The Learning Years (1984)
Posted: Sunday, August 13, 2006
by Chris Cole
George Cole
Captain Rushing stated in a soft yet audible voice, "We will be approaching D.F.W. International Airport in approximately ten minutes. Please keep your seat belts fastened until further advised." The persistent humming of the 747 engines seemed to gnaw away at the tension I was feeling about this particular trip. Yet, this had to be the longest plane trip of my life...a whopping forty-five minutes! Six years had passed since I had last seen my Uncle G.C. My stomach performed structured cartwheels and was tied in knots. Perspiration dampened my forehead in the ironically cool cabin. I wondered what my Uncle G.C. would think of my bleached blond, spiked (Motley-Crue-esque) hair. Oh yeah, let's not mention the genuine black leather pants I was wearing.
Uncle G.C. is a cowboy, by God. If I did not know better, I would have assumed that G.C. stood for "Great Cowboy." I honestly believe if he could live his life on the range and eat beans over a roaring campfire after rounding up a herd of cattle, he would do so. Wearing his charcoal Stetson cowboy hat, faded Wrangler jeans, and tan Justin Ropers (in which he boasted had been resoled ten times since 1976), G.C. was quite content in his person. He was in control of his life. he owned a thirty acre cutting horse ranch. With his horses, cattle, and his wife, Virginia, he was in complete harmony with himself.
Needless to say, G.C. was wealthy, but he would never boast about this fact. In fact, he would go to great lengths to counter this belief by reminding his relatives that when he first married, he ate weeds and dandelions for meals just to make it to the next payday. G.C. was very aware of "every" dollar he spent. He still possesses to this day financial records dating back to the sixties.
Along with the ranch, he owned a medium-sized tax firm located forty miles due West of his sprawling pastures of utopia. Even with all of his responsibilities and his wealth, he was not the least bit conceited, nor was he pious. He was a humble and understanding man with a slight temper...I later discovered. More on that later.
In contrast to Uncle G.C. is his wife Virginia. With her long flowing blond hair, designer clothes (bought at rock bottom prices), and flawless figure, she was a living model. She was flawless in person, spirit, and personality. She tolerated the cowboy "bit" with G.C., but she also possessed her own world of "Ritz," glamour, and tea parties. (Now, do not judge Virginia wrongly.) She had her own interests along with the ranching business and continued to love and believe in G.C. I would have to say that she was poised, empathetic, loving, and and approachable.
I later discovered that I seemed to incorporate a part of G.C.'s and Virginia's personality traits into my own. You see, I was at the ripe old age of fifteen when that 747 landed at D.F.W. So, I ended up dressing like a spoiled rich teenage ranch hand. I believe I did this to please both of their contrasting personalities. I was their child uniting both of their ways of life.
About two hours after my arrival, G.C. decided to take me to the barber shop to get my hair cut "modestly." "The ranch hands are liable to mistake you for an exotic animal," he stated boisterously with a hint of sarcasm. "I'm also going to take you to Luskeys to get you in some decent work clothes." Now, the word "work" seemed to linger in my mind. I started to wonder just what kind of trouble I got myself in. I remember going back to the ranch after being made into "new" person (little did I know that this was the beginning of the changes for me). As I walked through the solid oak double doors of their abode, Aunt Virginia had to do a double take because I looked so different from the boy that left earlier. To this very day, I will not do anything to my hair except cut it, for I can still hear G.C.'s lingering comment about "exotic animals."
A few days later, I was riding in the squeaky leather seats of G.C's new 1984 gray Cadillac Fleetwood, taking in the landscaping and pastures of his ranch. This became comforting after a few trips. I honestly believed that G.C. thought his Cadillac was an All Terrain Vehicle of sorts. He was always carving out new undeveloped country side with the vehicle.
