{"id":2286,"date":"2022-05-25T12:00:07","date_gmt":"2022-05-25T12:00:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2022\/05\/25\/author-lauren-hough-searches-for-family-the-truth-of-a-family-story\/"},"modified":"2024-10-21T20:49:16","modified_gmt":"2024-10-21T20:49:16","slug":"author-lauren-hough-searches-for-family-the-truth-of-a-family-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2022\/05\/25\/author-lauren-hough-searches-for-family-the-truth-of-a-family-story\/","title":{"rendered":"Lauren Hough goes on a hunt for Bonnie and Clyde and her Grandpa Chuck"},"content":{"rendered":" \n
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Lauren Hough has been a bouncer and a barista, a cable guy and a member of the military. But in a recent piece<\/a> for Texas Highways, the acclaimed essayist<\/a> shows off another role: eagle-eyed excavator of the past.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Hough\u2019s 2021 debut memoir\/essay collection, \u201cLeaving Isn\u2019t the Hardest Thing,\u201d<\/a> won praise for its profane humor (NPR) and coruscating honesty (The Washington Post). She made literary news in March<\/a> when the book was blocked from consideration for a Lambda Literary Award after Hough defended a novel that some considered transphobic.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Now, for \u201cGetaway Driver,\u201d<\/strong><\/a> she travels to Shamrock, Texas, to trace her ancestors\u2019 brief but memorable encounter with the outlaws Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. The outlaws, later portrayed by Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty in the 1967 blockbuster \u201cBonnie and Clyde,\u201d<\/a> make an appearance in Hough\u2019s essay; gangster John Dillinger has a cameo.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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I wonder how many other stories I\u2019ve lost.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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But the piece doesn\u2019t hand any of them a starring role. Instead it\u2019s a meditation on place and family, and most specifically on Hough\u2019s grandfather. \u201cGrandpa Chuck\u201d had Alzheimer\u2019s. He lost his connection to the present and died as Hough was finishing her essay. But through remembered stories and her tour of a history museum in the Texas Panhandle, Hough renders him in such granular detail that readers feels as if they\u2019re sitting on the porch with him, tipping back beers and watching the dogs roughhouse.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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In an interview with Storyboard, Hough explained how she came to write for Texas Highways<\/a>, the state\u2019s official and often surprising travel magazine, and about her approach to reporting and writing. She describes techniques that may help other writers, such as her thoughts on flexibility (\u201cI didn\u2019t want to insert myself too much in the story. But I liked how when I was writing it down, it started sounding like a procedural.\u201d) and voice (\u201cI tend to write like I\u2019m telling the story to a friend.\u201d). The Q&A is followed by an annotation of \u201cGetaway Driver.\u201d Answers have been edited for length and clarity.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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W<\/strong>hat was the genesis and process of writing a memoir for a travel magazine?<\/strong>
<\/strong>Mike Hoinski, an editor at Texas Highways, asked if I\u2019d like to submit something. I kept ignoring his emails because while I really wanted to be in Texas Highways, I didn\u2019t think I had a story. But I kept thinking about it. Texas Highways is the magazine my grandparents always had on their coffee tables. It\u2019s the magazine I\u2019d flip through at my aunts\u2019 houses. The only problem was I still didn\u2019t have any ideas for a piece except this story my grandpa told me about Bonnie and Clyde. I told Mike I didn\u2019t have the first clue how to write it or whether or not it was true. Mike came back to me with, \u201cSo that\u2019s the story. Go to Shamrock and see if you can find anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Lauren Hough<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/div> \n
