10/18/2020
It Is Wildflower Time Again In The Hill Country
I woke up this morning with Marjorie Bowles on my mind. It has been thirty-seven years since I sat with her, on Juniper’s Knoll, overlooking the Pedernales River, watched her wildflowers in bloom, scattered forever across the landscape, and just visited with my friend.
I purposely laid in bed a while this morning and yearned for the pleasant dreamed visit with Marjorie to last just a little bit longer before I fully awoke.
After I finally got up, turned on the laptop and drank my coffee, Marjorie kept whispering to me to go ahead; “Go ahead Jim, and write that story about our wildflowers…you know how much we loved them.”
Many a year ago, before I ever visited her beautiful ranch back in the ‘80s, she had Walter, one of her ranch hands, build a Bois “d” Arc planked bench for her to sit there on the knoll and pass her time, sometime in deep contemplation and other times just enjoying her beautiful wild flowers.
The bench was placed near three small live oak trees and it was about a two-hundred-yard stroll from Marjorie’s front porch to the top of the knoll where the bench rested beneath the trees.
My trips to her ranch varied but I was usually there with her during the fall of the year and especially, the Spring turkey season just as the Texas Bluebonnets and Indian Paint Brushes were really showing off their magnificence.
After my first visit in 1980 and the way I carried on about her bench and the beautiful hillside and wildflowers scattered over it, Marjorie had Walter build another bench, just for me. She must have been excited because she even called me that very night and told me what she had done.
After that, I never returned to her ranch that we did not take the time and walk up on top of the knoll and sit on the benches; especially during Spring turkey season.
Later, she broadcast some Crimson Clover seed along the river and around the outskirts of the wild flowers and when it bloomed the blossoms were blood red and set everything off.
As we walked along up the hill, Marjorie would carry a gallon galvanized foot tub about half full of milo and would scatter it for the wild turkey. The trek was a ritual with her and usually she did it twice a day; first, early in the morning and secondly, during the waning part of the day.
Sometimes, as she walked along scattering the grain, she could stop and look back and see the turkeys following along at a distance, eating the milo.
“Jim, they have tamed to the point of not even knowing that I am watching them,” she remarked as we paused and watched.
As the years rolled by and as we became closely acquainted, her little spot up on Juniper’s Knoll became an area that I held dear in my heart; I can close my eyes this morning and still see it in all of its splendor.
I can breathe deep and smell all the wonderful fragrances of the flowers; their memory is still there and it is still as strong as the day I first smelled them. They are a constant reminder that it is the small things in life that sometimes offer us the largest treasures.
I can close my eyes once again and hear the buzzing of the Hill Country honey bees as they collect nectar from the wildflowers, the clover, and the honey locust blossoms.
The grandeur of it all came so naturally to me as I would sit, listen to Marjorie tell about the ranch she was raised on and how much her ancestors had loved and respected it.
With time, they all passed on; Marjorie stayed. In time Marjorie’s parents, who spent their lifetime ranching there, passed on; Marjorie stayed.
Now, it was all Marjorie’s alone; she had it all and took care of it. Being raised on the ranch, she knew it like the back of her hand.
She often shared with me as she looked back many years to a time and place where, as a young woman, the neighboring ranch boys would come by and call on her but she was serious with none of them; they were all just friends.
I was thirty-two and she found me to be an avid hunter, a rake, a rambler, a historian, a conversationalist, a raconteur, an adventurer, and most importantly of all, a dear friend.
She was near seventy and was a Hill Country rancher with a 4000 acre Hereford ranch that had been marked in the state registries as such for almost 135 years.
I was just passing through her world to visit the grandfather of an old Hill Country college friend of mine that in 1968, enlisted and gave his life for his beloved America in Viet Nam.
Marjorie was a friend to them and a bordering neighbor that was gracious enough to visit my friend’s grave marker with me while walking along the river at twilight and later, allowing me to quail hunt on her land.
We were introduced and immediately the two of us were drawn to each other; it seemed as if we were two moths drawn to the same flame.
I often pause now and contemplate about it all and at the time, it seemed like I was unexplainably enthralled with her rugged ranch life.
