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.