hamlets evidence the merger of those farms into fewer, larger, self-sufficient agricultural giants. Numerous old, dried-out, useless barns and sheds lean dangerously, ghosts of a simpler and perhaps better time. When those barns and sheds stood erect during the post-World War II agricultural boom, Rosebud’s Main Street bustled with business activity . A sign greeted visitors entering the small town: “Rosebud—We call it home.” It betrays a simple lifestyle. According to a local brochure, visitors on their way into town drove by stately “homes that made Rosebud beautiful.” The Tarver Home, the Nicholson Home on South First Street, the palatial “Rosebud Castle,” the Reichert House on Second Street and several others nestled in quiet neighborhoods among mature, magnificent trees.1 Rosebud was “a town of good people working together for the betterment of their community” extolled the Chamber of Commerce. Prologue ROSEBUD 2 Bad Boy from Rosebud In an effort to encourage residents to plant a rose bush in every yard, the Rosebud News, and later the Chamber of Commerce, gave away cuttings to anyone who did not have a bush. “The City of Rosebud has a lot to be proud of, but Rosebud is not remembered instantly for its excellent hospital , rest home, businesses, library, schools and friendly people. The name and the reputation for having a rose bush in every yard is its main claim to fame.” On the other hand, lore said there was also a saloon on every street, and as a result, women never went into town on Saturdays.2 On Sundays everyone went to church and some worshipers, like those attending services at the Rosebud Church of Christ, were greeted by signs offering homespun wisdom: “Don’t pray for rain if you plan on complaining about the mud.” Rosebud, now a bedroom community populated by workers commuting to Temple, Marlin, and Waco, is one of the few remaining places where markets close on Saturdays. Empty, dusty store fronts line Main Street. The first indication to travelers that they are near Rosebud is a huge gleaming water storage tank, large enough to meet the needs of a far larger city. The water system and tank—with “Rosebud” painted on the north side above a huge stemmed red rose—and the accompanying sewer system, are a result of the tenacity of Ms. Wanda Fischer, who lives in the Reichert House, one of the homes that made Rosebud beautiful. After serving on the City Council and then as City Manager for ten years, Ms. Fischer retired from public service in May 1996. She has lived in Rosebud most of her life. One of Ms. Fischer’s friends said that “every little town needs a benevolent despot.” And Rosebud had Ms. Fischer. Residents were known to knock on her doors or windows at all hours of the night with their problems—ranging from serious city-related issues to family arguments only Ms. Fischer could mediate. She is a graceful and dignified woman who remembers an earlier Rosebud. She watched sadly as some of the “homes that made Rosebud beautiful” were torn down and the Blackland Prairie farms grew larger and fewer while Main Street grew quieter—and more storefronts covered polished glass with ugly knotted plywood. Ms. Fischer is the symbol of a nice little town populated by decent people. But her eyes narrow at the mention of Rosebud’s most infamous son: Kenneth Allen McDuff. “He was just a vicious...

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