I guess she was drawn to my storytelling and carefree and wandering mannerisms. I think the real truth was that she just loved cowboys.
After visiting the grave of my old friend, I stood with Marjorie for almost an hour, overlooking the river, as we talked about Tom and his grandfather and how much they had loved each other.
It was dark when Marjorie invited me over to her spread with the promise of plenty of fine quail hunting come morning.
After dinner and a good night’s sleep, a great quail hunt was indeed what awaited me. Mid-afternoon, I cleaned birds and she invited a couple of neighbors for a wonderful fried quail supper.
That is how our friendship started and from there the story only got better.
How could two individuals meet as ships in the night and by luck, find the time and place to share their dreams and thoughts of their futures, not just once, but repeat the process many times over through the years?
These were the kind of things that Marjorie and I found time to talk about upon Juniper’s Knoll.
She would like to start with, “What’s been going on in your world, my friend?”
I would tell her how I had been and how my family was doing and about my wife and kids, about my job as a vocational agriculture teacher and all the judging trips and county fairs and shows that we attended. We sat and talked about livestock and some of the latest breeding trends.
She would sit and smile, occasionally nod her approval, as I would continue on. After a while, it was her turn and boy, could she turn loose with all the ranch activities and talk around the home place.
When she finished, I would look at her and comment, “Marjorie, it does not even seem that I have been gone, my dear.”
She would say in return, “Jim, I was thinking the very same thing myself.”
We would sit on the Bois ‘d’ Arc benches, view down the hill across the beautiful landscape that overlooked the Pedernales River and when it was spring and the wildflowers were blooming, it was such a special kind of “heaven on earth” that we both truly cherished.
The wild turkeys gleaning the hillside were just an added attraction; an addition of aesthetic beauty that no one could ever put a price on or even consider it.
This time was no different than the many times we had spent in the past, just sitting there and visiting. It was during moments such as this that our deepest innermost thoughts would surface and there was no doubt between us as to how we felt about things that we loved and cared about; no stones went unturned and we did not hesitate to share them with each other.
One late April afternoon, we visited until past dark and when the sun went down, with us sitting in the dark, it seemed as if more truisms flowed freely from the both of us.
Marjorie was probably the one individual in my life that I could share anything and everything. In return, I think that she felt the same about me.
It was upon that knoll on a bright Sunday morning when she talked about a distant niece in San Antonio that would inherit her beautiful ranch someday and it would be up to her to carry on the traditions.
Marjorie also shared that the niece was not the least bit interested in the ranch and it had been thirteen years since she had even been out that way.
Marjorie was looking down the draw as she spoke of these things and when she turned back toward me there was more than just misty eyes that I peered into; after a while I cried along with her, knowing that the end of the story had already been written.
My thoughts often return today to those blessed moments that we shared on Juniper’s Knoll and how I wish that I had been financially able to purchase her ranch when she no longer had a need for it.
Had I been able, that is exactly what I would have done to preserve her beloved home and carried her legacy forward a few more years.
Knowing all along, that it would be impossible for me to do it, saddened me greatly.
When my thoughts occasionally return to Marjorie and her ranch, I cannot help but think of all the good times that she graciously shared with me. She did not have to, she wanted to, and to know my friend, was to know why she did it.
I returned several years after Marjorie had passed on and found that her ranch had been sold to real estate developers and they had divided it up into small ranchettes and had them on the market.
According to the young lady that gave me a tour of the properties, the real estate venture was highly successful and the city folks were buying up the small tracts just as the developers had planned; hundreds of thousands of dollars a week were being generated from the sales.
It saddened me greatly when I stopped and looked around. It was evident that the real estate salespeople did not quite understand what I was feeling.
By chance, I was through that part of the country a couple of years ago during an Easter Break. It was Spring turkey season in the Texas Hill Country once again and it was not that far out of my way to go by and visit Marjorie’s place.
I arrived at the big front entrance of a gated community and there were BMW’s and Cadillac Escalades in abundance, coming and going like it was a freeway.
Not having the combination to enter the big gate, I pulled my old Dodge dually over beside the main entrance and just sat there, while thinking about Bob Wills singing “Time Changes Everything,” and thought how indeed, it does.
