Tom’s alarm went off in our Brenham, Texas hotel room at 6:00am on Wednesday October 27, 2021. By the time my companions had dressed and packed their stuff, the anticipated storm hit with the intensity and fury the meteorologists had predicted the night before. As my photographer and I looked out of our second-floor window, the sheets of rain swirled violently in the hurricane-force wind. Distant lightning lit the pitch-black sky, which allowed us to see the ominous line of storm clouds. Even though Tom and Vicki wanted to leave town by seven-thirty, they felt it was too dangerous to drive on the highway. As the three of us watched television for instant weather updates, we learned that a funnel cloud had been reported less than twenty miles north of us. In my mind, I figured that would be a fitting addition to the Griswold’s Family Vacation.
It was roughly 9:00am by the time the storm’s rage had tapered off to a light rain shower. With my photographer’s wife behind the wheel of the Jeep, we started the long journey towards home. The first scheduled stop on our agenda was the Junction Antique Mall on the outskirts of Nacogdoches, Texas. During most of the last half-hour of the ride, I heard Tom talk about only one thing – the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster that occurred on February 1, 2003. He mentioned numerous times that we had entered the shuttle’s debris zone; he also commented about the dense wooded areas and swamps alongside the roadway that would’ve made finding all of the shuttle debris nearly impossible. “There would be no way authorities could comb this entire area and find every nut and bolt from Columbia. There are likely hundreds of pieces of that shuttle scattered all over here and I’d like to find just one of those pieces. On the other hand, I can’t imagine how many snakes and other dangerous critters are in that swampy, wooded terrain as well.”
It was noon when we arrived at the Junction Antique Mall, which turned out to be a dud; at least for the stuff my photographer had his sights set on. I had to laugh, however, when I heard Tom ask the owner if he knew of anyone who had found a piece of shuttle debris in 2003 or had kept any souvenirs from Columbia. When the older gentleman said he didn’t know of any debris-finders, we boarded the Jeep and headed for downtown Nacogdoches. In the center of town, my companions visited another antique shop – Old Town Antiques and Collectibles. That small shop featured a treasure -trove of vinyl records, but the place was so disorganized it would make a hoarder’s head spin. Once again, my camera guy asked the owner if he knew anyone who had confiscated any Columbia artifacts. The guy seemed annoyed by the question as he snapped back: “That happened over 18 years ago. Even if someone still had a piece of debris, how could they prove it came from the shuttle? It would look just like a piece of mangled metal that could’ve come from anything.” All Tom said was: “Unless they found one of the unique thermal tiles that are virtually indestructible; not to mention all individually numbered.” Needless to say, the three of us walked out of that store empty-handed.
It was nearly 1:30pm and Vicki wanted lunch. But first, Tom wanted to see the site that had led him to Nacogdoches in the first place and was less than two blocks from where we stood. As his wife scoped out lunch options in the area, my photographer carried me to the drive-thru entrance of the Commercial Bank of Texas where he set me down on a precise section of concrete. It was on that spot, within ten feet or so of the masonic lodge building, that a piece of the Space Shuttle Columbia had crashed to earth when the orbiter disintegrated on February 1, 2003. Tom used a photo from the historic day to position me in the correct location, which in a sense, gave me an eerie feeling. While Tom captured a handful of images, I thought about the seven men and women who lost their lives. I saw the faces of Commander Rick Husband; Pilot William McCool; Payload commander Michael Anderson; Payload specialist Ilan Ramon; Mission specialists Kalpana Chawla, David Brown, and Laurel Clark.
My photographer and his wife reunited in front of Dolli’s Diner, a small eatery that Vicki had discovered while Tom and I did our thing. It had a ’50s motif and even though Tom thought the place was cool, he was disappointed Buddy Holly wasn’t represented in the decor. Instead, he noticed Betty Boop’s likeness was everywhere. When my companion’s forty-minute lunch had finished, the three of us returned to “The Truckster”, which was when I heard Tom say: “Supercalifragilisticexpinacogdoches, even though that shop in town was something quite atrocious.” With that, Vicki silently navigated our Jeep out of Nacogdoches, and I was left shaking my head.
About an hour after we left town, I heard my photographer tell his wife we were headed to visit the gravesite of a singer who had perished in an airplane crash. I was immediately confused. We had already paid our respects at the final resting place of Buddy Holly, which was 500 miles behind us in Lubbock. The Big Bopper was laid to rest in Beaumont, Texas; but that was over 150 miles to the south. And the great Ritchie Valens’ gravesite was in California, so it couldn’t be that one. I also didn’t think we were close to the graves of Jim Croce, Patsy Cline, Otis Redding, Ricky Nelson, or John Denver; all of whom were also killed in airplane crashes. As Vicki sped along Texas Highway 79 a few miles east of Carthage, I heard my photographer say “There it is. Pull over.” Vic managed to keep our vehicle under control as she whipped the Jeep into the small pull-off along the side of the highway. Some of our belongings in the back cargo area shifted around during deceleration; but overall, we arrived unscathed.
