I don't remember very much about the Latimer family reunions we held at the Marlin Saddle Club. By the time our reunions moved to Camp Gene Ashby Boys Ranch on the Llano River near Mason, Texas, I was older. And I remember those reunions very well. Maybe part of the reason is that by then I was no longer simply one of the children running around while the adults visited. I had become one of the people providing the entertainment. And naturally, the entertainment was music.
I Brought the Music
By then, my music had developed considerably from the little boy who had once played with The Rockin' Three. When reunion time came, I brought my musical equipment with me. I would set everything up and sometimes play for hours. My audience was my family. But they didn't just sit and listen. They danced. My aunts and uncles would get out on the floor while I played. There is something I particularly enjoy about that memory now. These were the children of Charlie and Tishie Latimer and the people who had married into that family.
They had grown up. They had raised children. Some of their children now had children. Life had scattered everybody in different directions. Then reunion time came, and for a little while they were together again. And I got to provide the music.
I remember one reunion at Camp Gene Ashby on Labor Day, 1983, when I was playing the music and my aunts and uncles were dancing. I had played for quite a while, and when I took a break, I sat down at one of the tables.
My Uncle T. H. Marsden, who was married to my mother’s sister Donna, came over and sat down with me and proceeded to tell me how much they appreciated my music. I don't know why I said what I did, but I looked at Uncle T. H. and said, "I love you."
I think it embarrassed him a little. He said, "Aah, why did you say that?"
I said, "Because I do."
He was one of my favorite uncles.
Shortly after that, on Friday, November 18, at approximately 3:35 p.m. 1983, Uncle T. H. was at work at Pace Dry Goods store in San Angelo, Texas, when a young man came in and robbed the store. After the robbery, Uncle T. H. walked with him toward the front door, trying to talk him out of what he was doing. When they reached the door, the young man turned and shot Uncle T. H. in the chest and killed him. He was 62 years old, and the case has never been solved.
I have never forgotten that conversation at Camp Gene Ashby. It taught me something I have remembered ever since: Never miss an opportunity to tell someone you love that you love them. You just don't know if you will ever get another chance.
Sometimes I Had Help
I didn't always perform alone. Sometimes JoAnn, Ona, and Ima Kensing would join me and sing. Sometimes my brother Charles joined in. And occasionally Uncle Buster did too. Uncle Buster's ranch was only about eighteen miles from Camp Gene Ashby, so if he happened to be at the ranch during reunion time, he could drive over and join us. Charles, Eileen, and Melinda would stay at Uncle Buster's ranch during the reunion. So the music could become a family affair. That seems appropriate. Music had been woven through our family for years.
Now it was helping bring the family together.
Ben and Bryan Arrive
By then, I had children of my own. Ben and Bryan were still in elementary school. Naturally, they needed something more exciting to do than sit around listening to their dad play music for a bunch of grown-ups. They had a two-seat go-cart. I would load that go-cart onto a small trailer and haul it to the reunion. Once we arrived, Ben and Bryan had their own entertainment operation underway. They gave rides. And they did donuts in the gravel parking lot. I can imagine the dust they must have kicked up.
If the go-cart quit running, Uncle LeeRoy Kensing would get involved and help keep it going. That was how those reunions worked. Somebody always knew how to fix something. And if there were children, a motor, wheels, and a gravel parking lot available, sooner or later somebody was going to start doing donuts.
Down to the Llano
When the children weren't riding the go-cart, there was the Llano River. They could go down to the water and wade. That is another picture I can still see. While one generation of Latimers was dancing to music I was playing, another generation was outside racing around in a go-cart or down at the river with their feet in the water. There was always something to do. Nobody had to manufacture entertainment for us. We had music. We had family. We had a river. And apparently we had enough gasoline to keep Ben and Bryan's go-cart running.
That was plenty. Several generations gathered at those reunions: my aunts and uncles, Charles and me, Melinda, Ben and Bryan, and other children and grandchildren of Charlie and Tishie’s family. You don't realize while you're living something that someday you will give almost anything to be able to walk back into it for one afternoon.
One More Song
If I could go back to Camp Gene Ashby today, I know what I would want to see. I would want the aunts and uncles back. I would want Charles there. I would want Uncle Buster to drive over from the ranch. I would want JoAnn, Ona, and Ima Kensing ready to sing. I would want Uncle LeeRoy working on that go-cart when it quit. I would want Ben and Bryan little again, throwing gravel as they spun circles in the parking lot. I would want the children down at the Llano River.
And I would set up my equipment. Then I would pick up my guitar. The family would start gathering around. Somebody would ask for a song. And maybe the old folks would start dancing again. I would play for as long as they wanted me to. Because now I know something I didn't know then. We weren't just having a family reunion. We were making memories for the people who would live long enough to remember.