After a while, I exited the truck and made my way through the walk-through and started up the property road. It was about a two-mile walk up to Juniper’s Knoll and I was determined to sit on the benches and view those magnificent wildflowers one more time.
After about fifteen minutes, a young facility security guard drove up and commenced to check me out. He asked for identification and when I opened my wallet, he saw my 32 Degree Masonic Lodge membership card that was next to my driver’s license.
He, being a Mason himself, began a conversation about my lodge affiliation and what I was doing there, on the property.
I told him my story; it was a long sad story but I told it to him anyway and surprisingly, he looked me in the eye and listened to every word of it.
When I finished, he replied, “Mr. Richardson, those benches are still there today and I know who owns the tract where they are located. Would you like for me to es**rt you to that area and allow you to spend some time there?”
I told the youngster that it would make me so happy that I could hug his neck. He laughed and told me to get in his Jeep.
When we arrived at Juniper’s Knoll, I do not think that I had ever seen the flowers so beautiful. He let me out of the vehicle and told me to go ahead and walk on up to the live oaks, while he notified the property owners what we were doing there.
After about an hour, the young man returned and told me that if it was not too much trouble and if I had the time, the owners of the property wanted to meet me and ask questions about my connections with their tract of land.
Gladly, I responded, “It would be my pleasure to meet the Martin’s and tell my story to them of how I used to spend time upon the knoll with Marjorie and about some of the moments that we shared there.”
The next thing that I knew we were at their ranch house on the other side of the river and we were in their living room, overlooking the hillside with all the blooms; the beauty was unexplainable; my love for the place was quite evident.
Looking across the river and the wide draw, I could see our benches in the distance. I pointed them out to Doug and Susie Martin and retraced the path for them that Marjorie and I used to walk along, as she fed the wild turkeys, years ago.
In one sense, it seemed as if it was only yesterday that the two of us made the trek.
The two of them had many questions for me and I had several of the answers to their questions. Our time together flew by and it was not long until I had been in their home for almost three hours.
I finally arose and told them that I must be going, that the visit was wonderful and how much I enjoyed meeting the two of them and spending our time together.
After meeting the Martins, I felt better about what had been troubling me for years. Time does change everything and we must go on with our lives while being thankful for the ones that we crossed paths with and were momentarily allowed to spend some extra time with them; for all of that, I am truly thankful.
Before leaving the Martins, they told me that they would always welcome me back to their home and that I could come and sit on the benches whenever I felt like I needed to; this made me feel so good.
We exchanged phone numbers and I thanked the lovely couple and told them that I planned on doing just that and would always be appreciative of the offering they had extended to me.
The last thing that I said to them was, “After meeting the two of you, I know Marjorie is happy now. She knows that a finer couple could not have ended up with her favorite place on this earth.”
They smiled at me as I walked out with Gordon. We crawled back in his Jeep and he drove me to my Dodge dually at the front gate. He gave me his cell phone number and told me that he expected me to call him when I swept back through that country.
I told him that I would be back in Fredericksburg in October for a writer’s conference and when I returned, I would give him a call.
I shook his hand, got out of his Jeep, and returned to my vehicle. I cranked the engine and took off down the long road leading back to the main highway.
I turned west when I got back to the highway and knew that Marjorie was buried only two or three miles down the road in an old cemetery. She was interred there with all of her kin that had gone that way before her.
Upon arrival, I parked and got out. Her family plot was only a short distance and upon reaching it I could not help but notice the two beautiful Bois ‘d’ Arc benches that were placed nearby, on a small knoll, under a couple of small live oaks.
I knew it was Walter’s handiwork as I sat down and immediately noticed all of the Texas Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes that were blooming around the plot and in the background. Looking hard, I could see her beautiful river in a distance.
I told Marjorie about her new tenants and how nice they were and how they were preserving the place that she adored.
I also told her about how things had changed since she had been gone; there were caretakers looking after her ranch.
Then I thought, Marjorie is not gone, she is just resting there, under the wildflowers, and already knows everything that I am telling her.
In a total solemn manner, as I sat there and looked around, I realized then that my friend, Marjorie, was in peace. God bless her dear soul.
