Category: politics

Texas State Highway 105 starts five miles inside the Louisiana border between Orange and Vidor. It’s one of the countless farm and state roads that make up the highway system of a state that stretches almost a thousand miles from east to west. If you’re headed to El Paso from Beaumont, pack a lunch or better yet a couple of lunches; but whatever you do, don’t miss SH 105.

            This well-traveled road claims fewer than two hundred miles but passes through seven counties: Orange, Jefferson, Hardin, Liberty, Montgomery, Grimes, and Washington. Many of the miles consist of winding four lanes, and the rest are very good, crooked two-lane routes. I lived 18 miles north of Highway 105 in rural Richards when I was growing up in the loblolly piney woods of Grimes County. Now on a good day I could walk to that road from my home in the little town of Montgomery. SH 105 ran through the middle of town and was a favorite commuter connection from Houston to wherever people drove to escape the interstates that were frequently at a standstill. Long lines of school buses and parents picking up children from the nearby elementary and middle schools created Montgomery’s version of traffic jams in the middle of the afternoons during the week. Two stoplights moved everybody along in an orderly manner, but I avoided that stress whenever possible. On Friday afternoons the traffic got heavy earlier because the weekend wannabe Hell’s Angels bikers left their day jobs and immediately headed west on SH 105 from the cities and suburbs. I thought they must carry their bandanas and jeans with them to work so they wouldn’t have to go home to change clothes before they hit the road. My parents and grandparents made many trips on SH 105. My grandfather referred to it as “one hundred five” when he talked about how to get from his home in Richards to Beaumont to visit his daughter Lucille and her family. “Just take one hundred five all the way,” he’d say whenever anyone asked him how he drove the distance. My dad motored the twenty-five miles from Navasota to Brenham on 105 where the road ended on his visits to Austin every summer. He took me with him whenever he could. At Brenham we picked up the major highway SH 290 from Houston to Austin.

I didn’t process the names of the roads we drove in my elementary school days from Richards – my perception of distances beyond Navasota to the west, Crabbs Prairie to the north, and Conroe to the east was that other lands were far, far away. I was certain Brenham must’ve been a magical kingdom because it was home to the Blue Bell Creameries, and everyone knew they made the best ice cream in the state. Founded in 1907, the company was named for the native wildflowers that grew with heedless abandon in the surrounding countryside, although I learned that bit of history much later in life.

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The day before my sixty-fourth birthday on April 21, 2010 was a magnificent Texas day. The temperature was perfect, the blue skies were clear, my dogs Red and Annie were in high spirits. I decided to drive west from Montgomery on Highway 105 to Navasota, the place where I was born. I loaded the dogs in the back seat of my 2004 Dodge Dakota pickup, backed out of our driveway onto Worsham Street, and turned left at one of the two stoplights in town as we left the neighborhood.

I didn’t have to drive more than a mile to find the scenery I loved. As soon as I passed Old Plantersville Road, I began to see the patches of bluebonnets that made Hwy 105 spectacular in April. At first they were scattered in with the reddish-orange blanket flowers and the pale pink buttercups; they only appeared on the sides of the road. Then the patches grew thick with the deep blue that was the mature color of the Texas state flower. A few minutes more, and I saw a ranch with a sea of bluebonnets in its pastures that reminded me of the dazzling Caribbean ocean without waves. I knew it was a good day to be on the road.

Five miles to the west of Montgomery, I made my first stop in Dobbin, which had no traffic lights but did have a cowboy roadhouse called Holder’s which was owned by a proprietor of the same name. Bobby Holder didn’t look like a cowboy, though. He wore faded blue overalls and a dark T-shirt inside the overalls. He resembled an Appalachian mountain man with hair the color of charcoal mixed with some white ash tightly pulled down his back in a long ponytail. His thick mustache was the same shade of black and white. A plain, unfashionable baseball cap completed his look. The first time I saw him, I labeled him in my mind as a hillbilly hippie, right-wing extremist, and all round Bad Guy. That was a few visits ago.

The restaurant was as interesting as its owner. The building was ancient and consisted of three distinct areas visible from the small, gravel parking lot. The weathered wood building had a steep rusted tin roof that promised a larger space than was visible from the parking area. A little log section to the right was clearly the barbecue pit. Smoke rose from the flue and drifted occasionally into the middle porch space which was open-air and the place where four stained wooden tables with benches accommodated the “eat-in” customers. (Feel free to carve your initials on a table. Everyone else did.) To the left, a window for ordering was highlighted by the handwritten menu on a chalkboard tacked to the wall. The tiny kitchen was behind the ordering window, and the smells of cooking barbecue mixed deliciously with the aroma of burgers frying on the grill while you waited patiently for service. A sign under the window warned: If you’re in a hurry, go to Houston. Imagine every Texas roadhouse you ever saw in western movies, put that in high-definition, surround-sound, Blue Ray, 3-D with the appropriate eyewear or whatever, and you could begin to picture Holder’s.

Bobby was quick to mention to anyone who was a newcomer that Hollywood discovered his place last year, and he had a framed newspaper article to prove it. When a film was shot on location in the Houston area, the crew made a stop at Holder’s and a local reporter penned the story that immortalized the restaurant. The picture hung on a wall left of the ordering window and occupied a place of prominence among the vast array of wall art that vied for attention. I could have easily missed it in the midst of an extensive collection of frightening heads of longhorn cattle with varying horn sizes from small to huge, an “audition” sign for waitresses for Hooter’s that consisted of two very large holes for women’s breasts, all the brightly colored Texas license plates ever hammered by inmates of its legendary correctional institutions plus other states’ license plates, high school football schedules for the Montgomery Bears for the past few years and assorted photos of satisfied customers. The sound of country music legends blared from speakers in a large, mostly vacant room behind the front porch eating section.