Tom carried me into the well-groomed park, which was surrounded by trees and featured a giant image of a guitar inlaid in the middle of the walkway. In the center of the park, I saw a circular pad with a life-sized marble statue of a man holding a guitar at parade rest. It turned out to be the grave of Jim Reeves; also known as Gentleman Jim Reeves to his millions of fans. On July 31, 1964, Reeves was the pilot of a Beechcraft Debonair that was travelling from Batesville, Arkansas to Nashville, Tennessee. As Reeves, along with his manager Dean Manuel, made their final approach to the airport, they got caught in a violent thunderstorm. Moments later, the plane crashed into a wooded area near Brentwood, Tennessee. At the time of his death, Jim Reeves was only 40 years old. He was best remembered for his country hit ‘He’ll Have to Go’.
During the time I stood on the marble monument that had been erected over the grave of Jim Reeves, a twist of irony filled my hallow head. The irony was one single word – Beechcraft. Reeves died in 1964 while he piloted his Beechcraft Debonair. Five years earlier, in February 1959, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. “Big Bopper” Richardson died when their chartered Beechcraft Bonanza V-35 crashed into a frozen Iowa cornfield. In 1967, Otis Redding’s Beechcraft H18 crashed into a lake near Madison, Wisconsin, killing seven of the eight people on board – including Redding. And in 1973, Jim Croce and five other passengers were killed when their Beechcraft E18S crashed into a tree during takeoff near Natchitoches, Louisiana. Believe it or not, Beechcraft is still around today, although it’s now operated under the name of Textron Aviation.
When our twenty-minute visit at the grave of Jim Reeves ended at roughly 3:45pm, we continued our travel eastward into Louisiana. A minute or two after we had crossed the border, I heard my photographer tell his wife: “I’ve just discovered we’re only 65 miles from the site where Bonnie and Clyde were killed and it’s not too far off this expressway. We have to stop and see that site.” We had been lucky during the day as the weather had remained ideal, even though the nasty line of storm cells had stayed within view throughout our eastward trip. Somehow, we managed to never catch up to that weather system; likely due to the couple of stops we had made. As we neared the Gibsland, Louisiana I-20 exit, however, I thought perhaps our luck had run out – bad weather seemed to be lurking around the next corner. I knew my photographer was worried that our visit at the Bonnie and Clyde death site would be hampered by wind and rain; and truth be told, I figured the visit would get rained out as well.
About a mile or two south of the expressway, we arrived in the small town of Gibsland, Louisiana. At 5:15pm, the place seemed like a ghost town; the only thing missing were tumbleweeds rolling down Main Street. In the center of town, I got my first look at the ‘Bonnie and Clyde Ambush Museum’; but unfortunately, it had closed fifteen minutes earlier. The early morning weather delay and the two wasted stops at the Nacogdoches antique shops had cost us a visit to that museum. However, we still had the actual death site to see and that was located roughly eight miles south of town. Thankfully, as we headed towards the site, the storm clouds had moved eastward, and the sun shone brightly over the entire area.
Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker had stopped at Rosa Canfield’s Cafe in Gibsland shortly before 9am on May 23, 1934. While Bonnie stayed inside their stolen Ford V-8, Clyde went inside the cafe and ordered sandwiches “to go” – a fried boloney sandwich for himself and a BLT for his girl. Fifteen minutes later, as the infamous couple headed south on Ringgold Road, Clyde slowed his car when he saw a truck owned by Ivy Methvin was broken down on the side of the road. Little did the fugitive bank robber know, it was a trap set by Frank Hamer and his posse, who were hidden in the heavy brush across the road from the disabled vehicle. Without warning, the six lawmen opened fire on the outlaw’s car while it was still moving. Barrow was hit in the head and killed instantly; Parker screamed before getting killed seconds later. She was still holding her half-eaten BLT sandwich. The car and the inhabitants were hit with 130 rounds of steel-jacketed ammo as the lawmen emptied their weapons into the vehicle. In the aftermath, Clyde Barrow had been shot 17 times while Bonnie Parker had 26 bullet wounds in her body.
When we finally arrived at the death site of Bonnie and Clyde, we saw two markers along the right-hand side of the road. After Vicki parked the Jeep just south of the markers, my photographer carried me to the historic spot where Bonnie and Clyde met their demise. One of the markers was a four-foot-tall stone pillar that was etched with the words; “On this site May 23, 1934, Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker were killed by law enforcement officers.” Unfortunately, the marker was badly damaged by souvenir hunters and graffiti artists; so much so, in fact, it was hard to read the inscription. The second marker, which was a bronze tablet, was dedicated to the six lawmen who took down the infamous outlaws. Not only did I stand on the desecrated marker for a few photos, Tom also placed me in the southbound lane of Highway 154 for a couple of images as well. Thankfully we were in the middle of nowhere and I was in no danger of being run over. Did I stand on the exact spot where Bonnie and Clyde were shot? There was no way to tell for sure. After all, that highway was a narrow gravel road known as Ringgold Road in the early 1930s and had likely been widened over the years. But one thing was for sure – I was close to the precise spot.
