Tales From Texas

29 July 2002
“Tales from Texas”

Hello Friends and Family:

Here are some recent adventures out of Tales from Texas: True-Life Adventures from Deep in the Heart of The Lone Star State–paperback copies sold separately!

Touched by an Angel

He was happy as a clam, clambering over the slick wet boulders and moss-lined rocks of the Medina River during the Texas International Apple Festival. The delicious chill of the river contrasted sharply with the hot, sultry summer afternoon. Sammy and his brothers were closing down the day at the little country burg of Medina, “The Apple Capital of Texas.”

Our third son, Sam, age 6, suddenly slipped on a mossy rock and lost his footing, plunging beneath the racing green waters of the Medina River. Unable to regain his feet on the slippery rocks and uneven terrain, Sam went under again as the now-swift running current dragged him downstream. He coughed and sputtered, hollering his head off in between involuntary gulps of river water.

He didn’t wear robes. He didn’t have wings. Not even a harp or a halo. But when Sam was in trouble, he materialized out of nowhere. Before Mom was halfway into the river after Sam, she was overtaken by a blur of Levis and a white T-shirt. Both charged toward Sam at warp speed.
Quick as a wink, the stranger plunged into the river after Sammy, clothes and all. The big black man scooped up the struggling six year old and placed the sputtering, panicked lad on dry ground faster than Mom could yell for help. When she turned to thank the stranger, he was gone. Vanished. No where in sight. Only his wet footprints remained.

The Sound of Music

The fountain spouted cheerfully into the orange and lavender clouds of fading day. The boys kicked off shoes and sandals and raced into the cool water, gleefully splashing in time to the music of the Boerne (“Bernie”) Village Band.
Accordions, tubas, trombones and the rest were in rare form now, churning out polkas, marches, waltzes, Mozart and Wagner from the steel-spired gazebo in the center of the Boerne town park. Lederhosen, bratwurst and edelweiss abounded, as did the low guttural renditions of German lyrics.
It was the closing concert of the Boerne Village Band. “The oldest continuously playing German band in the world outside Germany,” this band had been playing since 1860. That has to be some kind of a record.

Bambi

She lay by the side of the road, a crumbled heap of tawny fur and white spots. The vehicle that struck her was long gone.

En route home after a late night church social, our headlights flickered over the hapless creature were she lay in a soft pool of silver moonlight. The shallow rise and fall of her flanks signaled the fleeting presence of life. Her contorted neck indicated the little fawn wouldn’t last long.

Cautiously disembarking our idling Ford Club Wagon, we did what we could to make her last moments as comfortable a possible. Moving slowly and whispering calmly, Chris gently lifted the furry bundle from the road and out of oncoming traffic. He carefully placed her onto the soft bed of grass and leaves the boys readied at the side of the road.

We stayed with her until the end. The baby deer lingered a few more minutes as the boys sang her sweet lullabies and bid her adieu. Then she breathed her last, stiffening into the motionless sleep of death.

The boys cried. It did not appear that the vehicle which struck the fawn had even slowed down. Daniel and Nathan were incensed. But now they understand why we often drive UNDER the posted speed limit—especially at night on a lonely stretch of “deserted” Hill Country road.

Polly-Anna-?

Creaking and groaning in protest, our van protested every rock and rut as it crawled over the ancient unpaved road. Chris navigated gingerly, maneuvering to avoid the plethora of potholes and boulders on the lonesome thoroughfare. The serpentine twists of Privilege Creek wound their lazy aqua coils alongside and then over the isolated dirt road. Open meadows dotted with Indian paint brush. Grazing Nubian goats and dusty brown Jerseys rubbed shoulders with oak and cedar trees (what Californians call “juniper bushes”, Texans dub “cedar trees”). Even with the beautiful Hill Country scenery, “three miles” seemed more like “three hundred.”

Our dusty destination was a Texas Historical Marker cryptically identified only as “Polly’s Chapel.” Suckers for adventure, we just HAD to follow the faded, weather beaten road signs. We weren’t disappointed.

Set amid a quiet forest glen teeming with oak and Bluebonnets, “Polly’s Chapel” is a little 12-pew church built by a Mexican immigrant named Polycarp Rodriguez upon his conversion to the Methodist church. Hand-hewn from rough Hill Country timber and quarried stone, the church was dedicated in 1882. It still houses an active congregation.

A half mile away, “Polly’s Cemetery” marks the final resting places of several generations of the Rodriguez family. The freshly laid roses, candles, and carefully manicured lawn indicate that although some of the tombstones date back to the Civil War, they are lovingly remembered. Some of the stones are so weathered and darkened with age that the original inscriptions are impossible to read.

One thing about cemeteries: they are quiet. Calm, serene sites to recall the past and relish the future as we write our own small slice of Texas history.

Transplanted Tale Tellers,
Chris and Kristine
Daniel (11), Nathan (9), Samuel (6), Josiah (3)

Story ID:	530
Written by:	Kristine L. (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Letter
Location:	us usa
Year:	2002