By Ruth Rucker Lemming
1982, Eakin Publishers

Chapter III

"I am the master of my fate" -- William Ernest Henly

With Emphasis on Robert Lee Rucker Called Robert or Bob

            Bang!  The sound of the shotgun shattered the lazy hum of the quietude of a sunny morning on a Texas farm.  A startled expression rushed to the face of the half-witted victim.  A few seconds before, he had been brandishing the open straight-edged razor in his hand and shouting:  “I’m gonng git ya, Bob.  You had no business kickin’ my pore defenseless dogs, you son of a b----.  “at that inexorable moment the sound of the gun occurred simultaneously with the epithet and Miley Griswold staggered backward and fell off the porch into the plowed furrow of the cornfield - dead! 

            My brother, Robert, threw the door open and gazed, distractedly, for a moment.  Instantly, he was on his knees, in consternation, cradling his friend’s head in his arms.  “Oh, Miley, I didn’t mean to shoot you.  I don’t know how this rifle got in my hands.  It was leaning against the wall behind the door.  Miley it must have gone off when I slammed the door to keep you and your razor outside.  I warned you not to let them damned pigs get out and into my corn crop again, but I didn’t mean to shoot you.  Oh, Miley, I’ve killed you.” 

            Robert’s mind recoiled from the memory of that other tragedy which had happened only ten short years before - when he was just a boy of 14.  He heard again, the voice of his father, Henry Rucker, repeatedly resounding in his ears:  “No son of mine could be dumb enough to fail Latin a second time.  I’m gonna give you a real licking this time.”  The crumpled report card had fallen, forgotten, to the floor. 

            Robert felt once more the impact of the buggy whip against his shoulders, the buggy whip that was supposed to lean against the wall behind the door.  He sensed rather than saw his mother fall in the waiting chair as she was thrust aside.  Again his father’s voice boomed:  “No you don’t, Minnie.  You’ll not protect your worthless son this time.” 

            In a flash of memory he could see his Grandfather Holton stumbling in at the front door with his open pocketknife in his right hand - the right arm had been stiff since he was wounded at Appomattox fighting the Yankees.  The old man had been whittling out on the front steps, as was his habit.  He mumbled from the doorway, “What’s going on in here?”  His stiff right arm was extended in front of him, his whittling knife still gripped in the fingers of his hand.  “Why, what’s the matter, Minnie?”  At the sound from the doorway, his son-in-law, Henry Rucker, had wheeled around and into the knife held in the old man’s hand, plunging it deep into his own abdomen.  Henry fell, fatally stabbed, to the floor. 

            Instantly, Grandpa Holton was on his knees cradling his son-in-law’s head in his arms.  “Oh, Henry, you done it to yourself.  You knowed my arm was stiff, Oh, Henry, I’ve killed you.  I didn’t mean to do it.”  But in two months, he was dead from gangrene, and the office of County Clerk of Robertson County was vacant. 

            The sound of their voices reverberated down the ringing corridors of time.  Their incessant pealing forever blotting out Robert’s counter desires, his better impulses, his futile attempts at stifling their damning intonation.  There remained only a helpless, hopeless feeling.  Nothing that Mama could say or do; no help that she could give him ever sufficed to overcome this fanatical impression.  Never to realize his own potential!  Never to have true, lasting happiness!  Never to accomplish those things of which he was capable!  Brother never attended school again.  The victim of circumstance and heredity.  Forever cursed by the visitation of his father and his grandfather before him. 

            I was only a tiny girl, but I felt the real anguish of my older brother, Robert.  It was this tragic accident which brought a young lawyer, Pat Neff, from Waco down to Franklin,  He was the counsel for the prosecution in the trial of Robert Lee Rucker for murder.  Mama employed local lawyers Mr. Grady Goodman and Mr. Henry Bush to defend her son. 

            For two weeks the trial went on there in the county courthouse of Robertson County.  That trial in which all the dirty linens of previous Ruckers and Holtons had been aired.  That trial in which the local lawyers had so doggedly defended Robert Rucker.  That trial in which my brother had been finally acquitted of murder. 

            Every day young Mr. Neff had eaten at my mother’s table at the National Hotel.  Every night he had slept as a paying guest in her house.  One day - near the end of his stay - the following conversation had ensued. 

            “Mrs. Rucker, will you please be so kind as to figure my bill.  My plans are to depart tomorrow after lunch.” 

            “Yes, Mr. Neff; it will be ready for you,” she said smilingly. 

            “May I be permitted to say, my dear Mrs. Rucker, that you look particularly happy today.” 

            Minnie drew herself up to her full five feet five inches, “I am, thank you, Mr. Neff.  My son has just been declared innocent.  He is now a free man." 

