Those Good Old Brady Days

A Texas-Sized Summer: Snow-Cones, Starry Skies, and Daddy Hubert’s Pancake Extravaganza

Back in the mid to late ‘80s, when shoulder pads were a personality trait and I thought my mullet made me look like a rock star, my brother's family and I used to pile into whatever car we had and head to Brady, Texas, for the July Jubilee. Brady was the kind of place where “rural” wasn’t just a setting—it was a lifestyle. The town had one stoplight, a Dairy Queen, and a whole lot of folks who knew your business before you did. It was the heart of Texas, where the air smelled like dust and freedom, and we were young, wild, and ready to soak it all in like a sponge in a stock pond.

The July Jubilee was our Super Bowl, Christmas, and Fourth of July rolled into one sweaty, glorious weekend. It was a carnival straight out of a fever dream—rickety rides that looked like they were assembled by a guy named Skeeter with a wrench and a prayer, neon lights flickering like they were auditioning for a horror movie, and a Ferris wheel that creaked so loud you’d swear it was haunted. We’d ride everything, from the Tilt-A-Whirl that left us dizzy as a drunk armadillo, to the Twister which must've been invented as a torture device. But I loved every second of it, even when I threw up chicken nuggets behind the funhouse. Good times.

The real MVP of the Jubilee, though, was my sister-in-law’s granddad, Daddy Hubert, who ran a snow-cone stand like he was the high priest of frozen sugar water. This wasn’t just any snow-cone stand—it was an all-you-can-eat paradise, and because we were family (or close enough), it was free. Free! In July, when the Texas sun was hot enough to fry a lizard on a rock, those snow-cones were like manna from heaven. We’d line up with our paper cones, hollering for tiger's blood, red-hot, cherry, blue raspberry, or that awesome yellow flavor that tasted like a juicy fruit gum. I’d slurp ‘em down so fast my brain would freeze solid, leaving me staggering around like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. By the end of the day, my tongue looked like a tie-dye experiment gone wrong, and I was in love with life.

Here is Daddy Hubert manning his snowcone stand ca. 1982.

Me, showing how many snow-cones I had already swilled down at that point (I was 13 here, by the way).

Me, play acting as if I fell unconscious due to accute snow-cone ingestion.

But Brady was just the warm-up act. The real magic happened when we’d drive out to Rochelle, a speck of a town so small it made Brady look like Dallas. Rochelle was just a handful of houses, a gas station that doubled as a gossip hub, and miles of rolling Texas countryside that stretched out like God’s own backyard. We’d head to Jimmy Stewart’s place (Uncle Jimmy), a sprawling ranch where the air smelled like mesquite and adventure. That’s where we became the kings and queens of summer. We’d fish in the stock pond, casting lines for catfish that were either too smart or too lazy to bite. We’d swim in the water tank, which was basically a giant metal water supply for cows, but to us, it was the Ritz-Carlton of swimming holes. We’d cannonball in, splashing like lunatics, while minnows nibbled our toes and we pretended we lived in the old west.

Sometimes, we’d hunt jackrabbits, which sounds cooler than it was. Mostly, it involved stumbling through prickly pear cactus with a shotgun, missing every other shot, and yelling, “Did you see that one? It was huge!” Meanwhile, the jackrabbits were probably back at their burrows, laughing their fuzzy tails off. Other days, we’d just wander the acres, kicking up dust, climbing over fallen oak trees, and pretending we were explorers in some uncharted land. It was the kind of freedom you only get when you’re a kid, before bills and mortgages suck the joy out of life like a vacuum cleaner at a confetti party.

One of the best parts of Rochelle, though, was the drive back to Brady at night. I swear, I’ve never seen stars like that anywhere else. The sky was so clear it was like God had polished it with Windex. You could see the Milky Way, constellations, and probably a few UFOs if you squinted hard enough. We’d pile into the bed of the truck, sticky with snow-cone juice and sunburned to a crisp, and I’d lay back and look up, feeling like the universe was putting on a private show just for us. It was the kind of moment that made you think life was perfect, even if your belly hurt from all the BBQ and snow cones.

We’d stay at Daddy Hubert’s house, a nice old place that smelled like bacon and history. Daddy Hubert was 80 years old but had the energy of a caffeinated jackrabbit. Every morning, he’d whip up a breakfast that could feed a small army. Pancakes stacked so high they needed a building permit, toast slathered with enough butter to clog a drain, eggs scrambled to fluffy perfection, and bacon so crispy it deserved its own fan club. We’d stuff ourselves until our bellies were about to burst, groaning like we’d just run a marathon. Daddy Hubert would just grin, his eyes twinkling under his cowboy hat, and say, “Can I put you down some more toast?" it wasn't a question. He was saying "You are about to eat 7 more slices of toast!" I’m pretty sure he was secretly trying to fatten us up for market.

One summer, I saw Daddy Hubert in action, and it’s burned into my brain like a brand on a steer. We were back out in Rochelle, on the Stewart property. We were out rounding up Uncle Jimmy's cows—two dozen head that had decided to wander. We had volunteered to "help". Us city slickers were going to "help" round up the cattle. And Daddy Hubert? This 80-year-old legend was running—full sprint, mind you—jumping over logs like an Olympic hurdler, waving his arms like he was directing traffic in a tornado. He looked 25 out there, hollering at the cows like they owed him money. Those steers didn’t stand a chance. By the time we got them back to the pasture, I was in awe. I wanted to be Daddy Hubert when I grew up, minus the part where I had to wake up at 5 a.m. to feed the livestock.

Those summers in Brady and Rochelle were the kind of magic you don’t appreciate until you’re older and stuck in traffic, dreaming of simpler days. We were young, free, and living in a world where the biggest worry was whether you’d get cherry or watermelon on your next snow-cone. I miss the sticky fingers, the starry skies, and the way Daddy Hubert’s pancakes made you feel like you could conquer the world—or at least the Tilt-A-Whirl. Most of all, I miss that feeling of being untethered, like the Texas countryside was ours to explore, and life was one big adventure waiting to happen. Here’s to those days, to Daddy Hubert, and to the snow-cones that stained our tongues and our hearts.

One more thing. There was a three-wheeler there in Rochelle. We asked Uncle Jimmy if we could ride it and he said we could, though he clearly did not really want us to. We'd go zipping down the backroads like we were in a low-budget action movie, feeling like the freest people in Texas. My brother drove it too. We had a blast. It was kind of funny, the next time we arrived that 3 wheel cycle had a flat. It always had a flat. We never rode it again. That's one way to handle it.

Uncle Jimmy, after several beers, claimed he saw Jesus in person one time out on that property. That was a funny story. Amazed and intrigued, I asked him what did Jesus look like, and he said "Just like he does in them paintings." Makes sense to me.

This doesn’t look like Uncle Jimmy. It doesn’t look like his land. But it does depict essentially what he claimed happen.