Free Troubled Sea by Jinx Schwartz Page B

intended.”
    “None taken.” Jenks smiled, and meant it. He no longer considered himself a Yankee. He’d left New York more than thirty years before, and on top of that, he was now, officially, a Texan. Hetta called him a recovering Yankee.
    When they married and left California, the Jenkins established legal residence in Hetta’s home state. There was no state income tax and the State of Texas, unlike the greedy bureaucrats in California, wasn’t interested in collecting property tax on a boat that wasn’t in the state. And, Hetta's beloved gun collection was welcome.
    Hetta and her family put Jenks through a good-natured residency test before declaring him fit to join the Republic and giving him official papers. Jenks, baptized in Lone Star Beer and having forsaken his Yankee ways, was presented with Hetta’s calligraphic “Texas Citizenship Commandments” he still kept with his other important documents.
    1. The only finger aimed at other drivers will be the index finger, respectfully lifted from the steering wheel in greeting to passing motorists.
    2. Never pass on a cattle guard.
    3. It is mandatory to pull to the side of the road and stop when meeting a funeral procession.
    4. Always drive forty miles an hour in the fast lane, forcing traffic to pass on your right. Or one-hundred. Nothing in-between.
    5. Never stare at ladies wearing large pink hair curlers and huge diamond rings in the Piggly Wiggly supermarket.
    6. Never blow your nose in the Dairy Queen.
    7. Do not, under threat of severe shin bashing, applaud a religious song.
    8. Always jump to standing when a lady enters the room.
    9. Switch from scotch to bourbon.
    He also learned to heap lavish praise on the skills of whichever uncle has spent the entire night roasting baby goat over mesquite coals for whatever family reunion attended.
    Jenks mentally ticked off those humorous commandments, added one of his own: Yankees shalt not offer opinions on Texas. Listening to Bud and Hetta, he feared THE WAR would continue, unabated, right through dinner. Or worse, instead of dinner.
    “Hey, you two. You ended up on the same side. Bud’s even vice admiral of your own private navy, Hetta, so let’s call a cease fire so I can fire up the grill.”
    The combatants nodded, but then continued their rehash while preparing burgers for the grill and making salad. Hetta, whose family had sided with Mexico and Santa Anna until the fall of the Alamo, blasted that rascally Andrew Jackson for sending his land-grabbing puppet, Sam Houston, the politician to take advantage of the Mexican turmoil. Hearing his name, Sam Houston, the terrier, flew into a fit of expectant barks and wiggles, ending the Mexican standoff.
    Hetta noticed that Bud wasn’t eating much at dinner. “Bud, is your ulcer acting up again?”
    Bud took another slug of Wild Turkey. “Naw, I just ain’t hungry.” Sam Houston took note of Bud’s lack of appetite and generously finished off his master’s hamburger. To save him the trouble, of course.
    Hetta let the subject drop. “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving this year?”
    “I already bought a big old bird and was hopin’ you’d be around to roast it, Hetta. Pammy, she isn’t much of a cook.”
    Hetta let that understatement slide. “I hope we will be. We plan to be, anyway. I’ve got everything else we need, right down to the pumpkin pie mix. Let’s plan on it. Maybe at Caracol?”
    “Deal. Well, me ’n’ old Sam better hit the trail. If I can get my big butt out of this chair. I guess I might’a had one too many.”
    “Jenks will take you and your dinghy back, Bud. I’ll follow in Jenkzy .”
    “Don’t have to...I’ll have one of my boys bring him.”
    Hetta was relieved that Bud didn’t give her any trouble. Even though she had surreptitiously watered his drinks most of the evening, Bud was so drunk that Hetta had no intention of letting him drive his dinghy back to All Bidness . The Natalie Wood tragedy years before at