            Mr. Neff stammered incoherently.  “Your - your - son!  Why I had no idea!  You must b - be - I had never - even - even connected the names.  It is beyond my comprehension how you could have accorded me such excellent treatment and uncommon courtesy.  Me, the attorney for the prosecution of your son.” 

            “Why, sir.  You were a guest in my hotel and in my home, and you deserved the same treatment as any other guest.” 

            “May I say, Madam, that your son is a fine young man.  I’m sure the jury made the right decision according to the law and the evidence.  Man, in his wisdom, has never been able to devise a better plan when dealing with the life and liberty of an individual than to try him before a jury of his peers.” 

            “Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Rucker replied, “and may I say that we have never had a nicer guest at the hotel.” 

            “Those are kind words, my dear lady.  May I add that your own behavior has been exemplary.” 

            This experience was to lead to two others later.  The first, when Pat Neff was running for governor of Texas.  By that time, Mama was a leader in the community and quite a politician herself.  She led parades, marching up and down the streets favoring Votes for Women and W.C.T.U.  During his race, she had campaigned widely for candidate Neff. 

            One day Mama received the following handwritten note from Mr. Neff: 

“My dear Mrs. Rucker, 

            I want to thank you again for your excellent treatment while I was a guest in your hotel many years. ago.  I know what a busy life you lead.  I appreciate it more than tongue can tell that you paused amidst your toils to fight my battles and help me win my election to the high office of Governor.  There is no one in the whole of the Lone Star State whose support I value more highly than yours.  It is to me a blessing and a happy recollection that will linger with me until the end of life. 

Most sincerely yours,

Pat M. Neff” 

            The latter encounter I remember vividly.  I was working on my masters’ degree in speech at Northwestern University near Chicago.  I had written to Mr. Neff asking his permission to use him and his speeches as my subject for a model persuasive speaker.  He received me graciously; allowed me an interview; and presented me with two volumes of his speeches - recalling, all the while, his previous meetings with my mother and my brother. 

            For several years after Mama went into the hotel business, Brother acted as porter - meeting all the trains, carrying the baggage and escorting the traveling men across the street to the National Hotel.  He filled the shoes of bell boy, chambermaid, and head waiter - sometimes even cook when Morgan failed to turn up. 

            But he was not a very dependable worker.  Mr. Will Coffield, a frequent visitor to the hotel, might have said to a group of drummers:  “Fellows, I tell you, Mrs. Rucker can have some of the best wild game to eat that you’ve ever licked your choppers over.”  Then, early the next morning, Bob would take French leave and go hunting all day and all night with two or three cronies - whom Mama denounced as “the scum of the earth.” 

            Nearly always, they bagged considerable game:  dove, quail, duck, squirrel - sometimes even venison.  Mama would, of course, forgive him such forays despite the fact that she fussed almost constantly about his hunting and fishing, gambling and drinking, and carousing with the town sots.  Often he went fishing on the Navasota River, locally called “the Navasot.”  Mama didn’t like the river nor what went on there, such as drinking rot gut liquor and moonshine whiskey! 

            Hotel life grew a little confining for Bob’s fancy; besides, Mama kept too tight a rein for his gambling tastes; so in a few years he moved out on a farm and visited the hotel only occasionally - bringing Mama watermelons, beans, peas and tomatoes.  In the fall he would bring in a small hog or pig to be slaughtered in our back yard.  At those time Mama canned and preserved watermelon rinds, peas, juices, and made the best hog’s head cheese I’ve ever tasted, not to mention pure pork sausage, crackling bread, chitlins, and pickled pigs feet.  Brother’s contributions to the meals were always welcome. 

            How well I remember Brother teaching me to drive old Studey more than sixty years ago.  Mama, always one to try the new, had bought one of the first cars in Franklin - to accommodate her wandering foot and to cultivate a love for traveling in all of us.  It was a seven passenger model, built by the Studebaker Auto Company of South Bend, Indiana, and it sold for $685.00.  The advertisement stated that the car had free wheeling in all forward speeds with cushion power whatever that meant.  I loved the fact that it was an open touring car with canvas sides that snapped on, containing little isinglass windows for protection from rain and cold.  But the features that intrigued me most were the two jump seats that folded into the floor, and the marvelous way old Studey responded to Brother’s driving.  Our whole family went on jaunts all over Texas and several adjoining states.  Sometimes with Brother at the wheel; sometimes with Mama; and occasionally - in later years - even me! 

            One of the most momentous occasions in my brother’s life was when he was run over by a wagon with a load of 100 bales of hay.  The horses shied at a paper blowing in the road, causing the rope which was tied around the hay to break.  This threw Brother out and the wagon ran over him.  He became so ill that he could not be taken to the hospital; consequently Mama had Dr. Howard Dudgeon, a surgeon from Waco, to come to see him.  Later, Dr. Dudgeon told about this in a medical journal. 

