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The Legend of Bucksnort by Tom Reed
Friday, April 20, 2007
Not rated by the Author.
How a small Texas town got its name.
It was an organizational meeting Richard’s had told them. They were having a meeting to put their new community together. The settlers, who had just arrived from Tennessee in a dozen covered wagons, figured that it was also a good excuse for a party. The Tennesseans brought pies and cakes and fried chicken and lots and lots of corn liquor. The Mexicans, who already lived in the vicinity, were by nature quite neighborly, but their friendliness was reinforced by the desire of the Mexican government to attract new settlers. They brought tamales and enchiladas and frijoles with bacon, and frijoles with chicken, and frijoles with goat and frijoles fixed about every other way a body could possibly think to fix them -- lots and lots of frijoles.
It was a feast. Everybody ate and drank their fill and as the late summer sun started to fade lanterns were set on posts and fiddles appeared and the dancing began. The Mexicans demonstrated their Fandangos and got the Tennesseans to try their hand, and the Tennesseans got the Mexicans to line up for Virginia Reels.
But eventually the festivities had to be interrupted to get down to the serious business of the gathering. The Mexicans looked on waiting patiently for the music and dancing to return. This “organizing business” was a something that interested only the Tennesseans. The Mexicans knew they were in the Tenaha District of the Nacogdoches Municipality, of the state of Coahuila y Tejas of the Republic of Mexico. That was government and organization enough for them, but if the Anglos wanted more government, that was fine. If it was the excuse for a fiesta, the Mexicans were all for it.
John Richards took a seat behind a packing crate. He was presiding. It was only right that he should, after all it was his land grant they were settling on and his grandmother was providing the site for the proposed town. The settlers seated themselves in semicircular rows facing him. They sat on stumps, or logs, or beat up old chairs drug from the back of their Covered Wagons, or just the ground itself leaning up against some the big oak trees that had lived there long before either Mexican or Tennessean had considered moving to the area.
Richards looked down at the wooden maul they had given him for a gavel. One whack of the gavel on the packing crate would cause the whole thing to collapse.
“Ben Lang,” he said pointing his gavel at a settler in the first row. “Bring me that log you’ve been sitting on and put it up-right by my bench. It’ll be solid enough for me to pound on. You’re young enough to sit on the ground without it hurtin’ you”
With a ‘whomp’ of the gavel on the log he called the meeting to order. “Now that we’ve all decided to live close to each other we need to figure out how we’re going to do stuff and what we are gonna call our town.”
“We don’t need much government,” a voice from the audience said. He stood. “I’m a thinking that we could have more meetings like this, especially if we had more of them frijoles beans, they’re real good, especially them that had the goat meat in em.”
Another settler rose. “I agree we could meet here once a year and make all the decisions we need to make.”
“But how are we going to pay for it?” Someone asked.
“It won’t take much money. Most of what would have to be done we could get volunteers for. If we have to come up with cash, well then we can just pass the hat.”
“It has been moved and seconded that we have an annual meeting and fiestee,” Richards said. “All those in favor signify by saying, ‘Aye.’”
A few voices answered ‘Aye’ and gradually a few more ‘ayes’ joined in, until most of the audience had cast their votes.
“Those opposed signify with ‘nay.’” Richards said.
There was no response.
“The motion carries and we will hold an annual meeting and fiestee to make decisions.” He brought down his maul authoritatively on the stump.
“Now we need to decide what to call ourselves. What are we going to name our new community?” Richards said.
Before he had finished the sentence Will Tebbets was on his feet. “Mr. Chairman,” he said.
“The chair recognizes Will Tebbets to speak.”
“Mr. Chairman, In recognition of your sponsorship of this endeavor, I move that the community be named Richardsberg.”
Tebbets had been a newspaper editor back in Tennessee; Richards thought that that was why he talked fancier than he needed to.
“I always liked ‘alia’ on the end of town names,” someone said. “How about ‘Richardsalia?’”
