Genevieve the doe's revenge;
losing good neighbors

By Bebe and Sissy Fenstermaker

I recently saw the exhibit "Seaforms," by artist Dale Chihuly, at the Southwest School of Art and Craft in San Antonio. The work, blown glass and drawings, depicts underwater sea forms. Smaller pieces fit into larger ones, beautiful shapes, the colors startling or soft and muted. The show really should be seen, as describing it does not do the work justice. While at the show, the group I was with was encouraged to walk over to the S.A. Central Library to see the recently installed Chihuly sculpture on permanent display. It is of blown glass, a wonderful piece and a delight. I recommend seeing that work as well, a description just won't do. Another exhibit of the artist's work is presently at the S.A. Museum of Art and will be there through September 7. That one I have not seen yet.
There is an old adage about the "hand that feeds you." Well, this hand fell on hard times the other evening. As I was putting deer feed in the bucket, I heard Flecka, the Australian Shepard mix, wailing that wail when a deer is after her. I ran out the door calling her just in time to see her explode from the tall grass, Genevieve in such hot pursuit she rolled Flecka. Sienna, the other dog, was circling, wanting to get into the mix. I was running and yelling, "NO! NO!" at the top of my voice, and when I reached them I started shoving and kicking, trying to separate the two. Before I knew it Genevieve rared up on her hind legs and came after me, pummeling with those hard, sharp hooves. With that Flecka went after Genevieve while Sienna kept circling, waiting for her chance to dive in (it never came, thankfully). That scenario repeated itself several times till I thought it would never end. All the while, in the back of my mind, I was remembering an account I once read of a woman holding onto a buck's antlers in a two-hour stand off. We all ran out of steam at about the same time. Genevieve was standing, straddled-legged over Flecka, who was on her back. Neither was moving and to say the least, I wasn't either. Our mouths were open and we were all panting. I don't remember just how Flecka and Genevieve broke apart but thankfully they did. Evidently Flecka was poking around in the tall grass and got too close to one of Genevieve's fawns. (And yes, it is two fawns again, drat the luck.) I'm sure Flecka was covered with bruises. I know I was, all up and down my arms. She even clipped me on the chin. Some days later the hand that feeds began experiencing Genevieve's revenge. . . . Poison ivy! It was all over my arms, down my neck, and a slash of it across my forehead. The only bright side of the total experience was that I treated it homeopathically. After taking three tiny pellets over a 24-hour period, the blisters began drying up almost immediately and by the third day the affected areas had stopped itching. Wow!!! For me, that is a miracle. However, now the dogs and I have to check for fawns whose mothers have stashed them somewhere.
A certain kind of "cool front" sailed through here in late June and gave us a respite from the heat. (Sorry, but I know better than to give the actual temperature reading to Laredoans. I'd hear all that snorting and hooting way up here). Anyway, we enjoyed the clouds even though we didn't get any rain. The cooler, cloudy days were a blessing. I even heard the plants sighing with relief.

