Wagons West

My Wade ancestors were true pioneers.  They came to Texas in a covered wagon.  It is easy to imagine their trek in wagon train as I saw it in a dozen movies: a brave leader raising his rifle to point the way westward followed by a long line of wagons, their immaculate white tops like a row of cumulus clouds, the kind that float across the Texas sky in summer, pure white without bringing any rain.  Horses strained to pull the wagons.  The wagons themselves are portrayed as a kind of early version of a camper-trailer with room inside for couples to sit and talk – or do other things.

Life is not like the movies.  Horses were for riding.  Wagons were pulled by oxen, who moved slowly, very slowly, laboring under the weight of wagons loaded high with household goods plus items the settlers hoped to trade with the Indians.  They did more trading than fighting.

Someone drove the oxen, keeping them on the track westward.  The drover did not sit on the wagon but walked beside the oxen, urging them forward.  Women and children also had to walk every foot of the journey.  They helped to herd cows and sheep, as many as the family could afford to bring.  At least they only tried to go a few miles each day.

At sundown the wagons would stop.  A fire would be lighted so that the women could cook supper.  The meal was always something simple that could be fried in a skillet or boiled in a pot. 
My grandmother and my mother both considered themselves good cooks.  The truth is they were masters of the iron skillet and the big pot school of culinary arts.  Like their pioneer ancestors, they knew no other kind of cooking For each meal my mother cooked meat, usually pork chops or “chicken-fried” steak, fried in her grandmother’s iron skillet.  On Sunday she boiled vegetables in three big pots.  Then for the next week she would serve us the same vegies as leftovers every night.  Eventually my father refused to eat any more carrots.  By the time I was five years old I’d eaten enough black-eyed peas to last me the rest of my life.  .

I can see the influence of my pioneer ancestors in other ways.  My brothers  were all Southern Baptists.  All three owned guns.  Don has a collection of a dozen rifles and is a passionate member of the NRA   He is ready to defend his homestead against an attract by wild savages. 

And me?  I’ve strayed.  What happened to make me take a different path?  That’s the story of my life.  Education.  Further study.  Experience.  I lived in five states and traveled to foreign countries.  I went to Europe many times, once to China and Thailand, twice to Russia. 

A fifth-generation Texan, I married twice, both times to first-generation Americans.  Wally’s parents were Danes who emigrated to Chicago.  John’s parents came as teenagers from Poland to Pittsburgh. This gave me an understanding – and appreciation – of other ethnic groups.

Bur before I can write about Wally and John, I have a lot more to tell about growing up in Texas.