Brother Bob doesn’t like anyone to know, but he’s not originally from Texas, much less Fort Stockton.  He was born and raised in Nebraska.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Nebraska.  Good folks up there.  Great food.  The only state that has a unicameral government, making use of only one house of government rather than the two every other state has, so you’d think there would be half the issues and corruption.  Don’t know if that math really works out, but it looks good on paper.

He got the calling to serve while milking cows at his uncle’s dairy farm outside Scotia.  It wasn’t uncommon for young men to get the calling while ankle deep in cow dung, ten digits wrapped around cow teats, and shivering in the prairie wind in the middle of January that brushes against the skin like 120 grit sandpaper.  Bob enrolled in Master’s Baptist College that spring and moved to Fargo, North Dakota to start class the following fall.  Fargo made him miss balmy Nebraska, but the lack of dairy animals and the excrement they seemed to so freely and indiscriminately scatter seemed to be a sign from above that he’d made the right decision.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t still the occasional desire to wrap his hands around teats for warmth, but fellow female freshmen also looking for warmth and companionship at Master’s Baptist filled that need.  He graduated in the top twenty five of his class, making Jerald Crumwold envious as number twenty six of twenty six.  The summer he graduated was a busy one, what with commencement, marrying Faye Dunbar who he’d dated his junior and senior year, and then moving cross country once he got the call to serve at Second Baptist Church of Fort Stockton.

Brother Brock, the previous pastor at Second Baptist had been caught in the choir loft, pants at half mast, with Josie Bailey, Director of  Outreach, who at the time was apparently only reaching out to steady herself by grabbing on to the baptistery so she didn’t fall over under the strain of Brother Brock’s advances.  Since Brother Brock and Josie Bailey were married, but not to each other, personnel changes were made more quickly than usual.  Recent graduate Brother Bob’s lack of experience in the pulpit was seen as a selling point rather than a detriment and he was sent $250 via Western Union for moving expenses and told to report as soon as he could get to Fort Stockton.

The climate was a gift sent from heaven after living in Fargo, and Brother Bob and Faye felt like Fort Stockton was home in no time.  The congregation welcomed them both with open arms, although there were some snickers exchanged the first time they brought potato salad with boiled eggs in it to the Fourth Sunday Potluck.  “We’re just going to have to put her on the dessert list next time,” Misty Musgraves whispered to the other ladies of the Hospitality Committee.

Within a year or two, both Brother Bob and Faye were beginning to refer to people as “y’all” and a year after that, “all y’all” when addressing a large group.  By then she knew the correct way to make potato salad, had quit referring to soft drinks as “soda”, and called them “Coke”, even if it was an RC Cola or Dr. Pepper she was drinking.  Brother Bob’s eyes still watered when he ate jalapeños, a sure sign of someone not really from Texas, but Fort Stockton looked at him and Faye as their own.

More importantly, Brother Bob considered himself a true Texan.  A bold move, no doubt, but everyone else played along and gave him the benefit of the doubt.  The people who really noticed the change were his family back home.  When Bob and Faye would go back to Nebraska for holidays, or their relatives would make the trek to Southwest Texas for a visit, Brother Bob would play it up like he owned the King Ranch and was close personal friends with George W. and Laura Bush rather than the transplants they really were.

Fast forward thirty years to last month, when Brother Bob was asked to come back to Nebraska to perform the wedding for a niece in Kearny.  He immediately began making plans to catch a Nebraska football game in Lincoln while he was back in the state.  More importantly, he began planning for a Texas twist to the nuptials that would leave a lasting impression on the whole family gathered for the ceremony.

First order of business: transportation. Boots Benson, Chairman of the Finance Committee and one of the more blessed members of the Second Baptist congregation, maintained a collection of classic cars in an airplane hanger on his ranch built just to hold them. Mostly composed of postwar Cadillacs, Lincolns, Packards, and Imperials, Brother Bob racked his brain trying to determine which one would best represent the oversized ego of the Lone Star State. Then he remembered the 1976 Amberlite Firemist Cadillac Eldorado convertible Boots had driven in the Fort Stockton Optimists’ Christmas Parade last year.

The Eldorado screamed ‘Texas’ at the top of its lungs and whispered ‘wealth’ out its tailpipe.  “The only thing that’d make me look any more authentic would be if Ted Cruz drove the darn thing and just dropped me off out front,” Bob told Faye as they talked about the trip over catfish fillets and hush puppies at K-Bob’s.  Faye just nodded, figuring her husband may be overthinking the whole Texas thing for a Nebraska wedding.  When Brother Bob pulled Boots aside the next day after church and told him he needed to visit with him privately, Boots feared that it was regarding the funds that hadn’t been fully accounted for in the Honduran Earthquake Relief Drive held several years previous.

“Whatcha need, Brother Bob?” Boots asked nervously as the two of them stood uncomfortably next to the baptismal.