It Is Wildflower Time Again In The Hill Country
I woke up this morning with Marjorie Bowles on my mind. It has been thirty-seven years since I sat with her, on Juniper’s Knoll, overlooking the Pedernales River, watched her wildflowers in bloom, scattered forever across the landscape, and just visited with my friend.
I purposely laid in bed a while this morning and yearned for the pleasant dreamed visit with Marjorie to last just a little bit longer before I fully awoke.
After I finally got up, turned on the laptop and drank my coffee, Marjorie kept whispering to me to go ahead; “Go ahead Jim, and write that story about our wildflowers…you know how much we loved them.”
Many a year ago, before I ever visited her beautiful ranch back in the ‘80s, she had Walter, one of her ranch hands, build a Bois “d” Arc planked bench for her to sit there on the knoll and pass her time, sometime in deep contemplation and other times just enjoying her beautiful wild flowers.
The bench was placed near three small live oak trees and it was about a two-hundred-yard stroll from Marjorie’s front porch to the top of the knoll where the bench rested beneath the trees.
My trips to her ranch varied but I was usually there with her during the fall of the year and especially, the Spring turkey season just as the Texas Bluebonnets and Indian Paint Brushes were really showing off their magnificence.
After my first visit in 1980 and the way I carried on about her bench and the beautiful hillside and wildflowers scattered over it, Marjorie had Walter build another bench, just for me. She must have been excited because she even called me that very night and told me what she had done.
After that, I never returned to her ranch that we did not take the time and walk up on top of the knoll and sit on the benches; especially during Spring turkey season.
Later, she broadcast some Crimson Clover seed along the river and around the outskirts of the wild flowers and when it bloomed the blossoms were blood red and set everything off.
As we walked along up the hill, Marjorie would carry a gallon galvanized foot tub about half full of milo and would scatter it for the wild turkey. The trek was a ritual with her and usually she did it twice a day; first, early in the morning and secondly, during the waning part of the day.
Sometimes, as she walked along scattering the grain, she could stop and look back and see the turkeys following along at a distance, eating the milo.
“Jim, they have tamed to the point of not even knowing that I am watching them,” she remarked as we paused and watched.
As the years rolled by and as we became closely acquainted, her little spot up on Juniper’s Knoll became an area that I held dear in my heart; I can close my eyes this morning and still see it in all of its splendor.
I can breathe deep and smell all the wonderful fragrances of the flowers; their memory is still there and it is still as strong as the day I first smelled them. They are a constant reminder that it is the small things in life that sometimes offer us the largest treasures.
I can close my eyes once again and hear the buzzing of the Hill Country honey bees as they collect nectar from the wildflowers, the clover, and the honey locust blossoms.
The grandeur of it all came so naturally to me as I would sit, listen to Marjorie tell about the ranch she was raised on and how much her ancestors had loved and respected it.
With time, they all passed on; Marjorie stayed. In time Marjorie’s parents, who spent their lifetime ranching there, passed on; Marjorie stayed.
Now, it was all Marjorie’s alone; she had it all and took care of it. Being raised on the ranch, she knew it like the back of her hand.
She often shared with me as she looked back many years to a time and place where, as a young woman, the neighboring ranch boys would come by and call on her but she was serious with none of them; they were all just friends.
I was thirty-two and she found me to be an avid hunter, a rake, a rambler, a historian, a conversationalist, a raconteur, an adventurer, and most importantly of all, a dear friend.
She was near seventy and was a Hill Country rancher with a 4000 acre Hereford ranch that had been marked in the state registries as such for almost 135 years.
I was just passing through her world to visit the grandfather of an old Hill Country college friend of mine that in 1968, enlisted and gave his life for his beloved America in Viet Nam.
Marjorie was a friend to them and a bordering neighbor that was gracious enough to visit my friend’s grave marker with me while walking along the river at twilight and later, allowing me to quail hunt on her land.
We were introduced and immediately the two of us were drawn to each other; it seemed as if we were two moths drawn to the same flame.
I often pause now and contemplate about it all and at the time, it seemed like I was unexplainably enthralled with her rugged ranch life.
