"Oh my goodness, that place is definitely haunted!" Fran warned as she checked out the website for the 100-year-old B&B in the small South Texas town.
So I had to put that statement out of my mind as my friend, Gar and I drove six hours down through San Antonio to a small town near Hondo, Texas. The town we stayed in is so small that their stoplight doesn't change--just a blinking yellow light that slows you down enough so you can turn off the state highway, cross the train tracks, and head toward whichever of the ten buildings in town that you might want to visit--they sit in a row.
It was the first time that Gar and I have gone hunting together in nearly ten years, and I was excited that he was joining me and some buddies from work to go dove hunting. In Texas, dove hunting is a traditional sport and the season always starts the first weekend of September. It is also a somewhat social event--guys getting together for a weekend of hanging out (read: heavy drinking and the insanity which goes along). We usually all stay in a run-down bunkhouse or hunting lodge somewhere, but last year the organizer of the event had stayed in this B&B and he was determined that we all stay there. It was very nice, and I felt a little awkward carrying my shotgun bag into the freshly painted room with antique furniture, delicately hand-sewn quilts, and a claw-foot tub.
The B&B was an historic, if slightly creaky, two-storey train depot which had been completely refurbished into a very nice, homey-feeling inn. The original floor plan gave it an odd symmetry, with a long hall down the middle of the house sprouting into paired rooms left and right. The weathered, wooden floors were original, and the planks were bowed and worn and uneven around the edges. On the bottom floor, one of the rooms had been opened into an awkwardly situated sitting area, which housed an extremely uncomfortable, thinly-cushioned sofa, four rickety wooden chairs, and an quarter-cut oak player piano with eight or nine dusty scrolls laid on top. The only light from the room came from an ancient lamp.
At the far end of the depot was a remodeled kitchen, with a long table and, again, not enough light--the dim bulbs made it seem that it was midnight black outside. I asked about a painted-over plate mounted on the wall, and was told that it had been a vent for the woodburning stove which was there before the electric one was installed.
There actually were no signs of ghosts, except for a drop panel of a cabinet in the living room which kept spontaneously slamming open with a loud bang throughout the weekend, causing everyone in the vicinity to pause and cast sober sideways glances at each other. I didn't really want the house to be haunted, so I would quietly and without comment walk over and close the panel tightly again, testing to make sure I couldn't open it.
The night we arrived, there was a party of sorts out on the upstairs balcony. It reminded me a little of Pleasure Island from Pinnochio--card playing, whiskey, cigar smoking, a rapid-fire staccato of the "f-word", and pretty much every possible way that gas can be expelled from the male physique. But the night was nice and cool with a good breeze (thank God), and it was fun to lean on the balcony rail and chat with the dozen or so guys that were there.
In the morning, one of my first questions at the breakfast table was, "Whose alarm clock sounds like a freight train?!" I had awakened when the innkeeper came through the thick front door outside my room at about 5:15, but lay in bed until 5:25--that's when a huge train blasted through town, horn blaring repeatedly, shaking the windows of the depot so fiercely I thought they might fall out. I guess I hadn't done the math: When you are sleeping in an old train depot, I guess you can't complain too much that a train roars by less than 100 feet away. Throughout the inn, the sounds of alarm clocks going off and banging on doors could be heard, and eventually everyone staggered to the breakfast table where the tired, irritated-looking inkeeper stood guard with her arms crossed next to the coffeemaker, daring anyone to manhandle her precious china mugs.
It was too early to be self-conscious. I poured myself a huge mug of black coffee and retrieved a couple of tacos from the plastic bag on the table where they were thrown as if to say, 'Serve yourself (and then please leave immediately).' She clearly hated the idea of twelve scruffy-looking dudes befouling her oasis. And who knows which cretan threw that whiskey bottle off the balcony.
After the morning hunt, which was a muddy tromp through a barren field, we emptied our game bags by the front gate of the ranch. The farmer who owned the field came up to us and stood shyly nearby as one of the guys had some death-metal song blasting uncomfortably from his truck which stood with all the doors open. The farmer looked as though he had sold his soul for a pittance by allowing these guys from the city to disturb the peace of the countryside for mere dollars.
I walked over to him and struck up a conversation, which seemed to please him. He told me that the farm had been in his family for over 150 years, and started telling me a little about the homestead. He was a very pleasant guy, kind of round and rough-looking at the same time. When we stopped by a store in town later that morning, we found out that he had been a record-setting baseball player for the University of Texas, batting over .400 (which is incredible). I really enjoyed his stories about how his family had moved from Germany and how they had been early cowboys, driving cattle up north and fighting against Indians in the territory. He also told me that several of his family members had gotten together to organize their family history a few years back.