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Once I got to Shamrock, I didn\u2019t know what to look for or where to begin. But Shamrock\u2019s a small town. I started at the museum, and quickly discovered that if I mentioned Texas Highways, everyone was more than happy to talk to me.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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I wrote everything down but kept making it too complicated. I started with the history of Bonnie and Clyde, then started again with the history of Shamrock, and then with my grandfather\u2019s story. Nothing worked. I finally went back to what Mike said, about the search itself being the story. So I started at the museum.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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What kind of reaction have you received? <\/strong>I didn\u2019t expect a reaction at all. It was just a simple story about my grandpa. But it seems to have hit a nerve. I think we\u2019re all missing someone and wishing we\u2019d had more time to hear their stories and mourning not just the person but the stories we\u2019ve lost. I\u2019ve been getting a lot of email from people who\u2019ve recently lost parents and grandparents, people who want someone to hear the story they never wrote down. And I got an email from Hazel\u2019s niece telling me I should\u2019ve gone in for the hug. (EDITOR\u2019S NOTE: Do read to the end of Hough\u2019s essay to understand that intriguing reference. You won\u2019t regret it.)<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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What are you reading right now for inspiration? <\/strong>I\u2019ve been reading \u201cIn the Weeds,\u201d<\/a> Tom Vitale\u2019s memoir about working and traveling with Anthony Bourdain. After my own book was published last year, I hadn\u2019t been able to get into any nonfiction for awhile. Or maybe it\u2019s the pandemic. Who know? I\u2019m hoping it\u2019s a good sign. Bourdain was a huge influence on me as a writer, this guy who wrote in his natural voice and didn\u2019t sound like anyone else. So I feel like I\u2019m dancing around the idea of writing something else.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Annotation<\/em><\/strong>: Storyboard\u2019s questions are in red; Hough\u2019s responses in blue. To read the story without annotations, click the \u201cHide all annotation\u201d button on your screen.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The famed tower of the U Drop In on U.S. Highway 66 in Shamrock, Texas (National Park Service)<\/small><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/div> \n
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Getaway Driver<\/h2>\n

A grandpa\u2019s tall tale sends a Panhandle native back to the scene of the crime<\/h3>\nby\u00a0Lauren Hough<\/a>
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\n\u00a0<\/em>From the March 2022 issue<\/em>
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\nI\u2019m in a doll museum in Shamrock, and I am not prepared to face down the hundreds of ceramic figures staring at me from every shelf and corner. I can\u2019t believe the curator just let me in here, told me a little history of the place, then wished me luck in my research\u2014leaving me alone to deal with the ghosts. She\u2019s out on the porch talking to a couple old-timers, probably about the fall weather or football or whatever you talk about on porches. But I\u2019m convinced they\u2019re talking about that writer from Austin who was, as my grandpa used to say, raised on concrete. They\u2019ve given no indication they think this of me. But the second I stepped out of my car, the wind grabbed my Red Sox hat off my head, as it does, as anyone from the Panhandle knows it will. I imagine they enjoyed the slapstick spectacle of a city kid who doesn\u2019t have the sense to hold onto her hat and now must chase it down the sidewalk. <\/a>This is a fascinating story throughout, and you could have set its first paragraph in any number of times and places. Why did you start in the doll museum?<\/span>There\u2019s only ever one way to start a story. But I usually have to try all the wrong ways first. Then sometimes I\u2019ll find the paragraph that leads to a second. In this case I think the museum worked as a way to introduce the question I\u2019d come to Shamrock to answer. Opening with a question \u2014 What the hell I was doing in a doll museum, showing I didn\u2019t belong there? \u2014 led to the answer.<\/span><\/span>
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\nThis is already one of my favorite museums, and I\u2019ve been to my share\u2014in London and Berlin and Osaka and Rome and Cairo, and to the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum down the road in Canyon. It\u2019s always irked me when other tourists show up on the day I visit to block my view and laugh inappropriately and talk too loudly. It\u2019s not that I think I\u2019m special and should be allowed to wander freely, unperturbed by tourists. No. It\u2019s exactly that. I enjoy history. I\u2019m here to learn. They\u2019re here to take a few selfies for Instagram. I should have the place to myself.
