The jerrod

series

Jerrod Texas - a way of life slowly dies

Jerrod, Texas like many other small towns in the Lone Star State is aging without dignity or hope. Founded at the turn of the twentieth century in the first cotton boom before World War I, its semi-desert climate made it an ideal place to exploit sandy soil and cheap labor. 

The founding families also farmed wheat and melon crops to rest the cotton-depleted soil. Their sons who served in World War II came back to claim their legacies and put the town's laborers to work adding to their wealth.

The children of that generation heeded the baby boomer mandate of self-betterment through education or high-paying factory jobs. They left behind the sons and daughters of workers with no prospects.

The community draws its last breaths as automation and corporate farms require fewer and fewer dawn-til-dusk laborers. Occasionally there is an oil boom to help the economy to one knee. 

People like the central characters in this book can be found in any dynastic farming community. They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those who made the town work to their benefit and passed along mortgage-free farms and ranches which guaranteed sustenance for those who resisted the urge to leave.

The dynasty children face the same challenges all such generations face--make a go of it or lose it all. The stories in the Jerrod Series visit the lives of those from both persuasions.

Jerrod, Texas vicinity

The jerrod

series

Jerrod Texas - a way of life slowly dies

The community is drawing  its last breaths as automation and corporate farms require fewer and fewer dawn-til-dusk laborers. Occasionally there is an oil boom to help the economy to one knee. 

People like the more fortuate gentry in these books inhabit any dynastic farming community. They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those who made the town work to their benefit and passed along mortgage-free farms and ranches which guaranteed sustenance for those who resisted the urge to leave.

The dynasty children face the same challenges all such generations face--make a go of it or lose it all. The stories in the Jerrod Series visit the lives of those from both persuasions.

Jerrod, Texas like other small towns in the High Plains farm belt is aging without dignity or hope. Founded at the turn of the twentieth century in the cotton boom before World War I, its semi-desert climate made it an ideal place to exploit sandy soil and cheap labor. 

The founding families planted wheat and melon crops to rest the cotton-depleted soil. Their sons, World War II service men came back to claim their legacies and put the town's laborers to work adding to their wealth.

That generations children heeded the baby boomer mandate of self-betterment through education or high-paying, non-farm  jobs.  Sons and daughters of workers with no prospects stayed behind to sire laborers and social dependents. 

Jerrod, Texas vicinity

Kilborn is a classic tale of the most enduring conflicts: father v. son, age v. youth, sanity v. madness.

   The protagonist is Drake Kilborn, a virtuoso spray plane pilot, golden boy of his hometown Jerrod, TX and victim of his own encroaching madness. He's in the sights of Texas Ranger Freddy Espinoza who works for him undercover.

  

   “Drake, whatcha doin’?”

Drake picked up a crescent wrench and scratched the side of his jaw with it. “Fixin’ it.”

   “What’s wrong with it?”

   Drake giggled and looked to one side, cocked his head down as if sharing a secret. “Don’t know. I’m gonna find out. Look at all this stuff. It looks like worms in here,” he said, pointing to the engine well.

   Freddy was relieved. It was obvious from the bird’s nest of hoses and tubes Drake had piled on the engine, the car wasn’t going anywhere for a long time. Freddy glanced down below the fan blade.  A discarded radiator hose was almost hiding the tracker’s red light. Freddy had no reason to believe Drake had seen it. 

Drake leaned up. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “You told me to come today.”

  “Musta been somebody else. Never mind. Hey, Momma,” he yelled, “come meet my new friend.” Drake pitched the wrench on the top of the car’s battery, turned, and walked quickly toward the rear of the hanger.

  It was obvious Drake wasn’t going anywhere, as his behavior was becoming more erratic. Freddy got in his car and drove toward the crossing. Had he turned and looked back, he would have seen Drake back at the hangar door, wiping away a tear and smiling the most brittle of smiles.

Order your autographed copy

Click on CONTACT

creek botom and to Drake’s limp body. Dan followed him down and swallowed hard.It looked like a mangled rag doll. The EMTs came behind him.Dan followed him down and swallowed hard. It looked like a mangled rag doll. The EMT's came behind him.

    Freddy held his light as one of them kneeled, placed two fingers in the bloody space below a missing ear, looked up, shook his head and pushed his med kit aside. They put the remains on the stretcher, and one tucked in the arm that seemed to be attached by a thin white sinew.

 

Freddy’s first shot puffed a plume of sand in front of the beast’s snout, causing it to flinch, look up, and back away from Drake Kilborn’s body. A sow and piglets ran into the shadows of overhanging willows.  

   There was a coolness settling in the air, but Freddy felt a trickle of sweat moving down his spine. He steadied his grip, took a breath, exhaled and squeezed the trigger again. The boar to jump backward and shook.

  The beast squealed as the third shot hit him. He turned and stumbled halfway up the opposite bank, paused, tumbled to the bottom on his back, kicked the air and fell still.

   Freddy holstered his weapon, took the light back from Dan, slid on his heels to the

Espinoza begins with Texas Ranger Freddy Espinoza called to the wreck scene where spray plane pilot Drake Kilborn is being attacked by a feral hog.

   

   As they moved closer to the creek, the stinging acrid smell grew stronger as a primal cacophony of squeals and grunts rose from the creek bottom.

  Baker moved beside Freddy. “You want me to hold your light?”

Order your autographed copy

Click on CONTACT

his hands and knees to look around the bottom.

   He spotted the long chrome handle of the wrench sticking out of the wheel flange. He leaned in on all fours, grabbed the tool, and began to back out.

   As he stood, he scraped his forehead on the tire’s tread. He reached up, felt wet. Blood. Again. He knew it would bleed like he had been struck by a hammer because of the medications. He leaned against the tire, pushed the rag onto the wound, took it away, looked, dabbed.

 

top of the John DeereHarvester, he could see miles in any direction.     

   He took his baseball cap off and wiped the sweat from his bald head with the back of his hand. Three hours after sunrise, the heat was setting a mirage over the small Texas cotton-farming town of Jerrod, five miles away. He shrugged, took the ratchet wrench out of his back pocket, and lined it up with the nut on a pulley. He pushed hard. The wrench came off and banged out of sight toward the bottom of the machine.

  He backed down the metal steps on the side of the grain bin. On the ground, he looked over the top of the front wheel then got on  

Scotty McTague has decided it will be his last year running the family's commercial wheat-harvesting business. But, he must prepare the machinery and assemble the crew for one more sweep through the fields of High Plains.

  “This is it. It ends this year,” Scotty McTague whispered. He massaged his left hand, rubbing the tingle away. Yeah. You said that a year ago.

   He wiped his hands with the ever-present red rag. From the

Order your autographed copy

Click on CONTACT

©2019 by waynehughes.net.