Growing up, our family friends, we'll call them “The Friedrichs,” had a piece of land in Smithville, Texas. They came from Michigan to the Austin area in the 80s and, like my family, bought property out in the country to escape the evils of Austin because we knew what others didn’t: The end times were near and Jesus said in his sermon on the Mount of Olives that there will come a time to "flee to the mountains.” Mountains are few in Central Texas, so to us that meant fleeing the big cities but staying close enough for our dads to commute to their high paying salaries so they could afford their large plots of land and make money on Limousine or Angus cattle or whatever new city-slicker dream they would think up. Most of our church's congregation would end up buying land in Bastrop, Smithville, Rosanky and surrounding areas, about half an hour’s drive from Austin. My family bought a 13-acre ranch in Red Rock - not large enough to be a working ranch, but big enough to become a glorified petting zoo of chickens, ducks, cows, goats, sheep, donkeys and horses.
The Friedrich family had a matching child in age to each of my siblings and my best friend was the oldest daughter, closest in age to me. Their father worked at a large food supply company and their mother, like all of our mothers at the time, was a stay-at-home-mom who worked seasonally at Target to buy extra Christmas presents for the family. All the moms gathered together at this family's home often for bible studies. There was a large bay window in the kitchen that had a view out to the pool so they could keep an eye on both the kids swimming and their husbands on the deck grilling burgers or surveying the surrounding properties. The kitchen was decorated in a white-and-blue duck motif: wallpaper with ducks in bonnets, a duck cookie jar, duck salt & pepper shakers.
We’d swim for hours under the billowing barbecue pit smoke and the neighbor's three-legged dog who'd wandered over shuffling around the pool, would beg for wet child hands to pet his head or offer snacks. One of the parents would inevitably bellow, ”Ok, kids, time to get out of the pool!" which was always met with groans of "Already?!”and fighting over towels, somehow there were never enough.
One of our favorite things to do outside of swimming at The Friedrich’s was to get dirty. We played with algae, sticks and tadpoles in the shallow, muddy waters and pretended to be runaways looking for sustenance. My sister once injured herself there climbing beneath a fence in her favorite red boots while we were adventuring. The rusty barbed wire punctured a hole in her skull. She bravely received a handful of stitches and set out soon after for many more dangerous, boxcar children-esque escapades. We were the happiest when we were playing in the dirt with our friends and caring for the animals.
Rebecca was a sheep with soft, silky ears and a dark, brown face. She loved a steer (a castrated bull) named Sirloin. Rebecca followed Sirloin everywhere. They would find a shady spot under a tree on a hot summer's day and lay down together in the grass. Mrs. Friedrich would comment on how sweet it was to the children. "Awww," we ‘d sing in unison. You can guess how this might end. Or maybe you can't if you didn't grow up with men who decreed it would be a great business venture to "go into cows" and name one Sirloin. Because Sirloin was castrated and couldn't be bred, his life's only meaning was to become "hamburger meat" Mr. Friedrich told us and laughed. Something to throw on his grill. When they killed that beautiful black Angus steer, and divided him amongst the investors to put in their deep freezers, it only took two days for them to find Rebecca's lifeless body under a shady tree. Without her best friend, Sirloin, how could she go on living with a broken heart?
We were invited to come down to the barn to the next real part of farm life. The chickens weren't just pets, they were food. The oldest brother was going to get his hands dirty and participate, too. I was brave, I could watch. I went down to the chicken coop. He took the ax and chopped off a chicken’s head. I jumped back with my eyes closed, then peeked slightly through my fingers. The chicken's body didn’t go completely limp, but flapped its wings around before dying. The killer had blood on his hands and ran toward me. Everyone around me giggled but I didn't think it was funny.
We left abruptly one afternoon when outside of that kitchen bay window, across from the swimming pool, through the barbed wire fence on the neighbor's property, a wooden cross was burning. Mom was in a panic, shut down her bible study group, grabbed her keys, told the host to call her neighbor about it and we left. I'd seen imagery like that in the movies before, but wasn't that supposed to be from "the olden times?" Alive and well in Smithville, it seemed. At least, it appeared to be across the street from The Friedrich’s bible study.
Over the years, we’ve lost touch with The Friedrichs, but whenever I'm frantically cleaning my house I think of my mother saying "The Friedrichs are coming! The Friedrichs are coming!” as she used to in preparation for their visits. Every once in awhile I'll randomly think about the kitchen covered in ducks. And sometimes I remember the sheep who loved her bovine bestie and died of a broken heart. Some friendships are fleeting but you remember them forever and some last a lifetime but break your heart.
What did you think about “Smithville”?
Do you know anyone who has died of a broken heart?
If you also grew up in a weird Christian sect in Texas whose family had you move to the country, tell me about it.
If you grew up in the country, do you have a favorite animal-related memory? What is it?
Any other thoughts about “Smithville”?
Do you remember how wonderful it was to play in the dirt? I challenge you to go play in the dirt as an adult. It’s something we don’t do enough.
Go pet an animal. They are the best of us.