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\nSo, when Raquel Riggs, the curator of the Pioneer West Museum, gave me a quick briefing on the place and left me to explore, I couldn\u2019t believe my luck. I was finally touring a museum the way I\u2019d always intended\u2014alone. The museum is housed in the Reynolds Hotel, a stately brick Mission Revival structure built in the 1920s, during the oil and railroad boom, and named after local attorney Marion Reynolds. Each of the 25 rooms in the museum focuses on a different subject or era\u2014fossils and arrows; barbed wire and the railroad; the pride of Wheeler, astronaut Alan Bean, the fourth man on the moon\u2014with every conceivable surface chock-full of artifacts. There\u2019s a fort, a chapel, a barbershop, a general store, a dental office. Hard to believe they\u2019ve fit this much into one little hotel on what used to be a main street.
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\nAccording to Raquel, everything in the museum was donated by locals. From what I can tell when I get up to the second floor, someone in town had a habit of collecting dolls that bordered on the maniacal. I\u2019m so discombobulated by the dolls\u2014yellow hair in ringlets and complicated braids, hoop skirts, velvet coats, tiny white aprons, delicately painted bow lips and blush, and eyes that follow you\u2014I\u2019ve forgotten why I\u2019m here. I hope they host a haunted house in October. <\/a>There\u2019s a lot of detail in this description of the museum. By the time it\u2019s over I feel as if I\u2019ve gotten a personal tour. How important was it to establish a sense of place \u2014 not just at the museum, but elsewhere \u2014 as you guide readers through the story?<\/span>The Texas Panhandle\u2019s such a strange and interesting place. I left just after high school, and in 25 years I\u2019ve never quite found words to describe it. The museum was an easy way to introduce some of the history. Because this story dates back to the Dust Bowl and how the Dust Bowl shaped my grandparents\u2019 lives, it was crucial to really ground it in place, to detail this tiny town and the history and landscape, or it would\u2019ve remained what it was, just some story my grandpa told me.<\/span><\/span>
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\nDownstairs, in a hallway, are the framed newspaper clippings to remind me why I\u2019m here\u2014Bonnie and Clyde and Grandpa Chuck. My grandpa, thankfully, isn\u2019t mentioned in the clippings. He wouldn\u2019t be. From what I can tell, if his story\u2019s true, he was just a little kid. <\/a>How much did you consider when you would introduce Bonnie and Clyde into the story?<\/span>I didn\u2019t want the story to be about Bonnie and Clyde. Leading with them would\u2019ve made them the main characters and I think a reader would\u2019ve expected more about them. Dropping them in as an aside kept the story focused on my grandpa and the town itself.<\/span><\/span>
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\nMY GRANDPA HAS ALWAYS<\/strong> dressed like a farmer. He favors overalls or Wranglers strung up by suspenders, pearl-snap shirts, boots, and a short-brim Stetson. When he went to church or dinner, he\u2019d wear what he called his \u201cuptown\u201d suspenders, slimmer and printed with paisley or little flowers. When I was little, he smelled like pipe tobacco, and he\u2019d blow smoke rings for me to slap apart before they floated to the ceiling. That smell has always reminded me of him. There were years I didn\u2019t know him at all\u2014divorce and remarriage, different states and countries. I didn\u2019t know, for example, he was from Texas, not Denver, where he lived in a split-level and ran his own barbershop. I didn\u2019t know, until recently, that he\u2019s always wanted to rob a bank. <\/a>You do something striking here when you use the words \u201cdidn\u2019t know\u201d in three sentences in a row. Was that deliberate repetition?<\/span>I learned to write from songwriters. I focus a lot more on the cadence of a sentence and paragraph than I do on the verbiage or anything else. When I read something, that cadence, or the lack thereof, is the difference between continuing or setting it down. Sometimes repetition is useful to build a rhythm and move a story forward. Because this story was about all the things I didn\u2019t know, I liked repeating it. And three times is always better than two. I don\u2019t know why that is. I just know that when I read it, I like the sound.<\/span><\/span>
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\n\u00a0<\/em>When my grandpa needed some extra help, he moved in with my dad here in Austin. When I moved to Austin, five years ago, I\u2019d watch him in the afternoons so my dad could run errands. He didn\u2019t always know who I was. Alzheimer\u2019s is a hell of a disease. But I noticed if I got him talking about the old days, his mind was sharp and full of stories. I\u2019d pour him a Lone Star and every time, like a ritual, he\u2019d ask me if I was interested in robbing a bank. I told him I could be the getaway driver. He said, no\u2014he\u2019s driving. My grandpa\u2019s legally blind. I picture us making a getaway at 12 miles per hour. He told me we needed one more guy. \u201cLet\u2019s go tomorrow,\u201d he said.
