Road Trip to Baird, Texas

Due to the significance of the discovery in this particular post, I decided to extract a passage directly from my book.

Magic Hour, Hwy 36 near Cross Plains, TX

It was early Saturday morning, September 6th, 2009, and since Andi had flown back to California to visit some friends the day before, I was on my own for the weekend. Before dawn, I was on the road, bound for Baird. The drive was long, but scenic, over hill and dale through some of the most picturesque landscapes that the Texas Hill Country could offer. Since the hour was early, I had hardly any company on the highway, so I wasn’t modest about negotiating some of the curves beyond the posted limits.  

With some of my best friends in California and Colorado being professional photographers, I had become familiar with a phenomenon they referred to as “magic hour.” This is a window of opportunity that only presents itself shortly after dawn, and just before dusk, offering pristine conditions for photographing landscapes and other subjects dependent on ambient light.  Somewhere North of Cedar Park, magic hour arrived in its prime, and made it difficult for me to keep my eyes on the road. I passed grand old oaks by the score, with their corkscrewing branches twisting in random chaos, and forming perfectly symmetrical canopies of shimmering green. Endless groves of mesquite, prickly pear cacti and sage carpeted the panorama from horizon to horizon. I encountered an innumerable population of deer along this stretch of highway, some standing, some running, and some that unfortunately didn’t make it back safely from the creek. My route led me through a small town that appeared frozen in time, on my way to Baird, Texas called “Cross Plains.” It’s name rang a familiar bell with me for some reason, and as I followed a detour that led me through a somewhat residential area, I spotted a modest, white single-story home with a large sign in the front yard which read: “Historic Home of Robert E. Howard.” I grinned ear-to-ear, and muttered to myself, “no-way.”  

Home of Robert E. Howard, Fantasy Fiction author,
and creator of "Conan the Barbarian." 

As an eighth and ninth grader, I had found Howard’s stories of fantasy swordplay fiction so beguiling, and the characters who emerged from them —larger than life, and formidable— were my heroes, despite their perennial moral complexity. In the 1930’s and 1940’s Howard created an alternate world similar to those of Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis. Howard’s Cimmerian realm however, was much more tawdry and promiscuous, with danger and dread lying in wait around every corner —the perfect combination for an introverted and rebellious teen, hopelessly plagued with creative aspirations. Paired with my admiration for the equally transporting qualities I discovered in the art of Boris Vallejo, and Frank Frazetta, the stories of King Kull, and Conan the Barbarian perpetuated my imagination through my artistic efforts, and my short-lived phase of all-night reading and drawing marathons. As fate would have it, the Howard home was closed, as it was early on a Saturday morning, so I continued North toward Baird, disgruntled, but hopeful. 

After leaving the town of Cross Plains in my rear view, it seemed like I had traveled a hundred miles north via Highway 283 without seeing any sign of life, when gradual hints of civilization began to emerge. Random turnoffs to endless gravel roads increased in frequency. A pair of garishly painted pintos stood like bookends, staring out at me from their barbed-wire barriers, their pasture littered with dozens of classic autos, now rusty deteriorating hulks, sunken partially into the earth.  Finally, a road sign announced that Baird was only a few miles ahead. Along with my Canon G9 digital still camera, I had also packed a small Panasonic video camera, and kept it within reach in the passenger seat, just in case I spotted something worth documenting during my drive. I decided that the trip itself was reason enough, so I passed the time recording a brief narrative on-camera as I drove, chronicling the events, which had led up to the trip. This exercise proved to be an effective method to help me avoid road-coma, and to record details that I might eventually forget, though at the time, I wasn’t sure what I was to do with it all.  

Calahan County Courthouse

Eventually, I grew tired of listening to my own voice, and pulled off the highway. I drove down a long thoroughfare that led me to an old, 2-story brick building, which I later identified as the Callahan County courthouse. I turned left down Market Street and struggled to locate the “Whistle Stop” café, where I was to meet up with Tom Ivey. I had perused the town’s official website before leaving Austin, and now, as I drove past the nearly abandoned sidewalks it became clear why Baird was known as “The Antique Capitol of Central Texas.” Antique stores lined each side of the street all the way down to its abrupt end where another ominous historic brick building stood. Here stood the Baird Railroad Depot, Visitor’s Center and Transportation Museum. Just like the home of Robert E. Howard, it too was closed.  Denied! Again!

Market Street, Baird, TX

I turned around, and drove up Market Street in the opposite direction, and spotted the tiny sign above “The Whistle Stop Café.”  I entered the restaurant, and suffice it to say, it was exactly how I had pictured it. An elderly gentleman sat alone at a four-top table near the kitchen, and I approached him slowly. He peered over his newspaper, and addressed me in his unmistakable drawl. “You must be Steve.” I shook his hand firmly, and took my place across from him at his table. We ordered lunch, and had a good conversation, in person this time. I was impressed that he respectfully referred to my great-great uncle as “Mister Banks.” We reaffirmed many details throughout our conversation, and when the dishes were cleared, he insisted on treating me to lunch. I obliged, and we made our way out to our vehicles. I followed Tom and his two large canines who rode in the cab of his pickup truck beyond the Baird city limits, and out to Highway 283, which became Cherry Street, after crossing North over Highway 20. It wasn’t long before we turned down a narrow gravel road, which led to Ross Cemetery, where Henry was reportedly interred in 1889. I was surprised and a bit intimidated at how large the graveyard was. Tom assured me that the dates on the headstones followed a chronological pattern, for the most part, and he would lead me to where the dates coincided with Henry’s date of death. We strolled along parallel paths that oddly had street names like “Live Oak”, “Red Bud”, and “Pear”, all along inspecting each headstone for names and dates.

