Los Hermanos Guzman

These are the Guzman brothers, Paul and Luis. If they look like they’re hard working guys, friendly, and with a good sense of humor, that’s because they are. My kind of people. I met them in McAdoo.

McAdoo, Texas

McAdoo lies 55 miles east of Lubbock, in between Crosbyton to the west, and Dickens to the east, on SH 114. As the first sign indicates, you take a right off the westbound highway, and travel north on FM 264 about 3.4 miles, which takes you to another McAdoo sign, this time without the arrow, and you’ll know you’ve arrived. Population estimates vary, but I think somewhere around 50 is about right, with about 90 total in the local zip code of 79243.

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What you’re looking for, is what you’ll find

What would your expectations be, pulling into a dusty little place like McAdoo? A place set back a few miles off the main highway, with just a few houses, a small post office, and a population of less than a hundred–other than that, what would you expect to find in a place like this? If your answer is ‘not much,’ then you’d be right–for you. Simply because that’s your expectation. If ‘not much’ is what you’re looking for, then ‘not much,’ almost by definition, is more than likely what you’re going to find.

But what if you started with a different assumption, a different belief? What if you started with the sincere belief that there are, in fact, interesting people and stories here, or anywhere for that matter, and that your challenge, is simply whether or not you can find them? Karl Weick, a psychologist, takes this well-known phrase: ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ and turns it around: ‘I’ll see it, only after I first believe it.’ The stories are there, you just have to find them. And whatever it is that you’re looking for, determines what you’re likely to find. The converse is true as well–what you’re not looking for, you’ll likely overlook, even if it’s right in front of you.

If the current population here was zero, and all that remained was the rubble of a ghost town–even then, with a little digging, the historical stories of a hundred years ago are right here for the telling and re-telling. Or you could dig (literally) much deeper, to find the geological stories of when this area was an ancient sea, millions of years ago. There are stories of the future as well–ask the botanists or the biologists to envision what the plant life or wild life will look like around here, a hundred or even a thousand years from now. The stories in McAdoo are limitless, just as they are for you, wherever you may be. Can you see them?

This is the mindset that I now try to maintain, on the way from Dallas to Lubbock. I say ‘try to maintain’ because it’s easy for me to get lazy, to think ‘there’s not much here,’ to give up and move on. In urban environments, there’s a million things looking for your attention. Out here it’s you that has to do the lookin’. You have to look a little closer; pay a lot more attention. Giving up and moving on was a mistake I would have made with McAdoo, if it weren’t for a stranger’s West Texas Wave.

West Texas Wave

I’d seen the sign for McAdoo many times before, and if I recall, may have even visited once, years ago, to check out the historical cemetery there. On this particular trip, I was trying to get to Lubbock before sundown, and traveling therefore with a mindset that’s never advisable out here on the plains. That mindset is called: ‘being in a hurry.’ Don’t get me wrong, you can drive as fast as you dare, it’s just that the distances involved (and the attitudes of many you meet) are impervious to your haste. Life in West Texas seems to move fast and slow, at the same time. “I’ll just take a quick look” I told my citified self, turning north off the highway onto FM 246.

At the intersection with FM 193, there’s a sun-bleached sign marking the center of town–“Welcome to McAdoo”–informing visitors and reminding residents of their state championships in basketball, in ’60, ’63, and ’64, under Coach Fabian Lemly. Three championships in a four-year span. Pretty impressive.

To the left of the sign, you can see a rusted-out basketball goal. It took me a while to line up this shot, fiddling with the camera while also keeping a wary eye on the giant red ants at my feet. I suppose I thought I was pretty clever, acknowledging the glory of the past basketball championships, and the harsher realities of the present, all in a single frame. “That’ll make for an interesting photo about McAdoo, if not an entire story,” I rationalized, being in a hurry to cut my visit short and get back on the road.

I’d gone about half of the three miles back to the highway, when a truck appeared up the road, traveling in the opposite direction, toward McAdoo. It was the kind of truck you see all the time out here–half-ton, flat-bed, painted white or maybe beige, but always with a dusting of red dirt–driven by the kind of drivers you see all the time out here–hat, plaid shirt, dark glasses, face tanned almost as dark as the glasses.

And just as he passed, he laid it on me: the West Texas Wave. Sometimes known as ‘the high sign,’ it’s a friendly gesture, an acknowledgement of you and your passing, involving the lifting of a single finger from off the wheel, usually the index finger of either the right or left hand. It’s a leisurely gesture, like most gestures out here^[1]Except gestures involving the middle finger, which, while rare compared to the frequency seen in city life, can occasionally be seen, particularly when driving slow (i.e. anything under 70) in the … Continue reading, but seeing as how you’re approaching one another at a combined speed of at least 150 mph, as was the case here, there’s really no time to ‘respond’ to someone else’s overture. A successful exchange is the kind of maneuver requiring both parties to anticipate, and then execute, simultaneously; a little bit of countrified choreography, unfolding at 150 mph–another one of those fast/slow things. Except I missed it. I was in a hurry, or distracted, not sure, but I clumsily responded. And of course it was too late. He was long gone, headed north in my rear-view mirror.