            “We set up for the operation under the most primitive conditions - on a dining table on the back porch of the farm house.  My surgeon’s tools had been sterilized in a wash pan and there were plenty of sheets to be torn up for bandages.  The people were hanging out of trees to watch the proceedings.  When I stuck the first knife into his abdomen, the corruption gushed high.” 

            Brother recovered from this operation, but had to have about ten other operations throughout the remainder of his life for adhesions and other difficulties developing from the injury.  He always had a weak stomach and suffered intensely with indigestion, but he seldom took any medicine for any ailments.  His horror was becoming addicted to drugs.  He told me once; “When I got run over by that wagon, poor old Mammy sat by me and begged me to take morphine, but I chose not to.” 

            Brother’s first wife was named Ruth.  She was a pretty, intelligent girl with long, beautiful hair worn braided around her head.  Ruth was patient and longsuffering, but occasionally she would put her foot down and say,  “Robert,” in no uncertain terms.  But they had only five short years together and Ruth died, one of the first victims of the flu.  Brother brought their two little children to the hotel and said, “Here, Mama.  Please take them and raise them just like they were your own.”  And so Robert and Minnie came to grow up in our home and to be just the same as my little brother and sister. 

            Brother then went to work for Uncle Sam on his old, early DC6 flying jennies.  He fought the battle of Richfield in Waco, Texas.  After he was discharge, the remainder of his life was spent going off on junkets and working at first one odd job and then another.  He always seemed to live in the most out of the way, inaccessible spots that could be found.  He worked as a driller in the oil fields; he helped to build Possum Kingdom Dam in West Texas.  Brother also worked in Mexia.  On this job as well as on others, Bob felt that he couldn’t live up to Mama’s expectations for him; he never seemed able to make a living. 

            In the early years he had a livery stable and ran a service car in Franklin.  In between jobs he would settle down on a rented farm in some remote part of Robertson County to farm and hunt and fish and to raise and train hunting dog.  Once when his Model T exploded and burned up; once to make the down payment on a secluded farm in Arkansas; and on other occasions to numerous to mention, Brother would borrow some money at the First National Bank in Franklin.  Mama always went on his note.  Also, whenever Brother got too sick to work anywhere, Mama would get on the train and go to him; she would arrange for doctors and hospitals.  As often as not, Mama would meet the obligations on the notes and pay the hospital bills herself.  Brother would always promise to repay these debts, but he somehow forgot. 

            As a token of his good intentions one time when Bob came home from the oil fields he gave Mama $1,000.00 and bought her a rocking chair.  This much for years of loving care for two children.  Oh, yes, I forgot that he did leave his bank account - built up somewhat from pension checks - and his almost valueless East Texas farm near Telephone to his children and to me when he died a few years ago.  But he lost the best friend he ever had at Mama’s death.  Lizzie, too, his second wife, was a very good friend and helpmate.  She stuck by him through thick and thin - often cooking and washing dishes in a local cafe for their food.  In a strange sort of half-hearted way, Brother always seemed a little ashamed of Lizzie’s lack of education, her slovenly appearance, and filthy way of living.  But he need not have been because we all loved Lizzie for herself and for her unselfish care of Robert as long as she lived. 

            Why did Mama do so much for Brother?  Who knows?  Perhaps it was just a normal mother’s love for her son.  Perhaps it was because he was the only man in her life.  “Perhaps”, (as she often confided to me when I would crawl into her Jenny Lind bed with her on a cold night) “he sort of takes the place of my father, my brother, and my husband.” 

            What went on in her heart no one will ever know.  Never, during the four remaining years of his life, had she spoken an accusing word to her father, who had been remanded to her custody.  Never had she blamed Robert for being responsible for the tragedy that had changed her life.  But a picture of my father, taken on the day he became County Clerk always hung over the desk in the National Hotel. 

                To me, Bob was my big brother and he could do no wrong.  He was the good-looking, dashing Prince Charming who made infrequent visits to our planet, always with stylish clothes.  Stetson hat, new automobile - or else with watermelons or produce or chickens.  He would perch for a short while on the outskirts of our lives and then fly off for some new adventure.  He represented romance in my young life; and when he’d say:  “Come climb on my knee and I’ll tell you a tale of Booger County.” I could have listened indefinitely. 

            I could just picture the way he looked when he stepped off a curb in Los Angeles, all decked out in his cowboy boots and western pants; a cop called out to him above the roar of traffic:  “Hi! Texas.” 

            I loved to hear Brother tell stories about people he had known.  The one that topped them all was the story of Mr. Eldridge.  He was an old man with very comical characteristics - chief among which was his chin whiskers.  He also had the habit of adding “awh” to every statement he made.  I’ve seen Bob actually wipe tears from his eyes as he would say:  “Get down, Bill,” (his favorite nickname for me), “I’ve told you all the tales I can think of today - Awh”, and his chin whiskers stood out - in perfect imitation of Mr. Eldridge. 