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\nAt first, I thought he was kidding about the whole bank-robbing thing. But I asked, once, if he was serious. We were sitting on the porch, watching the dogs wrestle, drinking the beer I\u2019d snuck in for him. My dad doesn\u2019t like him to have too many\u2014bad for his cholesterol. I think being in his 90s is probably bad for his cholesterol. So, I sneak him a beer on occasion. He\u2019s earned it. That afternoon, I asked him if he was kidding about robbing a bank. He wiped the condensation off his glass then used it to flatten his wispy hair. He said, \u201cOh, no. I\u2019m serious as judge. And they\u2019ve got it coming. They took my horse.\u201d <\/a>This is a vivid bit of dialogue, something you drop in throughout the piece. Did you take notes, record or reconstruct from memory?<\/span>I have a recording. I\u2019ve always liked how old Texans talk, with those aphorisms that would sound silly with the wrong accent. My grandpa used them like seasoning. Made you want to listen longer. Made me want him to repeat himself. I could ask him the same question from a different angle and he\u2019d have a new interesting way to say it each time. His \u201cserious as a judge\u201d when he was talking about robbing a bank made me laugh, so of course I had to use it.<\/span><\/span>
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\nI asked, \u201cThe bank?\u201d
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\nHe said that was back in Texola. He mixes up town names occasionally. Sometimes he tells me Shamrock is where he had the horse. I do know, in the mid-1930s, the bank took the ranch in Shamrock and his family moved to Texola, just across the Oklahoma border, on what\u2019s now Interstate 40.
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\nI\u2019d been asking him about the Dust Bowl, an obsession of mine. I like writing Dust Bowl stories, and he lived through it. That my grandparents survived it and told these stories when I was a kid may be the root of my obsession. We had to listen to the stories until someone told us to go play outside, but don\u2019t get dirty. I was always only half listening back then. Now, stories need detail, and my grandpa has all the details\u2014how to catch a bunny for dinner by jabbing a strand of unraveled barbed wire in the hole, how his job was to herd the chickens into the house to ride out a duster, how his mom papered the walls with newspaper in a desperate attempt to keep the dust out.
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\nHe\u2019d often wind up talking about his horse named Eagle he rode to school. When school got out, Eagle would be waiting for him. Didn\u2019t even have to tie him up. But until that afternoon in 2018, he\u2019d never mentioned the bank. He said they took the farm, and maybe they had a right. But they had no right to take his horse.
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\nI thought that was it for a moment. Stories end like that sometimes, drift into nothing, and he\u2019ll ask about supper. But my grandpa grabbed a tissue from his chest pocket, and I saw he was crying. He said there wasn\u2019t anything they could do. The bank took the farm, and then they took his horse. They had no right. \u201cNever trust a bank,\u201d he said.
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\nI wanted to change the subject. I\u2019d never seen my grandpa cry. I asked about Shamrock, and he said, \u201cBonnie and Clyde.\u201d Like he\u2019d been trying to remember the name of an actor. But we hadn\u2019t been talking about movies.
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\n“What?\u201d I asked.
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\n“Bonnie and Clyde. They were hiding in the barn.\u201d
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\n“Bonnie and Clyde?\u201d
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\nHe laughed and I knew he was well aware of the bomb he\u2019d dropped. I asked, \u201cOh, they were bank robbers, right?\u201d I was trying to remember what I knew about Bonnie and Clyde and came up with, I think Warren Beatty was in the movie<\/em>.
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\nHe said, \u201cThey robbed banks, all right. Were pretty good at it, too.\u201d
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\nI thought, well, at least we\u2019re not talking about the horse now. Maybe this was a story he\u2019d heard. Then he added, \u201cThey gave me a box of chocolate bars.\u201d
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\nI nearly spit my beer. He laughed and took another sip of his and said it again. \u201cBonnie and Clyde.\u201d I waited. He was enjoying this.