I felt bad. He knows this car isn’t from around here. Relations between folks in the city and the country are distant already, and now I’ve gone and made it worse. I was reminded of my new neighbor back home. He moved in a year or so ago, and to this day, he’s never waved back. Not a single time. I live on a quiet street, kind of out in the country. We know who neighbors are, and people generally drive slow, so there’s plenty of time to respond. But in his case, he intentionally avoids making eye contact, or so it seems to me. Shamefully, I’ll admit that recently I make it a point to always wave, and bigger than ever, just to be a little ornery. No luck so far. But now I’d just done unintentionally, what I’d accused my neighbor of doing intentionally, and I felt bad about it. Countrified karma. But intentional or otherwise, a snub is a snub; a non-returned wave, is a non-returned wave.

Obviously, I had no choice: I made a u-turn, and returned to McAdoo.

Now with my mind right, I found exactly what I was looking for

I drove straight to the only open business I could find–Crosby County Fuel at 101 N. Main. I walked inside, explained who I was and why I was there, and ended up spending the better part of that afternoon, and some of the next, with Paul and Luis Guzman and their customers, sharing stories and wisdom and BS, about all manner of things, including: the history of McAdoo; how to determine when you’ve crossed over into (or out of) ‘West Texas;’ how “No Loafing” signs actually encourage it, especially among farmers; how the memories of those who’ve gone on before us are sometimes pleasant, sometimes painful; the cost of crop insurance; and the “World Famous” beef and bean burritos at Allsup’s.

As an added bonus, they also introduced me to Bub Eldridge, lifetime resident of McAdoo, current farmer/rancher, and former player and later coach of–wouldn’t you know it–the McAdoo Eagles basketball team.

Crosby County Fuel

As of now, Crosby County Fuel is also the only retail business in McAdoo, so it serves as a gathering point for nearby farmers. Luis Guzman manages the store:

“They get together every morning.  They have coffee and discuss stuff. How’s your cotton? You know, ‘why you doin’ this, why you doin’ that?’ It’s a community of farmers that really do help each other. It’s really good to watch. It’s not that way everywhere. Some people are real private. It seems like here, they will discuss anything…they’re pretty open.

These days you have a lot of outside competition that you don’t see, like the internet, Amazon… Everybody’s always trying to get the cheaper price, but sometimes with the cheaper price you give up service. I like to think that that’s what I bring to the game is service…fixing this, or giving a little of information on cotton, what chemicals they should use, cotton seed, milo, you know, a little bit of everything, welding, auto mechanics–I know a lot for not knowin’ a lot. And the big thing is, you know, they’re [the farmers] willing to want to do stuff. You can have somebody work somewhere that doesn’t want to do it, and is not going to put out any extra effort. But these guys make it hard to not want to do stuff for them.”

But of course it’s not all about work. The farmers often gather again in the afternoon, usually around 3:30, “or ‘ice cream thirty’ as they like to call it,” said Luis. “I buy Swan’s ice cream and I put it in the freezer so they’ll have snacks. We love messin’ with each other. That is a definite. We’re like a family. We love givin’ each other a hard time.”

In addition to official bulletins and flyers that cover the walls, there’s also several signs and photos that catch your eye, like the “No Loafing” sign above. I asked Luis about that one:

“Jamey Young brought that in. He’s a big jokester. I mean, he’s hilarious. He once drove a convertible car through a flaming bale of hay. [Just for the hell of it?] Well, I think there might have been some alcohol involved, but he did it. [How old is Jamie?] He’s probably in his late fifties or maybe sixties now. [And how long ago was this flaming car episode?] It was before I got here…he’s a legend.  [But the sign, it doesn’t work, because…] It’s what we do.”

My personal favorite, however, both the photo and the story behind it, were about Bill Berry.

“They were building a barn.  And uh, they were diggin’ this hole with this auger.  And the guy across the street asked him, you know, do you think that’s big enough?  And he [Bill] he jumped in there.  And he said ‘Yep!’  And he [the guy across the street] said, ‘we kinda contemplated burying him, but we were afraid we’d grow more of him, so they took him out.’  He was a really funny guy.”

Memories pleasant and painful

Tragically, Mr. Berry was killed in an accident last September, but his memory lives on with his Family and the larger McAdoo community, and of course with all the visitors, including me now, to Crosby County Fuel.^[3]Billy Don (Bill) Berry. Per the Family’s wishes, contributions in Bill’s honor, can be made to the McAdoo Volunteer Fire Dept., P.O. Box 79, McAdoo, TX 79243, or to the First Baptist … Continue reading. Through the stories of others, we can come to know and appreciate the lives and even the humor, of those whom we never had the chance to meet.