            When I think back over the professions my brother might have entered instead of leading his wandering, aimless life, I realize how he frittered away his talents. 

            He might have been a lawyer or politician had he devoted to those professions the time which he gave to animals or drunks.  In a letter written to me, he once confessed “Yes, Ruth, I wish I had studied Latin more when I took it in High school.”  Goodness knows, Bob grew up in an atmosphere that was crowded with those influences in the county seat of Robertson County.  Instead, he turned these leanings to being a deputy, or a member of a posse, or a prison guard.  With his remembrance of detail, the charm of his voice, and his gift for being a raconteur, I feel sure that he could have been either a writer or speaker.  Had he devoted his sense of timing, his accuracy, and his splendid physique to professional baseball (one of his minor loves) he might have been another Babe Ruth.  I know he could have been a surgeon if he had given that same devotion for operating and healing to the human race rather than to dogs, horses and cows! 

            Ah!  the professions he might have excelled in had he not been haunted by a curse, pursued by demons, born under an unlucky star!  Often enough had he confided to me, his little sister Ruth, his dreams and ambitions - and doubtings.  He was willing to work hard, loved nature, had an infinite capacity for making friends and entertaining them; but he was to go through life never realizing his full potential.  However, I am confident that he loved the life he lived. 

           Well, I guess I could just keep on writing about Brother for hours and hours; but there are lots of stories I want to tell about his children and my sister Jimmie’s and my own daughter - born late in my life - and their relationship to Mama and to the National Hotel.  So I shall end this dissertation with Brother’s own words as he recorded them a few years ago on my tape recorder. 

            “Sitting here in my wheelchair in the Veteran’s Hospital in Bonham, Texas, I contemplate on how Booger County got its name.  It’s a well known fact that old Robertson County, Texas, is known far and wide as Booger County.  Why just a few years ago there were so many families from Robertson County living on one street in the metropolis of Houston that they put up sign in their yard reading Booger County Avenue. 

            “ There was never but two men who knew the whole story of the renowned moniker of Robertson County; they were Ben Myatt and R. L. Rucker.  Ben started the whole shootin’ match being aided and abetted by myself. 

            “A little past the turn of the century, Ben was living out of Bremond where I went one summer to assist him with some dog training.  While we were shootin’ the breeze one night, he observed that ‘the time was ripe for a Booger scare.‘  So he set about making a Dumb Bull.  A Dumb Bull is a man-made voice of a Booger, which Ben considered essential.  I tried to do exactly like Ben.  After some searching, I found a small hollow juniper tree, cut off about a three-foot length and stretched over it, drum-like, a piece of fresh or green cowhide.  To make sure it was right, I fastened it with a solid row of tacks.  After it had completely dried, then I made a small hole in the center of the hide and ran a cord about half the size of a writin’ pencil through the hole, down the hollow, and extendin’ about two feet more.  On the string was tied a small, strong stick to keep it from pullin’ through the cowhide.  Then I worked a heavy coat of rosin into the string.  Ben called the contrivance his lion and when he would hold the string tight with one hand and grip the cord in the other hand, the resultant sawing noise - shrill or coarse - would sound like a real Booger.  With a little practice on the string and the stick and the cord, I could produce a sonorous roar that would make the Ringling Brothers’ lion sound like a pussy cat. 

            “The fear generated by the offensive sound soon spread among the habitants, people and livestock.  On one occasion, an old Polander was driving a gentle old horse to a single buggy.  He thought he heard a noise, which he did.  My lion just murmured a light “meow”; the driver stopped his horse.  Then the lion belted out a pretty good bellow and the gentle old horse gave one powerful lunge forward and broke the shafts loose from the buggy, took off for the tail and undercut, and was not seen for a week. 

            “Occasionally, during the next several years, I would resurrect the Booger.  Once a little old crazy locoed mule fell into a ravine about ten feet keep and killed itself.  So, via the pocket knife, I made a few jabs in one shoulder where the Booger had held on with his claws and cut the mule’s throat with his claws on the other foot.  This convinced the country boys that the Booger had caught and killed him for sure.  The Booger did not eat any flesh - just drank the mule’s blood and left. 

            “It was this last touch which proved too much.  The people in the neighborhood were literally scared to death.  Their children had to walk to school down country roads, so dozens of families kept their kids at home or else moved out, lock, stock, and barrel. 

            “I could plainly see the handwritin’ on the wall.  The Booger had to go.  Now he remains in name only.  When you get a thing like that rollin’, there’s just no place to stop halfway; it keeps getting bigger and bigger ’til quittin’ is the only way out.  I hung the Dumb Bull forever on a nail behind the door, reluctantly cut the old lion’s throat, and buried him - facin’ (leaning slightly as the gun had leaned fifty years before) East.”

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