When we got back to the inn, I found a hidden treasure. Risking the possible angering of the house spirits, I explored a little and actually found (out of sheer coincidence) a large, leather-bound book which contained the family history that the farmer had described. In a house with six rooms and fourteen guys (two more showed up late), there isn't much of a quiet corner to sit in, especially when there isn't enough light to grow a potted cactus, but I was able to grab a few minutes here and there. I knew I wanted to read more when I got a chance.
That night, we went to the only restaurant in town--we sat out in the patio because that was the only seating they had--nothing indoors. I wonder what they do when it rains. And the menu was a little wonky--you could pretty much just order a cheeseburger. You couldn't even get them to make a hamburger with no cheese--it only came with cheese. The lady told us, "too bad it's not Tuesday--we fire up the grill and you can cook steaks!"
Somehow, we convinced them to fire up the grill even though it was, of all things, Saturday night. We went next door and bought steaks from the grocery store which is owned by the same family as the restaurant (which is the same family as the hotel which is the same family as the farmer who owned the field). When the lady told us "...you can cook steaks", what she really meant was, "You have to do it yourself--I'm not going to do it for you." So, a few of us stood out in the parking lot and grilled our own steaks as cars came and went. Best steak I ever had.
We went back in (out?) to the patio and sat under the stars. The patio had strings of decorative lighting, maybe left over from Christmas, draped over the rough boards framing the structure. There was no music, but a TV over by the bar showed a football game. The other patrons had the look of rough, hard-working people who had carefully put on their fanciest clothes to go out for the evening. An odd discussion that I had over a beer with one of my friends that night involved which of the guys would be the best one to pick a fight with.
Back at the inn, most of the other guys had gone upstairs to play poker, and I sat alone at the kitchen table for nearly an hour reading the historical volume. It had been put together by a committee of family members, about twenty of them, and had been collected over a few years. There was a lot of geneological filler with names and dates of birth and a discombobulated chart which seemed to include horses and dogs. There was a fantastic introduction which detailed the social conditions of Germany in the early 1800's which caused the family to make the decision to move, and even some family recipies for things like molasses cookies, some special cake with an enormous number of eggs, and a sort of 1800's Hamburger Helper made with venison.
I flipped the book open to a few pages titled "Memories of my Grandfather", and saw that there were multiple accounts of the same man from a couple of his grandsons. It was so interesting to see how one grandson saw his grandfather as a heroic "Man's man", full of action and vigor, and the other saw his grandfather as insightful and philosophical. The grandson writes how he wishes he knew his grandfather "man to man", so that he could know what he really thought, but I thought to myself that, perhaps because he knew him "boy to man", he will always be a hero instead of a fallible, fragile man.
In another account of the same man, which puported to be the "official" description of the man, he was described to have always kept a journal. Every evening, he would open his rolltop desk, and write his schedule in the journal. He liked to play his Victrola, and was very fond of the song "
I Love You Truly". As I read it, I could hear the words of that sentimental song, and a tear came to my eye. It seems that this man, as tough as he must have been, had let people really come to know him. Of course, right at that moment, a group of guys came to the table and they seemed curious at why I would be reading at a time like this.
Hilariously, our little group had differentiated into Science majors downstairs around the kitchen table chatting about philosophy, relationships, and politics, and Business majors upstairs drinking, smoking, and playing poker.
The next morning we awoke as a freight train threatened to demolish our depot, and we found a bag of cold tacos resentfully hurled onto the table and a slightly sarcastic note from the inkeeper inquiring why we didn't get up early to hunt that morning (the farmer was going to charge us full price for the a half-day hunt and the shooting wasn't worth it). I poured a cup of coffee and skimmed the history book. A colleague came downstairs and sat across the table from me. He looked curiously at the book I was reading, and asked to look at it once I had told him that it was the history of the famer's family. He skimmed it for about ten seconds and then tossed it in the chair next to him out of my reach.
After I was packed and was on my way out, I went back to the chair, got the volume, and put it back where I found it lest a ghost haunt me all the way home.
But in some ways, I guess I am haunted by the stories I read as I stayed in that train depot. All the way home, I turned it over again and again in my mind that it would be a blessing to be remembered some day in the same, sentimental way.
