My dad was Herman (Dean) Duncan (1912-2004). Dad actually had no middle name, so he took his dad’s name out of necessity.

Dad was born to my Grandmother (Little Mama), Lula Jane (Metcalf) Duncan, and my Grandfather (Grandpa Duncan), Ramson Berry Dean Duncan on February 9, 1912. He was an only boy with four sisters, including Effie Atha Gilliam, a half-sister, and daughter from his Little Mama’s first marriage.

I do not know the year my grandparents divorced, but it seems that the children were all still pretty young. So there Little Mama was with herself and 5 children and no support. The reasons for the separation are fuzzy, so I won’t go there.

Dad has told me about living with his grandparents and others a good bit as refuge and then moving back and forth from East Texas to Dallas following whatever work they could find.

The practice seemed to be that when a child would transfer from a country school to a Dallas school they would be set them back a full grade. After a few years of losing ground, he got a job delivering on his bicycle for a drug store (picture below) and quit school. (We used to laugh and say that when he got to be the only kid in 3^rd grade that was shaving, he quit.) He had very little education and struggled with reading all his life. This was a real obstacle in many ways. I'm enclosing a picture of the Duncan School in which Dad, his sisters and a number of other kin are pictured. I do not know the extent of the influence, but I believe the Duncan family was pretty numerous in that neck of the woods in the 1800s and early 1900s. 

Born in 1912, he was reaching adulthood as the depression started hitting hard. As a boy, he had done farm work, made deliveries by bicycle in Dallas, then drove one of his dad’s logging trucks, and spent some time – which he never wanted to talk about – in the CCC, Civilian Conservation Corp, so it must have not been a good experience.  

His main occupation was with the Dallas distributor of Coca Cola. He got that job in 1934. That was the year Bonnie and Clyde and John Dillinger were all killed, to give you some perspective and also the year after Hitler came to power in Germany.

As a start he was a helper for “Mr. Hundly,” as he always called him There is a picture with them together. They remained life-long friends. I remember seeing him at the company Christmas party each year.

Dad seemed to have a pretty active life as a young bachelor in Dallas during the 1930s.  There are many pictures of him as a sharp dressed man and sitting on the hoods of various cars, etc.

I’m laughing now thinking about some of the stories he would tell me once I was grown on fishing trips or just talking together about his younger days and his ladies. It got a little awkward at times, especially once I was in Bible school, etc. and here he was getting pretty frank about some things. LOL Some of you know what I mean. Let’s just say he was never a lonely guy and leave this subject.

Another long-time friend of his was Johnny Wilroy. I don’t remember how they became friends, but probably Coca Cola at some point.

Johnny was a Sea Bee in WWII. I looked up to him a lot. He had a big voice and a round belly and smoked Camels. His wife, Lois, had a beauty shop for a long time and she and Mother seemed to get along fine.

They bought a ranch in Venice, TX and remained there until Johnny’s death. I would be free to roam all over the ranch when we visited.  I enjoyed that a lot. We were there once when they were dehorning some cattle, with men around working and handling the animals. It was like a movie to a kid like me. I still want to be a cowboy when I grow up.

My dad didn’t serve in WWII, his job and family status kept him out, but he was signed up and ready to go in the Marines just as the war ended.

Mike Weatherall was a close Coca Cola friend. Mike and dad were fishing buddies from back when they were single men. They eventually started a part time home business on the side making agitators. It was an electric motor AD or DC to which they would attach a wide paddle which would spin and keep oxygen in the water so that minnows could survive in still tanks.  

They adapted these also for metal buckets with lids so minnow were transportable. They sold to bait shops and had State contracts, too. He would often stop by bait shops when we were fishing to sell the product.  

Mike’s wife was Cindy. They had kids just younger than I. The older of the two was Beverly, nicknamed “Nike,” and Gary. We all played together pretty often while our dads worked in the shop, and Dad, Mike, Gary and I spent a lot of time at the lake fishing. They were almost like family. There’s a picture of Nike and me just as we were leaving for a dance she invited me to attend with her in Junior High. It was our only date. She was a beautiful girl, but like a sister to me.

Fishing was Dad’s thing. He was not a hunter, but was on the water nearly every weekend. First it was Texoma then Lake Whitney and then others. He went after crappie or white perch as some call them. We’d always run a trot line and bring in some huge catfish sometime, too. To save money and have fun, he’d sometimes sane for bait, taking minnows and crawfish. Every once in a while we’d sane a snake. That was always interesting.

And we’d go frog-gigging in his little boat, too. You only went at night. We had miners head lamps which would cause the frog to freeze so you could sneak up on him with the gig.

Once we were gigging after it had been flooding.  The shallow boat had gotten hung up on a floating log. Dad told me to slip out the back and rock the boat off the log. I did, and then looking beside me in the dark – there was a dead hog floating in the water beside me. Holy Smoke! There’s a story I bet you can’t top. LOL I ain’t fraid of no hog.