“Got a favor, Boots,” Bob started. “Got a trip coming up. Doing the Lord’s work up north of here a piece, officiating at my niece’s wedding. I’d be mighty appreciative if I could borrow your ‘76 Caddy Eldo ragtop to drive up to the event. Really want to make an entrance, if you get my drift.” Boots was so relieved it didn’t involve the Honduran Earthquake funds that he readily agreed to it without asking any questions. He assumed by ‘up north of here a piece’ that Brother Bob was talking about Odessa. The thought of his low mileage pride and joy being driven to the Cornhusker State and back never even entered his mind, although thoughts of prison as a result of the Hurricane fund situation would have outweighed them if they had.

Brother Bob picked up the Cadillac a few days before they were due to leave for Nebraska. “This couldn’t be any more perfect,” Bob thought to himself. “UT burnt orange on the outside, Antique Buckskin Sierra Grain leather on the inside, the only thing this bad boy needs is a set of longhorns on the front.” Earl over at Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formalwear was happy to help in that regard. An hour and a half after pulling up to the salvage yard office, the Eldo had a set of horns welded to the front that a Brahma bull would’ve be proud of. Brother Bob also had a new glittering Texas-themed tux on a hanger thrown over his left shoulder, complete with a pair of Antique Sierra Grain pleather cowboy boots. And Earl had a receipt showing the whole thing as a $5,000 donation to Second Baptist for the tax deduction.

Things probably would have turned out okay, had Brother Bob left it at that. In fact, that’s what Faye encouraged him to do. But Bob would have none of it. He began work out in his garden shed, making his own blanks to be used in a vintage Colt .45 pistol that he would shoot into the air to gather all the witnesses in for the vows. “A real Texas twist,” he said to himself as he was mixing a pinch of black powder and Elmer’s glue. Having never made blanks or altered a vintage pistol before, it took Bob much longer to finish the project than he had planned, not allowing enough time to test fire either the weapon or the home made ammunition.

Fast forward to the drive up I-35 for the nuptials. The front of the convertible had a layer of dead bug carcasses thick enough that a wire brush had to be used for their removal in the parking lot of Memorial Stadium before the Nebraska game. Turns out a wire brush has no problem removing bug bowels, but it’s hard to judge when to stop. The Amberlite Firemist paint covering the front of the car came off right along with the bug innards. In Kearny the next day to perform the ceremony, a light rain was falling so the top couldn’t be lowered allowing for the grand entry Brother Bob had imagined. Nobody was out front watching when he and Faye pulled up in the Cadillac. Making their way inside, Bob and Faye hugged family members who looked at Bob somewhat askance in his Sierra Grained pleather boots, and rhinestone encrusted tux. These are a rare site in Nebraska, particularly at a wedding. As the organist began tickling the keys of the organ to the sheet music Brother Bob had handed her, she was as surprised as anyone when The Yellow Rose of Texas bellowed throughout the fellowship hall.

Not as surprised, however, as all the participants were about to be as they began taking their seats for the ceremony. When the last person was seated, Brother Bob pulled out the vintage Colt to fire it into the air and signal the bride’s entrance. This is where it became obvious a test firing should have been a necessity rather than a luxury. Gun cocked, partially raised into the air, and Brother Bob anxious to give the crowd a thrill, the shot was fired a bit too soon.

Rather than into the air in a display of Texas bravado, the blank went straight into the arm of Brother Bob’s grandson in the front row. Embarrassed at the obvious mistake, Bob pressed on with the ceremony, keeping his eye on his grandson, the bride, and the weather out front, hoping the rain would have subsided so he could put the top down for the drive to the emergency room as soon as the “I do’s” were exchanged.

The grandson was weaving in and out of consciousness like a drunken sailor on liberty before they could load him into the backseat of the Eldorado and head for the nearest available medical assistance. Brother Bob was met at the hospital by authorities. They had a hard time believing anyone could be that stupid with a firearm, but then noticed the Texas plates on the Cadillac, right next to the Fort Stockton Optimist Club bumper sticker, and it all made sense.

The boy made it through, praise the Lord, but will have to learn how to do everything with his left arm while the wounded one heals, no small challenge for a fourteen-year-old lad. Brother Bob was able to secure his release on bond from child endangerment charges by providing the registration and title to the Eldorado he found in the massive glove compartment, under the Oklahoma and Kansas state maps.

Boots Benson was none too pleased the following week when one of the most prized cars of his collection pulled up out front of his house. Beer cans in the back floor boards from the Nebraska game, blood all over the cabin from Brother Bob’s grandson, bug guts and longhorns once again covering the whole front end, but with primer and bare metal showing through, the title missing from the glove compartment, and more than 2,500 miles added to the odometer. All Boots could say was, “What the hell?”

“I was doing the Lord’s work,” Brother Bob told him.  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  There’s a greater than zero chance He may taketh away the Eldorado, although He might cometh in the form of Nebraska authorities.”

Boots was speechless, but the look on his face said everything.

“Would you rather it be the Honduran authorities? Because I can make a few phone calls,” Brother Bob noted.

It was then that Brother Bob and Boots Benson both learned an important lesson.  The truth will set you free. But a Cadillac Eldorado will cover a lot of tracks.