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\n“They were hiding in the barn,\u201d he said. He was looking off into the middle distance like he could see the barn now.
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\n“Bonnie and Clyde?\u201d
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\n\u201cYep, I brought them their supper,\u201d he said. \u201cI was only 7 at the time.\u201d
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\nI waited for him to continue, but when he didn\u2019t, I asked, \u201cAnd they gave you a candy bar?\u201d
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\nThat perked him up. \u201cNo, a whole box of candy bars. Chocolate bars. Hershey\u2019s. A whole box,\u201d he repeated. \u201cLike this.\u201d And he held out his hands and formed a shoebox. He added, \u201cMy older brother\u2014and this was really his deal\u2014he showed them a way out of town, to avoid the sheriff.\u201d
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\nAnd that was it. I asked him again and recorded part of it on my phone. I don\u2019t know why. I think now I just wanted proof.
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\nWhen my dad got home and I told him the story, he said, \u201cNo, that was Dillinger.\u201d Like this was a story he\u2019d heard a million times as a boy and hadn\u2019t thought about since. He was sure it was Dillinger. I told him, \u201cDillinger was Chicago, Dad.\u201d He shrugged and said maybe he mixed it up. This was driving me nuts. <\/a>I like how you let the readers in on your own reactions \u2014 nearly spitting out your beer, something driving you nuts, etc. Did you deliberate much on whether you included too much? Or not enough?<\/span>I didn\u2019t want to insert myself too much in the story. But I liked how when I was writing it down, it started sounding like a procedural so I left most of it in. Enough to show how weird this story was, that it wasn\u2019t something he told us all the time. He just dropped it one afternoon.<\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/em>I Googled \u201cBonnie and Clyde Shamrock\u201d on my phone. All I could find was some info about a chase that ended with their car in the Red River and some locals helping them. The write-up said someone was shot.
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\nMy dad said that didn\u2019t sound right, that my grandpa would\u2019ve mentioned the river or someone getting shot. He said he was pretty sure it was Dillinger anyway. I didn\u2019t show him the Wiki page for Dillinger.
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\n<\/span>MY GRANDPA<\/strong>\u2019S OLDER NOW<\/strong> than he was then\u2014that\u2019s how aging works. He still enjoys a beer, but he doesn\u2019t know who I am. He no longer tells stories. All I\u2019ve got is what he told me on those summer afternoons. Maybe that\u2019s why I got it into my head to drive up to Shamrock and find out if his story was real.
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\nThe drive from the Hill Country to the Panhandle might be one of those drives one can enjoy only if they\u2019re from the Panhandle. And I am\u2014Amarillo. Which is to say, when the road flattens and widens, when the mesquite-dotted hills are replaced by flat brown fields of prairie grass, when the dirt turns red and the sky never ends and I swear I can see all the way to Colorado, I\u2019m someone who\u2019ll pull over at the first Allsup\u2019s and fill a vat with Dr Pepper and order two burritos\u2014yes, please, to the offer of hot sauce. It\u2019s a strange thing, driving up this edge of Texas\u2014the High Plains and the Llano Estacado to the left, the canyons and the hills to the right, through one-street towns of close-built shops, many boarded up nowadays. I can still picture horses tied to the rails out front.
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\nOutside the museum, Raquel asks me what I\u2019m writing about. I tell her my grandpa\u2019s story, the main points anyway. She asks his name and says she doesn\u2019t know any Houghs around here. The old-timers chime in\u2014don\u2019t know any Houghs. I say my grandpa\u2019s people weren\u2019t here long. They moved to Texola when the bank took the ranch. The old-timers say that\u2019s how it often happened. I think my grandpa\u2019s probably not the only one with a grudge against banks. Raquel asks if I\u2019ve been to the U-Drop Inn.