Over the years, Frank Hamer and his posse were condemned by some people for not giving Bonnie and Clyde a chance to surrender. I totally disagree; and I think my photographer does as well. During Clyde Barrow’s crime spree, he had been caught and jailed a couple of times; and each time he found a way out of jail. That infamous couple were dangerous – they had an arsenal of weapons in their car including 16 rifles and pistols and roughly 5,000 rounds of ammunition. The Barrow Gang were responsible for the deaths of at least 13 people; nine of which were police officers. Even though they were kids, Barrow was 25 and Parker was only 23, the infamous Bonnie and Clyde were caught, tried, and justly executed on that lonesome stretch of dirt road on May 23, 1934. But even in death, the legend of Bonnie and Clyde will live on forever in American history, as well as Hollywood folklore.
When the three of us were finished at the Bonnie and Clyde death site, we retraced our path back into Gibsland because my photographer wanted to snap a few images of the Ambush Museum. Even though the building looked “touristy” with its signage and images of the fugitive couple in the windows, it was a historic site to us. It turned out that the building once played host to the Canfield Cafe where Clyde Barrow had purchased their last meal fifteen minutes before their demise. As I stood on the exterior windowsill of the building, it was as though I could see Bonnie Parker sitting in the car as Barrow emerged from the cafe with his fried baloney sandwich and Bonnie’s BLT.
When Tom carried me back to the Jeep after our photoshoot was finished at the Ambush Museum, I thought we were done in Gibsland. But I was wrong. It turned out there was another site in town that was connected to the infamous day when Bonnie and Clyde were killed; and that site was just around the corner from the museum. After the fugitives had met their demise about eight miles south of Gibsland, Texas Ranger Frank Hamer returned to town where he made a call from a gas station telephone to Colonel Lee Simmons, the man who had assembled the posse. It was from that gas station’s pay phone the world first received news that the dangerous fugitives Bonnie and Clyde were dead.
I couldn’t believe my painted resin eyes when I first saw the dilapidated gas station. In my mind, it was a shame that a building that had played a small role in history had fallen into such disrepair. As I stood on the weather-worn concrete, just below the exterior wall where the public telephone was once attached, I imagined to be listening in on Frank Hamer’s conversation: “The job is done – Bonnie and Clyde are dead.” The Texas Ranger must’ve been exhausted and relieved at the same time. After all, he had been on the road for 102 days while he tracked the infamous couple before they were finally killed.
We left the legend of Bonnie and Clyde behind in Gibsland at roughly 6:30pm. To me, it was our best stop of the day, even though it was one that wasn’t originally planned. It was getting late in the day for my companions, and they had yet to make reservations for a place to stay. In his original itinerary, Tom had scheduled the three of us to spend the night in Vicksburg, Mississippi. However, with our early morning delay and unexpected stop in Gibsland, driving all the way to Vicksburg that evening was out of the question. Instead, we rolled into West Monroe, Louisiana and parked in the Hampton Inn parking lot where Vicki made on-line reservations from our Jeep.
Once they were registered and had their gear lugged up into our room, Tom and Vic decided on authentic Mexican food for dinner. When they brought their Taco Bell meal back to the room, I was placed alongside the television set where I watched my photographer eat six tacos like it was his last meal. Too bad it wasn’t a fried baloney sandwich!
Tom and Vic watched a portion of Game Two of the World Series before the lights were turned off at 9:45pm. All I could think about throughout the night was Bonnie and Clyde as they drove into the ambush. I saw Frank Hamer, Ted Hinton, Henderson Jordan, Prentiss Oakley, Bob Alcorn, and Maney Gault as they hunched down in the brush; out of sight from anyone driving along the road. Then I heard the roar of the Ford’s eight-cylinder engine and I saw the dust from Clyde’s stolen vehicle kick-up as it headed southbound on Ringgold Road. When Barrow slowed down to see what was wrong with Ivy Methvin’s truck, all hell broke loose. The thunder of the lawmen’s guns was deafening; the vehicle was perforated with 130 rounds of steel-jacketed bullets. I couldn’t get the sight of the fugitive’s blood-covered bodies out of my mind.
At that moment, when the silence in our hotel room was broken only by the occasional snoring of my companions, the final stanza of Bonnie Parker’s poem ‘The Trail’s End’ popped into my resin head and helped erase those vivid images. In a sense, Bonnie’s prophetic words summed up the lives, and deaths, of the legendary and infamous couple.
“Someday they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.”
That was a fun story.
I thought that your question about Columbia artifacts was a good one. The shop owners sounded kind of like jerks.
The Bonnie and Clyde sites were cool. I wouldn’t have expected historical markers there, but they certainly were famous criminals and even had a movie.
Thanks Bob, I’m glad you enjoyed the post. The guy at the shop in downtown was a jerk for sure. He never moved from his chair, yet he said he didn’t have any time to put the thousands of albums in any type of order. He had records stuffed in every nook and cranny in that shop.