May 7, 2007
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Death is a peculiar thing. It brings out the best and worst in us but most of all, it brings out the stories. One such story came out on the way back to visit my Father’s grave with my Mother. It had only been two days since he had been buried and the story came out of nowhere.
Both of my Grandfathers were dirt poor and scratched a living from the dirt. Neither family had much, and being the height of the Depression, neither did anybody else. My Father’s dad, I called him Pa Pa, had a small dirt farm in the little town of Reklaw, Texas (Reklaw is Walker spelled backwards. It’s near Sacul, which is Lucas spelled backwards and they both are named for the fellow who settled the area – Lucas Walker). My Grandfather's little farm was near the railroad track that ran through Reklaw and a train came through every day at 1:00 PM. He knew it was time for lunch to be over when the train came through and blew its whistle. He would get up from the table and say, “Looks like the old black cat’s got us!”, then go back to work in the field.
The train no longer goes through Reklaw and the tracks have long been torn out. My Dad is buried next to my beloved Pa Pa. All that is left are the stories.
It looks like the old black cat got us indeed.
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