Another member of the McAdoo community was taken just a couple months before Mr. Berry, when Luis’ daughter-in-law, Star, was killed in a traffic collision north of nearby Crosbyton, just one day after her 27th birthday. Luis refers to to her as his daughter. “She was like my kid. She was a very active girl. She did a lot of school stuff. She was really, really involved.” A remembrance was held on a Friday night after her passing. “There was over 50 people there, and it was midnight and there were still people there. It was really good. This little bunch of people out here…they’re really great people.” ^[4]Estrella K. Rivera Guzman. Per the Family’s wishes, you can plant a tree in her memory, in cooperation with the Arbor Day Foundation.

‘West Texas’: How do you know when you’ve entered or exited?

Whenever I meet and talk with people on the way from Dallas to Lubbock, I like to let the conversations meander wherever they will. A couple of questions, however, always seem to evoke a variety of responses, or puzzlement, so I try to remember to throw those into the mix. And one of them is simply this: Where’s the boundary of ‘West Texas’? How do you know when you’ve entered or left?

Of course you could refer to various delineations of the boundaries, some more official than others, based on topography, geology, certain cities and lines between them, certain trees–presence or absence of same, rainfall, meridian lines, rivers, highways (I-35 in particular), county lines, etc. Or, as some will say ‘West Texas is an idea, a state of mind,’ with which I can certainly agree.^[5]You can find more on this important debate here, or here or here. But the Guzman brothers offered me two of the most clear and concise definitions yet: “When you’re out of Allsup’s, you’re out of West Texas,” referring to the convenience stores that do indeed seem to spring up naturally at every paved intersection in the towns around here. Okay, not bad. Not perfect, but not bad. But I liked this one better: “When the people you pass stop waving, you’ll know you’ve left West Texas.” That’s a good one. Then I told them the story above. Turns out his name was Lonnie Perryman. Apologies, Lonnie; I owe you one.

“He probably knew you’re from the city. Two signs that people don’t live here: They either don’t wave, or they pull up and you hear their car go ‘beep beep’ when they lock their doors.”

So the debate about the boundaries of West Texas will go on forever, just as it should. But no worries, because you can pass along a little of that rarefied state of mind, however you define it, and wherever you are. Just give ’em a friendly wave, and don’t hold it against them if they don’t reciprocate.

Beef and Bean Burritos

Speakin’ of Allsup’s, have you ever had one of their beef and bean burritos? That’s a question that Paul had for me, not too long after I’d arrived. I sensed that it was some kind of a test of my bona fides, of one sort or another, and that I should answer carefully. “Uh, no?” I said cautiously, phrased like a statement, but spoken like a question. “Are they good?” I asked, hoping to deflect any criticism by soliciting his own views instead.

Apparently, this worked, Or, more likely, I’d read into his question a suspicion that was never there in the fist place–it was, after all, just a question. Well then, you have to try them, he told me. You can get one at the Allsup’s in Crosbyton, on your way to Lubbock. Okay I will, I promised. And this time, for the first time, I do think there was a bit of suspicion on his face, a flash of doubt, that I would actually follow through. I’m definitely going, I repeated, and I think he believed me. When you leave here, I’ll call over there and have them make up some fresh ones, he promised–a promise, I would find out the next day, that he kept.

The drive west to Crosbyton took about 15 minutes. I pulled into the Allsup’s, went inside, found the heated case where the burritos were, waited in line behind the obligatory-elderly-person-scratching-off-lottery-tickets-without-stepping-aside-from-the-register (her t-shirt read “Busy Doin’ Nothin'”–ain’t that the truth), and the person behind her, who ordered three of the burritos. “Seems those are a big seller” I said to her, receiving a blank stare in response–hey, not everyone’s friendly, even in West Texas. Then it was my turn. I asked for a beef and bean burrito, boldly labeled “World Famous” right there on the wrapper, and also, what the hell, a Chimichanga too, labeled more modestly, as simply “Chimi.” I told the clerk that I’d talked to some guys in McAdoo, who told me I just had to try these. The Guzman brothers? she asked with a smile. Yes, the very same.

I returned to my car, pulled into the shade of a billboard at the edge of the parking lot, snapped these two photos, and enjoyed my lunch. Not bad. Not bad at all. Then I got back on the road to Lubbock. What I didn’t know then, is that I had been under close surveillance the whole time.