“Technically its Granny Richards that is providing the land for the town,” another settler said, “How about ‘Grannysburg?’”
“Or ‘Grannyalia,’” another voice chimed in.
The Chairman brought down his gavel. “Mr. Tebbets you are out of order,” he said. “No Town is going to be named for me or my Grandmother. Besides which it’s not going to save you any money.” Richards reckoned that that was the true reason for his motion. “The land will still sell for $1.25 an acre.”
Others rose and sought to name the town after a favorite town in Tennessee like Memphis or Nashville or Winchester. But in each case the motions died for lack of a second; though it could be argued that the Chairman had not allowed enough time for anyone who wanted to second the motions to get to his feet and take such action.
“Mr. Chairman,” it was Rodney Gatewood that now sought recognition. Gatewood had been a politician back in Tennessee. He was not successful enough to have remained in his old home, but was just successful enough to be annoying.
“The Chair recognizes Mr. Rodney Gatewood.” Richards cringes just a bit when he gave the floor to Gatewood.
“Mr. Chairman, I rise to move to name our community after a great American and a great Tennessean. I speak of course of the noble victor of New Orleans, the man who stands up to the Bank of the United States, the President of the United States, the Honorable Andrew Jackson.”
Richards looked around the grounds and saw some signs of agitation among his Mexican neighbors. They had enjoyed the dinner, they had enjoyed the whisky and the dancing, they had even enjoyed the exercise in grass roots democracy, but the thought of naming a town in Mexican owned Texas after the President of the United States, might be carrying neighborliness just a bit far.
Then, just as Gatewood took a dramatic pause in his oratory the Tennesseans’ lack of gastric accommodation to Mexican cuisine came to fore and a subtle rumble rose from amid the assembly. A Buckskin clad settler a few rows away spoke without rising. “I think I just heard a Bucksnort.”
“Heared it” another answered from nearer the point of the sound’s emanation, “I was close enough that I smelt it.”
A second rumble occurred. “There it goes again,” someone said.
Richards read in the titters of laughter that the majority of the settlers did not want to make their Mexican neighbors uncomfortable with the name of their new town and neither did they take their task as seriously as those who were intent on foisting their name choices on the assemblage.
He did not give Gatewood time to continue. “Bucksnort has been moved and Seconded as the name of our community, all those in favor signify by saying ‘aye.’”
A substantial portion of the settlers answered, “AYE.”
“Those opposed respond nay,” he said. Then without giving any possible 'nay sayers' time to respond; “The ayes, have it," he said, "the motion carries the name of our new town is ‘Bucksnort.’”
The years would turn into a decade and then a few more years would be added. Texas would win her independence from Mexico, then would become part of the United States. It was in 1848 that the people of Bucksnort decided to ask for a post office.
But there was the problem of the name. Most folks weren’t familiar with the euphemism “Bucksnort,” it was sort of a frontier thing, but there just might be somebody at the Post Office Department that had heard it. To be sure that the bureaucrats in far away Washington would approve their request they decided that they had to change the town’s name. In honor of one of General Zachery Taylor’s victorious battle in the recent war with Mexico they chose the name “Buena Vista.”
They got their post office.
In time some folks, in order to mollify the prudes that always seem to appear once civilization takes hold of a community, created new stories about how the town got its original name. Some claimed that a fine white tail buck had stood his ground in Granny Richards garden, challenging the old lady with snorts and the waving of antlers. Others said it got its name from the shouts of drunks brawling over a keg of whiskey. More years passed and most of the original settlers passed as well but the memory of how the town originally was named was kept alive in the memory of the few old settlers that survived.
Finally a big city newspaperman came to the little community and asked the last living old settler why so many years ago, they had chosen to name their town “Bucksnort.”
He thought a minute then looked the reporter in the eye.
“Etiquette,” he said.
“Etiquette?” the reporter asked.
“Etiquette,” the old man answered,” it seemed a lot more polite than calling the town ‘Fart.’”
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