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Chapter Six | Towerhouse
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lurie and anson had dressed me like a toy cowboy. On my head was a small Stetson, on my feet, cowboy boots with sharp toes. My pants were store-bought, but the shirt was one Lurie had cut out and sewed to match Anson’s. The occasion for my outfit was a trip out to the ranch, where Anson was taking us that Sunday. When a job required his presence there most of the week, he usually spurned returning on Saturday or Sunday. Two months from now, during shipping season, he would have to be there seven days a week, so he cherished his weekends at home. But he wanted me to meet his parents , so he and Lurie had agreed to have Sunday supper at the main house. Anson had been telling me about the ranch, the cows, the horses and their foals, the feeder calves, the cowboys. About the herd that grazed for miles and miles on a free range. We would see cowboys in action. He told me about Pop Cod. He talked somewhat of cotton farming, but there was nothing I needed to be told, as I had been in on the ground floor of the subject since birth. “Is there a towerhouse with electric lights?” I asked. “Naw, naw,” Anson said, and he laughed a little, cutting his eyes to Lurie, who smiled. “The house is just called the Towerhouse . On account of the man who built it.” Towerhouse C H A P T E R six 51 CH IN ABE R R Y I was to learn of this man later, along with much more information. I had heard many tales about everyone who lived at the ranch and was anxious to experience meeting them. There were Anson’s parents, plus his brother Jack and Jack’s three sons, who were always referred to as “the three Little Jacks.” Also Ellafronia Cauldwell, Bronson, the cook with the dim-witted son, the cowboys, and the helpers who might drop in at any hour and be fed at their appointed table. Despite being told ahead of time that there was no tower at Towerhouse, unless I wanted to count the silo, I expected one as we turned down the drive. The Winters homestead sat atop a rise of ground that could be seen by keen eyes a full mile’s distance , the spread of land about it as flat as a beaver’s tail and planted in corn and millet. Still, this was no “big hill,” as Anson said, although I suppose it could be considered as such in a place as flat as East Texas. We had encountered no cotton since crossing into Robertson County. The distance from the main road to the house was accounted at two miles. We stepped out of the car, and the sun hazed like a copper skillet. A light breeze stirred, as always. We were met at the yard gate by Anson’s mother, Jack, and the three Little Jacks. They stared at me and my toy cowboy getup. They were dressed well but not fancy. We were chided for being late. Dinner awaited on the table, and after embracing her son and Lurie, Anson’s mother—whom I had been instructed to call “Grandma”—put her hands on my shoulders and studied me lovingly. “So here’s the boy I’ve been hearing brags about,” she exclaimed. “So this is the one.” She gave me a hug and a kiss and pushed me back, appraising me again. I resisted wiping away the damp spot on my cheek, which I wouldn’t have hesitated to do back in Alabama. [54.196.106.106] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 07:19 GMT) 52 J AM E S STILL Jack caught hold of my hand, and one of the Little Jacks pulled his father’s hand loose and substituted his own. Everybody laughed at this. “We all know who he reminds us of,” Grandma said. I didn’t understand. Anson picked me up, which pained me, as it usually did when we were in front of others. Lurie must have sensed my discomfort , because she touched his arm lightly. “Let him walk along with the three Little Jacks,” she said. So he did. The moment we stepped onto the porch, I heard the grind of the ice cream freezer and smelled the mixed aromas familiar to Sunday dinners back home: fried chicken, dumplings, cured ham, gravy, smoking biscuits, green beans, potatoes...