My first trip to Holder’s was with my wife Teresa last month during the week we moved to Montgomery. We were driving home from Navasota on SH 105, noticed the place from the road, thought it looked intriguing; so we stopped. After we ordered our cheeseburger baskets from a friendly woman who was also the cook, we asked her if we could sit inside the huge room at a small wooden table instead of the benches on the porch. We were late afternoon customers and had the entire place to ourselves, so that wasn’t a problem. The interior room looked like a large barn with a loft full of tools and materials that indicated the room was a work in progress. The back end of an old, but newly painted, black Thunderbird Convertible was mounted on a wall near our table. Teresa and I were startled and amused to see this was the focal point of décor in the barn-like setting. The space was large enough for a dance floor, and with the country music blaring, I imagined it was the perfect spot for weekend Texas two-stepping until I saw the hours of operation posted: M – TH 10:00 – 5:00. FR – SAT 10:00 – 7:00. SUN CLOSED. Unless you danced early, you weren’t dancing at Holder’s.

When the cook brought us our cheeseburger baskets, I asked her about the restaurant.

Bobby owns it—he’s the guy in the ponytail. He does the barbecuing himself, and sometimes he handles the grill, too. He takes a lot of pride in his place here.

It looks like he’s trying to expand and add entertainment in this space, I said.

Yes, he does all the work himself, so it takes a little while.

How long has he been working on it? Teresa asked.

About five years, she replied. Can I get you gals anything else?

We shook our heads, and she left us to our meal. I suppose it was possible to get a bad cheeseburger in Texas if you went to one of the chain places that were the same in every state. But if you got a burger at Holder’s, you would never think of cheeseburgers in the same way again. The ground lean beef was cooked perfectly with the right amount of seasonings. The lettuce and tomatoes were fresh, and the onions mixed with mustard added a flavorful kick. The melted American cheese oozed to the corners of the toasted old-fashioned buns that were just the right size. The French fries were homemade and piled high. You would go away, but you wouldn’t go away hungry.

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That first visit was memorable for more than the food, however. The morning after we ate that first time at Holder’s, Teresa and I talked about our projects for the Texas house. We had decided to paint several of the rooms a different color and needed to buy the paint from the local hardware store. Have you seen my billfold? I asked her when it wasn’t in its place next to the kitchen stove.

No, she said. Did you look in the bedroom? With that, we began an exhaustive search through the house and outside. We looked in the truck. No wallet. I tried not to panic, but I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I thought of all that was lost. Since we were traveling from South Carolina to Texas and cash was a concern, I had over six hundred dollars in my wallet; that was a whopping amount of money for our budget. All my credit cards, driver’s license, everything that held the clue to my financial identity were in that billfold, and I didn’t have it. What in the world had I done?

When was the last time you paid for something? Teresa asked. I tried to think. The last time I could remember paying for anything was the food at Holder’s the afternoon before. I told Teresa we needed to drive back to Dobbin to retrace our steps, but neither of us expected to see the money again. I felt physically sick.

We had barely backed out of our driveway when my cell phone rang. It was Claudia, the realtor who handled the purchase of our home in Montgomery. She told me Bobby Holder had called her that morning to say he found her card in a wallet someone left in his restaurant the previous day. It was the only phone number he could find to try to contact the owner to let her know it was safe. An overpowering feeling of relief poured through me, and I felt like I could breathe again. Teresa and I were ecstatic, giddy at the bullet we’d dodged. We drove the short distance from Montgomery west on 105 to Holder’s.

 When Bobby handed me my wallet, he was almost apologetic for having to go through it to look for a number. I saw that cash, and I saw the South Carolina driver’s license. I knew how I would feel if I was this far from home with no money, cards, or anything else. I worried about it all night.

I offered him a reward, but he refused with a wave of his hand, and I took a second look at this man whose character I so quickly judged by his appearance less than twenty-four hours ago. I had always been proud of my liberal leanings which ostensibly avoided labels for people, but I realized with shame I had been guilty of prejudice toward this man on superficial characteristics. Bobby and I were different for sure, but I was wrong to assume that made him incapable of good.

You have a customer for life, I said. Even if you didn’t have fabulous food, I’d be back. I owe you for more than you know.

I’m glad I stopped at Holder’s today on my birthday eve. The cheeseburger basket was as fabulous as the first one I had a month ago. Bobby wasn’t in the café, but the country legends blared from the speakers in the back room; and somehow the Thunderbird Convertible seemed the perfect décor. I was right. It was a great day to be on the road…Red and Annie were ready to ride after polishing off the last of my fries.

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I still see the bluebonnets around Brenham every April – even if in my mind and thankfully in the images I captured the four years we were in Montgomery from 2010 – 2014. As I revisited this piece from my book I’ll Call It Like I See It published in 2012 my mouth watered while I thought of the cheeseburgers at Holder’s once again, could almost smell the aroma of the smoke from his barbecue pit, the lessons about judging people I learned from the owner thirteen years ago. I do feel the political landscape has had a seismic shift since the incident at Holder’s and wonder whether he and I would have the same goodwill toward each other if we met in a similar situation in Dobbin, Texas this afternoon in 2023. I hope so. I know I miss Red and Annie.