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\nIf you Google \u201cShamrock, Texas,\u201d the Conoco Tower of the U-Drop Inn is the image you\u2019ll see, and for good reason. It\u2019s a beautifully preserved art deco building. If you wait in front of the tower longer than a minute, you\u2019ll see tourists get out of their cars and stand long enough to make sure their legs still work after hours in the car\u2014that sprint from Oklahoma City or Albuquerque, maybe Amarillo if they allowed themselves the rest. They take a couple pictures, check their screens, take a couple more. The tower\u2019s turquoise neon looks amazing on Instagram. <\/a>One facet I enjoyed about this essay is how you often invite the reader directly into it \u2026 moving into second person, referencing social media posts they could dig up. I feel like sometimes the reader<\/em>\u2019s<\/em> experience can, weirdly, get lost in the shuffle as the writer struggles with word choice, getting facts nailed down, etc. Is the reader\u2019s relationship with the story that something on your mind as you write?<\/span>I tend to write like I\u2019m telling a story to a friend. Or I try to. Only way it works for me. Sometimes it\u2019s more obvious when I address them directly and give them homework. But I enjoy addressing the reader. It makes the story more accessible.<\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/em>This part of Shamrock, the road that used to be Route 66, still looks like 1955. The drive-up motels and auto repair shops. The hand-painted signs scrubbed dull by the wind. The ancient Chevies and Fords still glistening, polished by those who treasure these artifacts of the time before I-40 bypassed the town. The tourists take their photos then drive away.
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\nThe smart ones go inside before they hit the road again. Inside the U-Drop Inn, you\u2019ll find an info center in the large lobby of the old gas station\u2014the shelves now lined with pamphlets, books, and local art. Through a door to the right, a small caf\u00e9. At the U-Drop, you get to meet Hazel and Oleta.
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\nOleta Stone looks so familiar you\u2019re sure she\u2019s a distant aunt you met at a family barbecue a few years ago. You just can\u2019t quite place if she\u2019s on your dad\u2019s side or your mom\u2019s. <\/a>Probably my favorite description in the essay. Do you recall how you came to write it?<\/span>I really just felt like I knew her. I don\u2019t remember how I came up with that description. But I was already thinking of older relatives I miss, sitting around listening to their stories, so it was a natural leap. I like using something a reader will relate to rather than a detailed description of a person. I can tell you what color her eyes were and what she was wearing or I can remind you of someone you know and let you fill in the details and now she\u2019s more real.<\/span><\/span>.\u00a0<\/em>She\u2019s warm like that. Like she knows you might be a little uncomfortable meeting all these new people, and she\u2019ll fix you a plate and introduce you to some cousins who\u2019ll play with you.
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\nWhen I arrive at the U-Drop, Oleta\u2019s showing a couple tourists a mural on the back wall of the Pixar movie Cars<\/em>. She\u2019s telling them how the scenery and buildings were all real places on Route 66. I wander around looking at hats, T-shirts, a mannequin of a sheriff with handcuffs on his hip. The tourists leave, and Oleta asks if I need any help. I tell her I\u2019m working on a story about my grandpa and ask about Bonnie and Clyde. She says I ought to check out the museum. She assures me Raquel will welcome me. I say I\u2019ve been, and she says if I want to know more, I really should talk to Hazel.