From an old map of Ross Cemetery, dated in the 1940's.

Finally, we reached a large plot with a handful of older markers, which shared the familiar surname: “Bowlus.” We had discovered Henry’s in-laws, who were buried together with other members of the Bowlus family who had lived before them, and after. “Well,” Tom said,  “like I told you on the phone, there’s a good number of unmarked plots in this general area.” “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Banks wound up in one of them.” I wasn’t giving up that easily, and though I nodded in agreement to Tom’s comment, I continued to inspect each grave in the vicinity, until I wandered far into the twentieth century stones. It was a typical September afternoon in Central Texas, and the temperature was well into the 90’s. I walked carefully between plots, both marked, and unmarked, and eventually arrived next to Tom, who was resting on his truck’s tailgate, in the shade with his two panting companions. He was studying a large paper scroll. He slid it over to me, and I recognized it as an old plot plan for Ross Cemetery. “Here’s something interesting.” He said, pointing to a small rectangle on the fading schematic. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Just as each plot was identified with a surname, this small speck belonged to “Banks”. Its proximity to the “Bowlus” family plot, and the similarity in age shared by other graves nearby, made it unmistakable. This had to be where they laid my Uncle Henry to rest! I turned to Mr. Ivey and said, “My God Tom, I think we’ve found him.”  He agreed. 

Uncle Henry's grave, just to the left of the cement footing

I carried the scroll over to the Banks plot. It was a bare, non-descript stretch of sod, and I stood before it with thoughts racing through my mind faster than I could measure. I took an inventory of the multitude of events, which led me to this place, and the years of discovery that culminated to this very moment. I marveled at the coincidental parallel of Henry’s impromptu relocation to Texas —of all places— and my own migration to the lone star state. I was overwhelmed by the chance discovery of Henry’s bible in my father’s study, and the coincidental encounters with perfect strangers who unknowingly guided me, thus far with their helpful assistance and advice. I shook Tom’s hand, and thanked him for his time and efforts, wishing I could repeat the gesture with every one of my contributors. 

I surveyed the area once again, and documented every detail with photographs, in order to keep my facts together for future reference. According to Tom’s schematic, it was unclear whether or not there was once a marker, or headstone present during the survey in the 1940’s. I presented an idea to Tom, who was in absolute agreement. “I think Henry deserves a stone,” I said. “A Civil War veteran, wounded in action should have a bona-fide Union Infantry marker.” 

Veterans Services Officer, Tom Ivey and friends

I only had a photograph of Henry’s small wooden bible to share with Tom while I was in Baird. The relic itself was somewhere safe in our storage unit, back in Austin, or so I assumed. After spending the afternoon at Uncle Henry’s graveside, it became a new priority to locate it. Since Andi and her friends had been in charge of packing up my office in California while I was job-hunting three states away, I assumed it had been stowed safely, but with the slight risk of it being misplaced, or lost while out from under my supervision, I was almost afraid to begin looking for it. Nevertheless, I shared the photographs of Henry’s memento with Mr. Ivey, and we discussed details of what it would take to procure the proper Civil War era headstone from the Veteran’s Administration. Since Tom was in charge of organizing Veteran’s services and the like for Callahan County, he had been through this exercise before. He would draft up the necessary forms for me. We agreed that I had reached the end of my search, and had already collected all the proof that was necessary to appease those in charge at the V.A., but I wasn’t yet satisfied. I wasn’t ready to close the book of Henry’s biography quite yet. I had found the place, which marked his death, yet there was so much more to learn about his life. 

Baird's Train Depot, late 1800's

Tom and I said our goodbyes, with a promise to stay in touch, and to continue to keep our “eyes peeled” for anything of interest relating to the case of Henry Ira Banks, and his short-lived term as a Texan. I watched in my rear view as Tom waved in my direction. He stood with a garden hose in his hand, watering a tree, which shaded some of the plots that surrounded Henry’s. I noticed one of Tom’s loyal dogs, which had crept up next to him, and sat against his leg, earning the reward of a pat on the head.  Dust which rose from the dirt and gravel driveway suddenly obscured the scene, and I shifted my attention to another long stretch of highway opening up ahead of me. 

Baird's Depot & Museum, present-day.

However, something inside prompted me to choose a detour, and for one final glance, I drove slowly through Baird, past the ancient courthouse, and down Market Street once again. I parked at the end of the empty avenue where the Train Depot stood, stepped out of my SUV with camera in hand, and scanned the scene for photo-ops. As I snapped a few frames, I studied the townscape, mentally peeling away the antique signs, and gaudy, modern facades in order to visualize, and contemplate the scenery through Uncle Henry’s eyes, at the moment of his arrival in 1889. I walked up the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the train depot, the most likely “jumping-off” point for a transplanted Kansas farmer and his new bride, ready to start a new life together in an established, and growing Texas town. I imagined a bustling anthill of activity that once filled, and flanked the street. I imagined a street abuzz with horses, coaches, wagons and folks crowned with bowlers and bonnets, going about their daily exercises fueled by nineteenth-century supply and demand. I strolled for a while, in Henry’s footsteps.