I could go into detail here about killing and skinning frogs, but I won’t. Long story short, once mother was frying some frog legs and a nerve or something caused the leg to jump out of the skillet. We never had frog legs again.  I’m laughing tears in my eyes. LOL

Back to fish: On big trips with extended family we would catch large numbers of fish, sometimes over 100 fish – and that’s no fish story. There are pictures to prove it. 

Dad sold his wooden homemade boat and bought a Lone Star aluminum one, later on he had a walk through windshield boat also used for water skiing.

It is a shame that Dad lacked education. He was a genius when it came to building things and repairs.

He built the wooden fishing boat I’ve mentioned above. (yes the one from the frog/hog story) that I’d love to have right now.  It sat low in the water, just right for landing a fish. He built an electric lawn mower from scratch. It looked awful, but worked. He built his own camper for his 52 Chevy pickup. It was of plywood and painted to match the truck. He would slip it on and off the truck at will. It was a heavy sucker, but my dad could do it.

There was no repair job he wouldn’t tackle, plumbing, carpentry, TV repair. I never remember a repair man coming to our house – never. I guess it skipped my generation. All I ever learned to do was hold the light.

Here’s a teen memory. He was once under the hood of my car (a 1953 Ford convertible) fixing something,. I was sitting in the driver’s seat, and I accidentally touched the horn. Man, he came out quick. I thought I was dead, but he held his cool pretty well. Thank You, Jesus.

He had a temper, but didn’t let it get the better of him very often. When he did it was epic, and somebody was going to hurt – namely me.

Dad could have made it in sales, too. Each year the Coca Cola company had a “Cooler Contest.” The route men were given incentives to sell coolers during that period. He always earned a big number of points with which he ordered things through a special catalog. His friendly, honest manner would have taken him far in those days if he ever had the education and opportunity. 

I said to my dad in private and once before my congregation at Temple Baptist Church one Sunday when they came to visit, that he was the best man I ever knew. I meant it and still do. He was a true man of integrity.

Dad only went to church with us a few times as I grew up. After I got saved and learned to win souls, I hit him up a lot.

He had been raised United Pentecost and had prayed to receive Christ as a boy, been baptized (in Jesus name), but he never got the Holy Ghost and spoke in tongues, even though he tried earnestly and often. I believe that kind of threw him off for life.

When we’d talk about the Lord, he’d always get back to that. Later, after mother died and he remarried, he was active in the Church of Christ with his wife, Edith.

I know this. When he prayed to receive Christ as a youngster, he had been as sincere as anyone could be, but because he didn’t speak in tongues when he tried to receive the Holy Ghost, it made a difference to him.

I loved my dad all my life, but we really became friends after we returned to live in Dallas in the early 1970s. We joined their square dance club, and we were fished buddies and once took a road trip down to East Texas together. Special days fondly remembered.  

Dad stayed with Coca Cola until he retired. He was the senior route man in Dallas before he came inside and worked at repairing coin changers.

Flashing back, Mother was working in Dallas where Dad made deliveries, and that’s how they met. I do not know when they met, but they married January 10, 1940. It was a second marriage for them both.

Dad’s first wife’s name was Gladys.  They married young in East Texas, and he built a log cabin on his dad’s land for them to live in. Dad told me that she was not faithful, and that’s what ended their marriage. 

He and mother remained together from 1940 until her death. Mother was born May 31, 1917, and the Lord brought her home February 17, 1969.

A few years later he met and married Edith, one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever known. They were so different in so many ways, but were great together.

Dad was an active man all his life until he had a fall at 80. He was on a ladder using his chain saw to cut a limb off a tree, and the limb came back and knocked him off the ladder. He suffered a hematoma and was hospitalized and treated.

Later he developed Alzheimer like symptoms and eventually went into a nursing home near White Rock Lake. He passed on April 15, 2004 at 92 and laid to rest beside Mother at Laurel Land Cemetery in Oak Cliff. 

It seems that every paragraph I’ve written could easily be turned into a page or two or chapter, but in this remembrance, I’m trying to be brief.

Dad was a true man of integrity, never presumptive or proud, the salt of the earth.

Oh, yeah, you’ll never guess who is favorite actor was. Sure you would: John Wayne.

I was prompted to post this after something on Facebook this morning about rain on a tin roof stirred my memory.

My Paternal Grandfather was Ramson Berry Dean Duncan (1886-1966). He had been a logger and store owner in his life, but I knew him as a farmer in Dreka, Shelby Co., TX.

He and my grandmother, Lula Jane (Metcalf) Duncan (1884-1968) had Lorene, Irene, my dad and Octavious (we called her, “Aunt Pete.”)

According to my dad, after being divorced, Papa was somewhat of a playboy as a divorcee.

Dean had a small crew (which later included my dad) that hauled logs. I think that’s why my dad HATED Fords all his life. :D Papa also had a little country store what went broke because he extended credit which was often not paid.