I guess she was drawn to my storytelling and carefree and wandering mannerisms. I think the real truth was that she just loved cowboys.
After visiting the grave of my old friend, I stood with Marjorie for almost an hour, overlooking the river, as we talked about Tom and his grandfather and how much they had loved each other.
It was dark when Marjorie invited me over to her spread with the promise of plenty of fine quail hunting come morning.
After dinner and a good night’s sleep, a great quail hunt was indeed what awaited me. Mid-afternoon, I cleaned birds and she invited a couple of neighbors for a wonderful fried quail supper.
That is how our friendship started and from there the story only got better.
How could two individuals meet as ships in the night and by luck, find the time and place to share their dreams and thoughts of their futures, not just once, but repeat the process many times over through the years?
These were the kind of things that Marjorie and I found time to talk about upon Juniper’s Knoll.
She would like to start with, “What’s been going on in your world, my friend?”
I would tell her how I had been and how my family was doing and about my wife and kids, about my job as a vocational agriculture teacher and all the judging trips and county fairs and shows that we attended. We sat and talked about livestock and some of the latest breeding trends.
She would sit and smile, occasionally nod her approval, as I would continue on. After a while, it was her turn and boy, could she turn loose with all the ranch activities and talk around the home place.
When she finished, I would look at her and comment, “Marjorie, it does not even seem that I have been gone, my dear.”
She would say in return, “Jim, I was thinking the very same thing myself.”
We would sit on the Bois ‘d’ Arc benches, view down the hill across the beautiful landscape that overlooked the Pedernales River and when it was spring and the wildflowers were blooming, it was such a special kind of “heaven on earth” that we both truly cherished.
The wild turkeys gleaning the hillside were just an added attraction; an addition of aesthetic beauty that no one could ever put a price on or even consider it.
This time was no different than the many times we had spent in the past, just sitting there and visiting. It was during moments such as this that our deepest innermost thoughts would surface and there was no doubt between us as to how we felt about things that we loved and cared about; no stones went unturned and we did not hesitate to share them with each other.
One late April afternoon, we visited until past dark and when the sun went down, with us sitting in the dark, it seemed as if more truisms flowed freely from the both of us.
Marjorie was probably the one individual in my life that I could share anything and everything. In return, I think that she felt the same about me.
It was upon that knoll on a bright Sunday morning when she talked about a distant niece in San Antonio that would inherit her beautiful ranch someday and it would be up to her to carry on the traditions.
Marjorie also shared that the niece was not the least bit interested in the ranch and it had been thirteen years since she had even been out that way.
Marjorie was looking down the draw as she spoke of these things and when she turned back toward me there was more than just misty eyes that I peered into; after a while I cried along with her, knowing that the end of the story had already been written.
My thoughts often return today to those blessed moments that we shared on Juniper’s Knoll and how I wish that I had been financially able to purchase her ranch when she no longer had a need for it.
Had I been able, that is exactly what I would have done to preserve her beloved home and carried her legacy forward a few more years.
Knowing all along, that it would be impossible for me to do it, saddened me greatly.
When my thoughts occasionally return to Marjorie and her ranch, I cannot help but think of all the good times that she graciously shared with me. She did not have to, she wanted to, and to know my friend, was to know why she did it.
I returned several years after Marjorie had passed on and found that her ranch had been sold to real estate developers and they had divided it up into small ranchettes and had them on the market.
According to the young lady that gave me a tour of the properties, the real estate venture was highly successful and the city folks were buying up the small tracts just as the developers had planned; hundreds of thousands of dollars a week were being generated from the sales.
It saddened me greatly when I stopped and looked around. It was evident that the real estate salespeople did not quite understand what I was feeling.
By chance, I was through that part of the country a couple of years ago during an Easter Break. It was Spring turkey season in the Texas Hill Country once again and it was not that far out of my way to go by and visit Marjorie’s place.
I arrived at the big front entrance of a gated community and there were BMW’s and Cadillac Escalades in abundance, coming and going like it was a freeway.
Not having the combination to enter the big gate, I pulled my old Dodge dually over beside the main entrance and just sat there, while thinking about Bob Wills singing “Time Changes Everything,” and thought how indeed, it does.