The following day, after meeting with some people in Lubbock, and before heading back home, I stopped for lunch at one of my favorite little places there: Raider Burrito (2102 19th Street. 1 806-771-1178 There’s no website.) Nothing fancy, just great food. If you’re ever in the area, do yourself a favor. The salsa there is excellent. So I ordered a pint of it to go, placed it in a cooler, and hit the road. Arriving in Crosbyton, I stopped by the Allsup’s again, and picked up three beef and bean burritos–one for each of the brothers, and one for at least one other person who would, with absolute certainty, be visiting (It turned out to be Steven Walker, who was there with his young son Lane (aka “Chaos”), and who taught me a little about how crop insurance works. I’m not sure the third burrito ever made alive it to Steven–I’ll have to follow-up on that).

This time as well, the person in front of me in line had also ordered a burrito. Undeterred by previous rejection of my social overture (we boomers are often like this) I tried again: Seems like these are a best seller, I ventured. Well, that’s because they’re good, she said, slowly and in a flat, matter of fact way, as if what I’d said was so patently obvious that it didn’t deserve a response, other than one intended, perhaps out of pity, to educate me. In any case, it was an improvement over the blank stare of my previous encounter. On a roll now, I pressed my luck, this time with the clerk, a different one than last time. Some guys in McAdoo told me I had to try these, I ventured. The Guzman brothers? she asked with a smile. Yes, the very same.

15 minutes later, I pulled into Crosby County Fuel to deliver the goods. The second I opened the door, it was on.

[P] Paul; [J] Jeff; [L] Luis

[L]: How you doin’ my friend?

[P]: They called me about you yesterday.

[J]: Who did?

[P]: The lady. She goes, he came by here. I said do me a favor, I said I’ll even pay for it, I said make him two fresh burritos, ‘cuz they’re good friends of mine. She thought it was a joke.

[J]: Uh uh. I don’t joke around about that kind of stuff.

[P]: What’s that? [in the bag I was carrying]

[J]: It’s a burrito. I got two, now there’s three in there…so…so here’s…I went to Lubbock. There’s a place there called Raider Burrito.

[P]: Yes.

[J]: You know it?

[P]: Luis does. I’ve never eaten there. Luis says Raider Burrito, there’s a few other like, Mexican restaurants…

[J]: That’s the real deal.

[P]:…that are the real deal.

So of all the Mexican restaurants in Lubbock–certainly there must be dozens?–they knew of the one I went to, to pick up some salsa. Coincidence? Perhaps. Later, Luis would tell me that Paul, even though he had never eaten there, had immediately identified it, just by the bag.  That’s next level stuff.

Then I told them about my recent stop at Allsup’s, a few minutes before:

[J]: I went there just now and it was a different crew, okay?

[P]: Yes.

[J]: And I said, these guys in McAdoo told me yesterday to come here.  And they’re like: ‘The Guzman brothers?’  So you can’t…there’s no secrets.  You know, you can’t get away with anything around here.  So anyway, there’s some salsa and some burritos.

[P]: Well we sure do appreciate it.

Then, I heard about the covert surveillance from the day before, where Paul’s friend at the Allsup’s had called to give him the full play-by-play that I had bought not just one but two, what kind, where I parked, the photos I took, etc.  Good thing I wasn’t doing anything illegal I told them.

[P]: Well, she said ‘I think he’s taking a picture of the burrito.  Like he’s across the street.  I can see everything he’s doin’, he’s eatin’ it.’  I’m like, play-by-play

[J]: Oh my God…play-by-play

Hasta luego, Amigos!

These are not epic tales, the kind they show in the movie theater.  But in many ways, they are more than that, because they’re true stories, of the real lives, of real people.  No fake explosions, no stunt doubles, no need to exaggerate. 

If you’re looking for adventure, you can hear stories of convertibles being driven through flaming hay bales—as told by driver who survived it.  If it’s humor you’re after, I’d challenge you to come up with something funnier, than farmers pulling someone out of a hole, not because he was stuck, but because ‘they were afraid they’d grow more of him.’  And if technology is your thing, you can witness first-hand how cell phones and the internet, have now enabled small-town gossip—already legendary in its speed—to travel to neighboring towns and beyond, at something approaching the speed of light.  In any case, if it’s the good and the positive in people that you’re looking for, you will find it here.  This I believe. As is always the case, if I slow down, and look around, great people and stories are all around.

Finally, I think about how close I was to not meeting any of these people, to hearing none of their stories.  I think about how little effort, really, it took to change all that (Thanks, Lonnie), and how much I’ve gained as a result. Hopefully they will see their stories being honored here, as some small amount of repayment. 

We said our goodbyes, and I was on the road, but already looking forward to the next trip back.

[P] Paul; [J] Jeff; [L] Luis; [S] Stephen

[J]: See you guys!

[P]: Thank you.

[S]: We appreciate you stopping by.

[J]: My pleasure, see you.

[L]: Any time you wanna stop by you can.