He was later married to Florence (maiden name unknown), who was more Papa’s kid’s age than his. Florence was Pentecostal and was a truly spiritual person. She and my mother would have long discussions about the differences in Pentecostals and Baptists on some of our visits.

His farm bumped on the old Duncan cemetery where he is buried, and I remember all his fields loaded with peas, cotton, corn and all kinds of things. He had several outbuildings, including a tack house and large barn. He never had a tractor, but plowed with a mule. He also had an old wagon that I’d sit in and play like it was a stage coach.

He and Florence provided a home for a couple of her kin as they grew up, two boys, Roland and Bryant. Roland was a pilot. (Seems like he flew for Trans Texas later) He had a small, 2 seater, plane that I think was unregistered, but he would fly it down to see Papa and Florence, landing in a cleared field. Once he caught the treetops and crashed. He was unhurt, but the plane was beyond repair, so it was burned and Papa and he drug the metal frame off into the woods.  All the boy cousins and I played in that old frame when we were young.

Bryant was a Korean War Marine and saw some action. They kept his boot camp platoon graduation picture under the glass on their tiny desk. Seems like all my family were partial to the Marines

Papa had a great sense of humor and loved to tell jokes and stories. Whenever Florence’s church would have a guest preacher, they would come visit, trying to convert my grandpa (an inactive Methodist) to their way. Papa delighted in engaging them in conversation/debate all in good humor, but they never got him.

I remember the cows would come home down the old dirt road. The hog pen was not far from the house and next to the tack house. They kept watermelons in the tack house sometimes.

They designated one of the pigs as mine. After that I would sometimes “accidentally” drop and burst a watermelon for him to eat. It was funny the first few times. He followed me everywhere.

Papa could crack a whip loud as a gunshot. He tried to teach me, but I never really got the hang of it. I usually just ended up with a stinging red mark across my face from the whip and a determination to try again, someday.

They had dogs like all farmers. One of them was Nicodemus as in John 3. He was a border collie, and we were great pals. After meals in the old house (which was up on piles of stone and higher in the back), Florence would stand at the back door and throw leftovers out. Between the two dogs, nothing ever hit the ground. That was all they were fed, anything else was up to them.

Once I was shelling peas with Florence on the porch and Nicodemus was sleeping at my feet. He started dreaming he was chasing something. It was so funny watching him flex his paws and give out little muffled barks. Nice memory, he had a good life.

They had a cat that loved to get in my lap to be petted, but if I blew in her face she would scratch me. Of course I had to do it and got the treatment often.  After one sever scratch, she became my sworn enemy and subject to retaliation at any and every opportunity.

In those days people did not worry about their kids like today, and I was free to roam where ever I wanted. I only got lost in the woods once and that was with my cousin Gerald Bilger (Gerry). We just kept walking until we came to a road and saw a farm house. They brought us back to Papa’s in their truck.

The old Mossberg .22 (from the 1930s) I have was my dad’s but he left it with Papa during the time when there were rabid foxes in the area. I grew up thinking it was Papa’s gun.

It will shoot shorts or longs. I must have put thousands of shorts through that old gun. When Gerry and I would be visiting there together – he had a Winchester .22 pump – we’d almost run the little country store at Dreka out of shorts.

Once we were shooting all over the place and that evening the family who rented a log cabin on Papa’s land, came up to visit. (My dad had built that cabin for his first wife (Gladys) and himself– more later.)

After a long rambling time of talking, they finally asked if we’d been shooting that day. It turns out that some of our shots had come down near the cabin. Wow.

Once when we were visiting, the men all went to the Sabine River and just the women folks were home. A family from down the road came over with an emergency.

One of their kids had hidden his tobacco “makin’s” under a shed. When he went to sneak a smoke, he reached under the shed and something bit his figure. We had a 1947 Chrysler at the time, and they all piled into the car and took the boy to get help. He ended up losing his finger but lived.

Attending the little country Pentecostal church was an experience for me, a little Baptist boy. Sure was loud and the people would get the Holy Ghost and do all kinds of things. After a while, I slipped out and went out to the trucks where the men were.

When the peas or corn were ready, Papa would pick a number of bushels before I got up, and he and I would head into Center, TX in his Model A Ford pickup and sell them to the local markets. Then we’d walk the square. He gave me a little money to buy me a pocket knife once. He carried a Barlow, but I chose a Tree Brand with a yellow handle. I carried that knife for a pretty good while, until it was stolen from my locker while swimming at the YMCA when I was in high school.

We seldom spoke in the truck on those trips to town, but it was a kind of bonding time.

That old Duncan cemetery is worth a visit someday. There are some CSA vets buried there. As far as I know, our direct line goes back to William Berry Duncan (1825-1900) there.  

Well, I’d better quit. I hope you enjoy reading this. I sure enjoyed writing it.

I love you all and each.

Ok, family. Here's the set up for my family ramblings and photos.