Holliday, Texas is a small community of 2000 folks located on State Hwy. 82, a few miles southwest of Wichita Falls, Texas.
My new bride and I moved there and built a home in 1971, after completing anArmy tour of duty at Fort Benning, Georgia. We lived in the same house for the next twenty-one years, raising our three kids, participating in community activities and teaching school.
One of the first people we met was a lady named Ruby Robinson. Ruby worked for the weekly newspaper for Archer City, Texas, which was called The Archer County News. Her work there was a labor of love because it gave her an outlet for involvement in every event, occurrence or happening in the community. If Ruby were alive today, she would be right in the middle of this newspaper, The Archer Advocate.
Ruby was in her mid-sixties, but had the energy and vinegar of an eighteen-year-old. She loved western art and literature, but her true passion was the many varieties of wild flowers that dotted the hills, canyons, and meadows of the surrounding area. The country life was what she loved the most, and any affiliation with it made her its ombudsman.
Ruby had lost her husband, Jack, and her children were grown and married and lived a distance away. But she continued to live alone in her farmhouse, surrounded by barns, sheds and a pond brimming with bass and channel cat fish.
Into this world of hers, she invited me. A world of art, folklore, and a deep-set love for Texas. Her house spilled over with magazines and books about gardens, front porches, livestock, politics, and stories of the Texas Rangers.
She didn’t like to cook or clean house. Her time was precious and that was just a waste of it. Mundane things caused her only a brief pause because there were too many other really important issues at hand.
A rodeo, quilting bee, senior prom, family reunion, garden party, city council agenda or a school board meeting attracted her interests and encouraged her opinions.
Over the next twenty years, we became the best of friends. We traveled, fished, politicked, gathered flowers, and wrote newspaper articles together. She encouraged me to run for the school board. I did, and won. She talked me into running for state representative. I did, and lost. “Should have run as a Republican,” is all she said.
She got me involved in the volunteer fire department, American Cancer Society, American Legion, Lions Club and the Heart fund. We attended every party, fish fry, cook-out and candidate’s forum in the county. With each event and experience our friendship grew.
Ruby was plain-spoken, but gentle. She loved animals, yet raised cattle for market. Loved children, but felt being responsible was more important than intelligence, or a family name.
“Boy” was the name she called me. It was an enduring name of a personal label that I held with a great pride.
The last time I saw her was at the hospital in Wichita Falls. I had since moved to the Dallas metroplex. We visited about the good times we’d had together. Although the cancer was wasting her away, she still had the energy and spunk to reminisce about the things that she enjoyed and had taught me to enjoy as well.
Spring was close at hand, and Ruby told me how she longed to see the wild flowers just once more. If she could only see the beautiful paint brush, bluebonnets, and Indian blanket flowers just one more time.
Ruby passed away before the flowers came. Before I left that night, I hugged her goodbye. She smiled and said, “Take care of yourself, Boy. I love you. Enjoy everything that life has to give you. Be proud of what you are and that you are part of the great state of Texas.”
When the seasons change, I think of Ruby. I also realize that with her passing and that of others like her we lose a piece of our historical tapestry. A fabric that is gone forever. Gone until conjured up by people like me who have been entrusted with the legacy.

Durhl Caussey is a syndicated columnist who writes for publications across America. He may be reached at this paper or at dcaussey@sbcglobal.net.