I am not a talented orator, so being asked to speak from the lodge podium is an honor of the highest order. I am preverbally stuck in the first degree of The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge, which is an offshoot of the Masons, but without the secrecy and historic scandals. To be a member, a relative had to have died in the battle against Santa Anna. My great, great, great, and late, cousin, Tiberius Straughn, on my father’s side of the family, was my ticket into the hallowed halls of Texas history.
The Grand Poohbah of the lodge asked me to keep my remarks, or speech, or story, whichever blurted out, on track with what the lodge stands for, Sons of the Alamo, of course. My speech was more of a story, starting with the Alamo and blending into my family’s deep and troubled Texas roots. The lodge was full of members, not so much to hear my spiel, but it was all you can eat Catfish and Bingo and free beer night, so I made the best of it. I put on my made-in-China coonskin cap and stepped to the podium. Half of the hall was full, Chinette plates of Catfish and cornbread balanced on their laps, and a cold brew sitting on the floor next to their feet.
My mother, the family historian by default, didn’t see the need to preserve any part of her or my fathers ancestry in writing, and knew little of my fathers great great great, late, cousin Tiberius Straughn’s life, except that he was a baker of bread and pastry delights by trade, and friends with Gustav Shiner, the founder of Shiner Beer, Angus Stiles Sr, the famous BBQ founder, and a special close friend of another baker, Veronica Baird, the mother of the Texas bread dynasty. Tiberius and Veronica were rumored to have been a couple before and during the battle. She suspected there may have been some minga-minga behind the adobe ovens, or in the powder keg room, which was a gamble if a candle was used to illuminate the frolic.
She and Tiberius, while not pawing each other, made bread for the ragtag Texan army, while Angus Stiles served up some delightful chef’s surprise meats, and Gustav cracked a keg or two of his delicious beer. I imagine that if they knew they were destined to die, why not do it on a full stomach and a nice buzz? The three men perished in the battle, but Veronica, along with the other women, was given a free pass out of the decimated fortress. So that is why I am a member of the lodge and have now been invited to speak.
My mother, without my fathers permission, didn’t sugarcoat Tiberius’s exploits and grouped him in with the other worthless wanderers on her and my father’s side of the family. He was a cad, a gambler, a womanizer, a liar, a horse thief, a half-assed writer, and a hopeless romantic and petulant drunk, so he fitted in with most of the defenders, especially Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, both fond of their home-stilled sour mash bourbon and smooth Tennessee Whiskey.
So, as I sat at my desk into the wee hours of the morning, flipping through pages of notes from conversations with relatives and family friends, and from ancestry research, I found a small treasure chest of information that can be tied into my oratory debut.
On my mother’s side of the family, my Grandmother, Marcy, was born and raised on the Cherokee Reservation in Oklahoma. Her father was a Deputy Marshal who worked out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and was running buddies with Bass Reeves, the first black Marshal in history. That would make Bass and Tonto the first minorities to hold high historical positions. I can imagine it grated on The Lone Ranger that Tonto always knew where the outlaws were hiding by simply holding a wet finger to the wind or putting his ear to the ground, plus he had a great head of long dark hair, and family said old Lone had a bad case of ocular acne around the eyes, so that explained the mask. My great-grandfather was one mean Indian sumbitch, and had so many notches on the handle of his Colt that it gave him a palm rash. My grandmother, still a teen and before she married, was rumored to have had many moonlight walks along the banks of the Canadian River with the famous Chief Quanah Parker and to have been running buddies with Tiberius offspring, the infamous outlaw Belle Starr, the granddaughter of the departed Alamo hero, Tiberius Straughn, which was somehow, through blood relations, or irreputable relations, tied into my fathers family, Mother was never quire sure of how it worked out, and didn’t care to know. My grandmother showed Belle how to make Buffalo Blood Pudding and Dutch oven biscuits, and Belle taught my granny how to fast-draw and fire a pistol. Granny caught the mischievous chief in a delicate position with Belle and, out of meanness, shot off Quanah’s pinky toe, right through his custom-made Buffalo hide boot.
Tiberius, before he made his way to the Alamo, traveled with Lewis and Clark up the Missouri River into no-man’s-land and, being part Indian but mostly Scottish, was able to communicate with the somewhat friendly tribes they encountered. Not all the Indians were jovial, and Lewis and Clarke had to dispel many of the ornery ones.
Cousin Tiberius’s favorite Indian lady was Sacagawea, a stunning young Shoshone woman who joined the expedition as an interpreter and guide. Long dark hair that glistened in the sun, high cheekbones, deep green eyes, and a strong but curvy figure. She was a knockout dressed in those buckskins. Tiberius was smitten to the point of lustful stupidity, allowing his youthful obsession with Sacagawea to affect his duties, so Lewis and Clarke relieved him of his charge and sent him back down the river in a borrowed bark canoe. A few years later, he found himself in South Central Texas, baking buckwheat bread and sticky cinnamon buns for the new Texians coming from the east. By chance, he ran into an old acquaintance, David Crockett, and his band of long rifle Tennesseans, who convinced Tiberius to join up with them to help with a little skirmish down in south Texas at a little mission called the Alamo. Tiberius, still smarting from a broken heart, felt obliged to join up with the gang of rabble-rousers.
Upon arrival through the gates of the mission, Tiberius figured old Davy had sold him a bag of rotten apples: this was no small squirmish, but a certain death sentence. Across the shallow San Antonio river, thousands of Mexican grenadiers sat polishing their bayonets, eating frijoles, tacos, and singing songs, all fueled by a few wagon loads of Tequila and loco weed. El Rancho Grande seemed to be the favorite sing-along led by General Santa Anna playing his gut-string Spanish guitar. Tiberius quickly converted an old adobe oven to bake some bread and rolls, and Stiles cooked up a few hogs and served the hungry army the first BBQ sandwiches in Texas: Angus Shiner furnished the beer. Veronica Baird, having known Tiberius for a year or so, sneaked down to the river, had a bath, washed her hair with lye soap, and waltzed around from behind the oven, giving Tiberius the shock of his life: Sacagawea was now a footnote in history. Who could resist a woman who smelled like a cinnamon bun?
The next few days were intense. Bullets flew, cannon balls exploded, Mexicans climbed ladders up the outside mission walls only to be repelled, but resistance could only last so long, and the enemy army breached the walls and sat about killing all the Texans. Tiberius, Augustus, and Stiles fought with all they had, laddels, spoons, knives, baker’s paddles, kicking and biting, but in the end, they were killed. Veronica Baird, along with the other women were spared and escorted from the mission. Veronica spotted Santa Anna about to take a bite from one of her cinnamon buns, grabbed a rock, chunked it, and knocked the delicacy from the general’s hand. His dog, Mucho Pero, ate the bun in one gulp. My recollection might not be the most bravado exploit, but it got me into the lodge and a coonskin cap.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 