SCREECH! I panicked, "You just scratched off four inches of paint off of my door, G.C." He had driven off of a steep grassy hill and emerged beside an old mesquite tree colony on a part of his ranch he had not yet thoroughly explored. "Don't worry Chris," G.C. stated matter of fact with his East Texas accent draw, "this is a bona-fide ranch vehicle and is registered as such. O.k., like because it is a "ranch" vehicle that makes it all-right, I restrained my comment to the insides of Stetson. G.C. continued, " You should have been with me when I tried to miss the Holstein (cow) and slid into the stock pond," he laughed in a not so serious tone. I still could not become accustomed to sitting inside a thirty-thousand dollar car (this was 1984 remember) and traverse mesquite trees. I later found out that the horse we fed through the windows of the Cadillac cost more than the car itself! I sat solemnly many times trying to understand this man who was my uncle.
Simple requests of stacking hay, feeding and brushing the horses, became routine chores, an everyday lifestyle so to speak. I became complacent (as much as I could with G.C.'s work ethic) within the boundaries of the ranch with its' fresh smell of crisp, clean air and green, roving country side. It was really as if the ranch was a living painting. Everything at the ranch was much different than the environment I was reared in. The ranch was more organized and more disciplined than my actual home.
Living in the country was nothing like the "wild" (and exotic...ha) existence I maintained in Odessa. The burning rubber of car tires and the throbbing of one-hundred watt stereos could not be heard at the ranch estate. Also, the spring fed water well at the ranch was a welcome change to the pungent tasting lime-water of Odessa. Everything was peaceful...for awhile.
A couple of weeks into the Fall of 1984, Uncle G.C. discovered that I needed a job. A real job where I would be paid for my labor. I believe he was forced into this decision when he opened his Gold Visa credit card bill and found that I charged it over the limit. (So I bought a couple of antelope skin boots with 14kt gold tips, big deal!) I was busy desperately trying to hold onto my image at High School as a distant relation to the t.v. Ewing family. He had given me the credit card on numerous occasions and told me to buy the clothing I needed as long as the "duds" were cowboy in origin. I guess I pushed him too far by charging eight-hundred dollars for the boots. I will not repeat the expletives that were roared by my uncle. I will tell you that he said something about bull feces and visiting a place where the sun don't shine. As ironic as it may sound, Uncle G.C. was wearing a pair of plain brown leather boots he had purchased in 1968 when he opened the bill, and I was crouching behind the sofa wearing shiny maroon antelope boots wondering where I would find a job.
In the city limits of Denton, G.C. found gainful employment for me at a nearby toy store. Of course, the manager of the store was a close friend of his, and reported my paydays and gross..just like a parrot. After rigorously turning my check over to G.C. a few times, I made a critical decision. I decided that I worked hard for my money (just like the song), and I deserved the right to spend it on what I wanted. During this time, my feelings became confused about G.C. I actually had feeling of envy and anger towards him in reference to giving him my checks. He was not having me pay for the "junk" I charged; he was putting my money into a "useless" college fund/savings account...I did not know this at the time, though. Little did I know that he was trying to teach me how to manage my money and survive on less than I made.
Paydays came on Fridays at the thriving toy store, and I had decided that my uncle would NOT get his manure encrusted hands on "my" check. Remorsefully, I decided to buy more clothes, not fancy western "duds." I was worried that G.C. would see me carry in the four hundred and fifty dollars worth Chess King Apparel enclosed in its' noisy plastic sack. (All of the clothes fit in ONE sack...I found that hard to believe.) So, my grandiose plan was to wait until early morning, so I could secrete my "sack of guilt" into my room. Once the clothing was inside my secreted hideaway (a 40 by 50 bedroom with two open bay windows that faced his and Virginia's bedroom). I hung the clothing with the rest of my wardrobe in the closet. I quietly prayed the clothes would go unnoticed, and I hoped all I would have to worry about would be having to tell my loving and crusty uncle that I would not be giving him my check anymore.
A month after my daring shopping spree, G.C. stated in a monotone voice, "Chris, I've counted forty-six shirts and thirty-four pair of pants in your closet. You have tripled your 'tire..your, your duds (attire/wardrobe) in a month's time span." I felt my stomach do a roll over. "G.C., I really do not know how to tell you this...," I stammered guilt-ridden while intently trying to count the tiny squares on the floor tile. "SPEAK UP LIKE YOU GOT A PAIR, BOY!," he yelled, but continued without awaiting my procrastinated answer. He continued, " I know, I know you have been spending your money on teenage duds. I wasn't gonna say anything about it, but I lost count inventorying your shirts."