\n
\nHazel Janssen\u2019s at the register and rings me up for a couple Route 66 bumper stickers. Oleta tells Hazel I\u2019m a writer, and I swear I can hear the pride in her voice. Hazel\u2019s proud of me, too. I want to stay awhile and soak up all this warmth. Maybe I miss my grandmothers. Hazel asks why I\u2019m interested in Bonnie and Clyde, and I say I\u2019m not really. I tell her about my grandpa. I tell her about my grandparents and how they survived the Dust Bowl and used to tell me stories. That the Dust Bowl\u2014this disaster no one talks about\u2014is an obsession of mine. For nearly 10 years, most of the 1930s, the entire middle of the country looked like the Sahara Desert. And anytime I mention it, all I get is a blank stare. Hazel says she was born in \u201935, the middle of the worst of it. Her mom used to cover her crib with a wet sheet so she wouldn\u2019t choke on the dust. I say this is what I mean. These details. We hear about those who left. We never hear from those who stayed. And people did stay. She locks eyes with me and says, \u201cSome people couldn\u2019t afford to leave.\u201d <\/a>I like the weaving-in of the Dust Bowl, not only as a historic event you\u2019re interested in, but as a presence over this story. By the end, most readers will likely be as fascinated by it as you are.<\/span>I talk about the Dust Bowl like a cokehead at a party telling you about a band you have to listen to, no, really listen to. I don\u2019t like writing a story unless there\u2019s a point to it. Otherwise, it\u2019s just telling stories. In this case, bringing the Dust Bowl into it, if I can get one person interested in what was an entirely manmade ecological disaster that may well happen again, then there\u2019s a point to writing about my grandpa\u2019s brush with Bonnie and Clyde.<\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/em>
\n
\nHazel says she knew the lady Clyde shot. Her name was Gladys Cartwright. The Cartwrights and another family, the Pritchards, had seen the Barrow gang\u2019s car go into the Red River. The Pritchard and Cartwright men rescued the passengers from the sinking car\u2014two men and a woman. Clyde and his brother, Buck, were all right. Bonnie suffered burns to her leg. They all wound up at the Pritchard farmhouse, where the gang held the families hostage while they treated Bonnie\u2019s wounds. Gladys, only 19 at the time and holding an infant in her arms, had reached for something above a cabinet, and seeing a threat, Clyde shot her hand. A newspaper clipping from the time says Buck shot her. In any case, her hand took a load.
\n
\nHazel says Gladys used to play piano, was pretty good at it, too. The gang\u2019s car is still there, under the river, swallowed by the quicksand. But Gladys never played piano again.
\n
\nI tell her I\u2019m pretty sure that wasn\u2019t my family. All my grandpa said was they were hiding in the barn. Hazel says it\u2019s likely. The Barrow gang was all over town for a time. They even ate in the caf\u00e9 next door.
\n
\n“I\u2019m not sure I\u2019ll ever know if it\u2019s true,\u201d I say of my grandpa\u2019s tale. \u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t it be true?\u201d Hazel responds. \u201cIt\u2019s his story.\u201d I agree and say maybe I just wanted to honor a little part of his past. He\u2019s my last grandparent. I wonder now how many other stories I\u2019ve lost.
\n
\nI resist the urge to hug them when I leave.
\n
\nNext door, at the caf\u00e9, I order a cheesecake and a bottle of Coke. I\u2019ll regret the sugar crash later, but I can\u2019t resist a bottled Coke. The place is so well preserved\u2014a low caf\u00e9 bar lined with short chrome stools, an ornate tin ceiling, soft pleather booths under the windows\u2014you\u2019d think they wrapped it in plastic 70 years ago and just unwrapped it last night. The story goes, Clyde asked the waitress here about a slot machine. She told him it was just emptied, in case he was thinking of robbing it. They bought lunch and paid. I wonder which booth they sat in. I wonder how my grandpa\u2019s family escaped unscathed so the only story he\u2019s got is about a box of candy bars, while a few miles down the road, a woman who played piano never got to play again.
\n
\nI\u2019d never been off the highway in Shamrock. But I have a video of my grandpa telling me a story about Bonnie and Clyde. I thought this essay would be a fun way to check out the town and find out more. Turns out, I found a way to honor my grandpa. Charles Hough was born in 1927. He died in Austin on Jan. 14, while I was finishing this story. And I believe every word of it. <\/a>What made this assertion the right ending \u2026 and was it always the ending, or did you ever have something else in its place?<\/span>Originally it ended with \u201ca woman who played piano never got to play again.\u201d I filed it that way. We went through copy edits and fact checking that way. I thought it was a solid, bittersweet ending that showed the hardness of life back then and how much was just dumb luck. Then my grandfather died right before it went to print. My editor, Mike Hoinski asked if I\u2019d like to add a paragraph. Of course I did.<\/span><\/span>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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