After a while, I exited the truck and made my way through the walk-through and started up the property road. It was about a two-mile walk up to Juniper’s Knoll and I was determined to sit on the benches and view those magnificent wildflowers one more time.
After about fifteen minutes, a young facility security guard drove up and commenced to check me out. He asked for identification and when I opened my wallet, he saw my 32 Degree Masonic Lodge membership card that was next to my driver’s license.
He, being a Mason himself, began a conversation about my lodge affiliation and what I was doing there, on the property.
I told him my story; it was a long sad story but I told it to him anyway and surprisingly, he looked me in the eye and listened to every word of it.
When I finished, he replied, “Mr. Richardson, those benches are still there today and I know who owns the tract where they are located. Would you like for me to es**rt you to that area and allow you to spend some time there?”
I told the youngster that it would make me so happy that I could hug his neck. He laughed and told me to get in his Jeep.
When we arrived at Juniper’s Knoll, I do not think that I had ever seen the flowers so beautiful. He let me out of the vehicle and told me to go ahead and walk on up to the live oaks, while he notified the property owners what we were doing there.
After about an hour, the young man returned and told me that if it was not too much trouble and if I had the time, the owners of the property wanted to meet me and ask questions about my connections with their tract of land.
Gladly, I responded, “It would be my pleasure to meet the Martin’s and tell my story to them of how I used to spend time upon the knoll with Marjorie and about some of the moments that we shared there.”
The next thing that I knew we were at their ranch house on the other side of the river and we were in their living room, overlooking the hillside with all the blooms; the beauty was unexplainable; my love for the place was quite evident.
Looking across the river and the wide draw, I could see our benches in the distance. I pointed them out to Doug and Susie Martin and retraced the path for them that Marjorie and I used to walk along, as she fed the wild turkeys, years ago.
In one sense, it seemed as if it was only yesterday that the two of us made the trek.
The two of them had many questions for me and I had several of the answers to their questions. Our time together flew by and it was not long until I had been in their home for almost three hours.
I finally arose and told them that I must be going, that the visit was wonderful and how much I enjoyed meeting the two of them and spending our time together.
After meeting the Martins, I felt better about what had been troubling me for years. Time does change everything and we must go on with our lives while being thankful for the ones that we crossed paths with and were momentarily allowed to spend some extra time with them; for all of that, I am truly thankful.
Before leaving the Martins, they told me that they would always welcome me back to their home and that I could come and sit on the benches whenever I felt like I needed to; this made me feel so good.
We exchanged phone numbers and I thanked the lovely couple and told them that I planned on doing just that and would always be appreciative of the offering they had extended to me.
The last thing that I said to them was, “After meeting the two of you, I know Marjorie is happy now. She knows that a finer couple could not have ended up with her favorite place on this earth.”
They smiled at me as I walked out with Gordon. We crawled back in his Jeep and he drove me to my Dodge dually at the front gate. He gave me his cell phone number and told me that he expected me to call him when I swept back through that country.
I told him that I would be back in Fredericksburg in October for a writer’s conference and when I returned, I would give him a call.
I shook his hand, got out of his Jeep, and returned to my vehicle. I cranked the engine and took off down the long road leading back to the main highway.
I turned west when I got back to the highway and knew that Marjorie was buried only two or three miles down the road in an old cemetery. She was interred there with all of her kin that had gone that way before her.
Upon arrival, I parked and got out. Her family plot was only a short distance and upon reaching it I could not help but notice the two beautiful Bois ‘d’ Arc benches that were placed nearby, on a small knoll, under a couple of small live oaks.
I knew it was Walter’s handiwork as I sat down and immediately noticed all of the Texas Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes that were blooming around the plot and in the background. Looking hard, I could see her beautiful river in a distance.
I told Marjorie about her new tenants and how nice they were and how they were preserving the place that she adored.
I also told her about how things had changed since she had been gone; there were caretakers looking after her ranch.
Then I thought, Marjorie is not gone, she is just resting there, under the wildflowers, and already knows everything that I am telling her.
In a total solemn manner, as I sat there and looked around, I realized then that my friend,
Marjorie was in peace. God bless her dear soul.