My deceit had come to an abrupt end, and strange pools of water found their ravine down my narrow cheeks. This must have hit a soft spot on him, for he related: "Don't worry. You will soon learn that it is the person on the inside, not the clothes on the outside that make a person. It is who you are, not what you wear," G.C. stated as he hugged me with an enveloping aroma of Tex-Feed.
Winter months came to Denton County, and its' icy fingers reached the ranch's wheat fields, slaying the green grassy stalks with a chilling touch. During one of the chilly winter days, G.C. and I feverishly worked in an attempt to repair a burst water pipe. "Turn on the water, we'll see if this will hold," he stated out of breath. I cranked the pressure switch clockwise, one-half turn. KER-POW! The pipe's casing became loose due to the pressure being turned back on. "Shoot, turn it off! We'll try it again in a little bit," G.C. stated. After several hours of trial and error, G.C. finally won a victory over the small annoying plastic tube. "Ya know," I stated "Before I came up here, I did not care for working too much. I thought working was just on put food on the table and of course...clothes on your back. But G.C., I really have enjoyed working and being around you." With what appeared to be sweat pooling in the wrinkles of his eyes, G.C. stated in a somber voice, "Son, hard work itself is its own reward. You will become very successful if you believe in God and yourself. I know you will because you are part me!"
Later that night, I sat snuggled in my own cozy bed reminiscing and staring at the bronze statue of a rustic cowboy standing tall and rugged on my dresser. I thought out loud, "By golly, he called me 'son,' and it is way too cold for him to be sweating. G.C. actually cried...Holy @#$%! He is human, and he accepted me. From a distant bedroom came a tired East-Texas accent with a draw, "Yes, son, I accepted you when you were born and even when you looked like a peacock. I love you and always will."
G.C. and I met in the slick hallway and hugged while pictures of relatives observed adoringly.
• *Uncle G.C. and Aunt Virginia sold the ranch in 2005. They are content living in the city of Denton, Tx. Oh, I might add that G.C. (Attaway) is a published author with several books to his credit. Cutter's Magic and Rio Crossing are both a great read! G.C. continues to write and paint with a western flair. He still presents his artwork at galleries around the nation.
This was written way back in 1988. While the story may drag in places, it is to merely serve as several snapshots of my Denton High School years (1984/1985)...or should I say my "Learning Years."
• ** 04/11/2011: Virginia E. Attaway passed away on April 9th, 2011. She will forever be loved and truly missed.
George "Chris" Cole experienced life as a law enforcement officer with a tour of duty lasting over ten years in law enforcement. He is the survivor of two marriages, and continues to meet new people that provide inspiration for many of his articles and short stories. Many of his articles have appeared in national and local publications.
In 2008, Chris abandoned West Texas and its' "Wal-Mart Trees" (Mesquite bushes that grow plastic bags) to move to the green pastures and real trees of Fredericksburg, Texas. Chris continues to work and hone his writing skills while breathing the fresh air of the hill country.
Mr. Cole can be contacted at kriskohl333@gmail.com.
Chris Cole
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Chris Cole
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Chris Cole
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In 2008, Chris abandoned West Texas and its' "Wal-Mart Trees" (Mesquite bushes that grow plastic bags) to move to the green pastures and real trees of Fredericksburg, Texas. Chris continues to work and hone his writing skills while breathing the fresh air of the hill country.
Mr. Cole can be contacted at kriskohl333@gmail.com.
Chris Cole
SearchWarp.com
Featured Author!
Chris Cole
SearchWarp.com
Author!
Chris Cole
SearchWarp.com
Top 100 Author!
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Very informative. You have a style all your own! Good!
Chris, this is probably one of the best stories I have ever read! This is the best work I have read of yours off of this site. If you have not published this story, then you had better get on the ball! This is GOOD!
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