Sissy Fenstermaker

Neighbors come in many forms. Recently we experienced the low end, but just as quickly, the good ones came forth. Our finest and oldest neighbors, the Johnny Granatos, have filled the hot days of June. Sadly, they are moving. Illness and bad knees decreed they must have an assisted living situation. Their children made the arrangements and their home and acreage were put up for sale. It is difficult to lose these good neighbors because the Granatos have always been there for us. Had they not been our neighbors, they still would have been our friends.
Johnny and Frieda have weathered mighty blows but give of themselves without stinting. They lost a beloved son in an accident many years ago and still speak as if he is one with them. They took many hard shots from the new vile-acting priest of St. Peter's Catholic Church; indeed, they seemed to be singled-out for ill treatment. However, they bore that with a visible enlightening grace. They kept the St. Peter's Men's Club going when the organization split right down the middle and the only members remaining were all over 70 years old. They got younger people to join, including Sissy and me (non-Catholics) because we had supported saving the old church instead of razing it. We had some good times at those meetings; the "old" people knew how to raise hell in the face of intentional and utter cruelty. Led by the Granatos, they held their heads high, continued to raise money with their bar-b-que stand at the Kendall County Fair, and gave college scholarships to deserving (and impoverished) graduating high school seniors. Good people, genuine treasures of humankind.
The father, Basiliano Granata, came to Texas from Italy via Ellis Island in the early years of this past century. He knew where he was going when he landed: San Antonio, Texas. He modified his name, married, and raised a family there. He drove a vegetable wagon, carefully counting his money at the end of each day to see what vegetables he could buy at the market the next day. He eventually was able to upgrade to an old Ford pickup. He also worked as a mason and could build anything. He raised his first-generation American children to appreciate their country and work hard. They loved their father, too; that comes across clearly when Mr. Granato speaks of him.
Mr. Johnny Granato was a heavy machinery operator. He ran the huge machines back when it took brute force to maneuver them. This work exacted a heavy price because he can hardly walk now; the cartilage in his knees is almost totally gone. After retirement, he kept his own bulldozer and maintainer, doing private work. (The Ranch road is still here after last summer's floods thanks to his good engineering in 1985. He made me go up in the bulldozer's bucket to cut tree limbs sticking out over the road.) During his working years, he was a card-carrying union man, fully cognizant of the worth of labor unions. He is a true blue American citizen, believing in the little man, and working hard for everything he received. Even today, he only expects that of himself, rarely speaking against anyone doing less than he does. He lets others account for themselves: he is too busy meeting his own responsibilities. When he does give his opinion it is well worth hearing because he has a great sense of humor and can give an assessment not to be missed. He likes his fun, too; I've got a much-used spool of twine of his that he used to measure forms and to fly kites!
These last few days Sissy and I have had a wonderful time taping Mr. Granato. This was necessary just on principle but we had some special reasons. Almost instantly, upon hearing they had to move, I thought about two Granato treasures. Lovingly preserved in the garage is his father's beautiful Victoria carriage with its attractive story. It was used in the 1920s movie The Roughriders, starring Mary Astor. In filming one scene, the carriage was taken under a low limb and the canvas top was torn. All this is still on the carriage, hole and all. I told Sissy I was going to have to call him and find out what was going to happen to the carriage. I had barely hung up when Mr. Granato called me. He said they were moving and would we take the Victoria to the Ranch. We were on the same wavelength for sure. I said, "You bet," then I asked him about The Tire. He laughed and said, "Oh, sure!" I reminded him it must go to a museum and that got the usual chuckle out of him. The Tire is priceless; it is the only one on earth. The invention of a young Italian living in San Antonio, it was funded by the Italian community in the city. Before shock absorbers, early cars were pretty rough riding over bumps. The Tire was an unusual shock absorbing idea and certainly is unusual looking. Mr. Granato was about 14 at the time he and his father helped the inventor make a prototype. How the man made The Tire is its own story and will be filed with it at the museum. Mr. Granato went to the foundry every day after school and turned the forge's hand crank so the metal could be heated and formed. It was created from sheets of metal, entirely from scratch. When one tire was finally completed, the two men put it on a Model T Ford to drive it over the railroad tracks. The inventor looked down at young Johnny and said, "You get in, you are going, too; you helped make this tire." Away they went, back and forth over the tracks, and the ride was very good on The Tire's side of the car. The Italian community then got stingy and ceased funding so no more tires could be assembled. The project was abandoned and The Tire was put under the Granatos' house where it stayed for many years. Parts had been made for the three other tires but over time, they gradually disappeared. The children in the family secretly sold the metal for scrap in order to get ice cream money. Mr. Granato did not discover that for years but did manage to preserve The Tire. When they moved out here from San Antonio in the 1960s all these interesting things came with them.
The day came to take the carriage and we loaded it up on a flatbed trailer. It was stunningly beautiful sitting there. The Tire fitted in between the rear wheels. Then things here and there were added; he sent us off with two good saddles, a bit of very decrepit harness, a old scythe, his fathers' handmade saws and tool boxes, a two-handled saw, two smudge pots, and an old pump jack. Over the weeks, as the children wanted less, we seemed to bring home more. The final load included his father's handmade cement trowels of all different lengths. We kept waiting for the children to find a place for them. These are simple and beautiful but the Granato offspring did not see their worth. To me they symbolize more than one person's craft. They connect with our ancestors who created the tools that they had to have in order to work. I will always prefer an old handmade tool showing hard use to a brand new one. I like to sense someone else's hand in the hard work. The Granato hand has been an important one in this part of Texas. The depth of one's life and interests is reflected in one's objects and Mr. Granato was most sincere in trying to place his where they will be appreciated and saved. Anyway, he is planning to be back and will need all his stuff one of these days.

Bebe Fenstermaker