It don’t take much to keep me out of Houston, but that’s just a personal observation on my preferences of where to hang my hat.  My testimony is that if ever I spent a night in Dallas, Houston or San Antonio it will be due to the fact that I’m incarcerated within the pokey.

My baby brother AKA Little Benny Wayne serves time there, and is likely not going to receive parole, since the area is dense with chillun and grand-chillun.

I was a decade deep in life when he first saw daylight, and was called to the Colors when he entered first grade at the De Leon Finishing School, so we didn’t have much opportunity to break bread and reflect on the viscidities of life.

John Franklin and I blazed the trail for him and he plowed out to the turn row back yonder in 1957, so he’ll be in the alumni who will amass for our admiration on August 11, 2007.

The span of years betwixt us has sped by at a rate to match Johnny Chupp’s 1936 Ford of local legend, and as the passing days whiz by, I feel that it is my duty to tell you a few things about Little Benny Wayne that may or may not comfort you.

Our sainted old Granny, Mrs. J.J. Brownlee, was a pretty good hand when it became necessary to diagnose ailments of those near and dear to her heart.  She developed the ability by raising a dozen sons and daughters.  She spent a lot of her time with us out on Poverty Knob in days gone by.  As a matter of fact, she dwelt with Hugh and Thelma Chupp longer than I did.  And, she discovered a flaw in Little Benny Wayne’s construction.  He suffered with Gray Sickness and direct sunlight was his enemy.  It only worsened when he was forced to labor in that hostile environment.  There is no treatment or cure for that malady, and Little Benny Wayne found employment where the sun did not shine.  He was convinced that manual labor was an illegal immigrant and he passed his working life without ever nursing a blister of his hands.  He peddled automobiles to the citizenry of Houston—and there are a goodly number of them.  He peddled them as a Fleet Manager, but for the life of me I don’t know what number is required to constitute a fleet.

He palled around with the “Hammer” of Sugarland infamy and to his consternation that shooting golf in full sun fell well into his tolerance of the Texas sun.

“Sacre Bleu!” he may have exulted, but he made scant effort to widen his full sun activities.  I believe that he still imbibes in that pagan ritual.

I once told him straight out that I didn’t think less of him due to his choice of golfing buddies, and I was as sincere as a used car dealer.

“But I don’t think any more of Tom DeLay because of his choice neither!” I added.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at Charles@CharlesChupp.com.