History Lesson 
Sold American!
George Morse looks like he belongs in an ad that says, "This man just borrowed 85 million dollars from our bank."
(Page 2 of 3)
The night before the sale, Hutchins hosted a cocktail party at a hotel in the Mexican border town of Matamoros. This represented a concession, since "Mr. Ralph doesn't believe in drinking," but his associates had convinced him it was not the time to strike a blow for abstinence. The hors d'oeuvres were distressingly undistinguished, but an incredible centerpiece structured around an eight-foot alligator sculpted in lard, a combo that featured a young Mexican girl who did not need subtitles to get her message across, and a superfluity of margaritas and Carta Blanca all served to make folk feel relaxed, friendly and expansive. The party had been going for some time when George Morse arrived to supplant the high-cholesterol 'gator as the center of attention. He spoke to virtually everybody, recalled the last time he had seen them, passed the time of night, then moved on, creating little eddies wherever he went.
The party broke up fairly early as a number of guests decided they needed more than the local hors d'oeuvres to help them make it through the night. As we strolled down the street to what was touted as Matamoros' finest restaurant (a disheartening bit of intelligence, if correct), Ed Christiansen, a crusty cattleman from Florida, entertained us with a chorus or two of Marty Robbins' "El Paso"—"Nighttime will find me at Rosa's cantina"—and helped fend off a cab driver who wanted us to meet his mother who, if I understood him correctly, is a virgin. Some of the men elbowed one another and winked and lied about what they were going to do "later on." Morse listened and laughed, but showed no inclination to join them.
"Cattle people don't want the man who sells their cattle to do much fooling around," he had explained earlier. "They expect the same sort of personal behavior from an auctioneer that they expect from a mayor. They expect a sameness in all aspects of your life. Your clothes and your hair have to be appropriate. Your family life has to be in good shape. You need to look rested, even if you have been on a plane all night." When he finished a meal of greasy enchiladas and frog legs an hour or so later, Morse decided, despite the protestations of his companions, that it was time to head back to the Holiday Inn in Harlingen.
AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, the motel coffee shop was no place for farmers or sheepherders. Anybody not in town to buy cattle had sense enough to keep quiet. By keeping quiet, he could have a wonderful time. For a great many Southern and Southwestern folk, and perhaps especially those still connected with the livestock and agricultural industries, conversation is something of a social art form. Even serious business discussions are prefaced, ended, and thoroughly permeated with trivial pleasantries, oblique insults neither given nor taken seriously, teasing suggestions and questions, and stylized philosophical comments. For those at home with its meandering rhythms, its shifting directions, and its arresting figures of speech, it can be pure delight.
A couple of tables away, a man noted the similarity between the Holiday Eye Opener and eggs Benny Dick, but what really pleased him were the biscuits—"You know what? These are real homemade biscuits. They're not the kind you whop on the side of the cabinet." Unfortunately, the afterglow of tequila and grease, the ordinariness of Breakfast Suggestion Number Three, and the customary brutality of morning had left me feeling like I had been whopped on the side of a cabinet. It must have showed. A very large man wearing white ostrich boots walked past my table, grinned, and offered commiseration—"lt's hell to live, ain't it?"
About 10:30, the crowd headed out to the auction barn at the fairgrounds in nearby Mercedes, where the sale would be held. They wanted to get there early, because Robert and Modena Jernigan had told them this one would start on time. The modern cattle auction is a catered affair. When a breeder decides to sell he employs a sales management firm to secure an auctioneer, arrange for the necessary equipment and personnel, prepare the publicity, contact potential buyers, and perform various clerical tasks at the auction itself, such as setting the order in which the animals appear and keeping track of who bought what for how much. In return the manager receives 3 per cent of the total amount of the sale. Charolais breeders in Texas, Oklahoma, and surrounding states turn most often to the Jernigans of Tyler.
Robert Jernigan looks rather average and talks slow, even for someone from deep East Texas, but the consensus is that he is "double smart" and a good man to trust with a cattle sale. Robert, however, is by no means the only important Jernigan. In addition to children and other relatives who perform various tasks in the office and at the sales, Robert's wife Modena carries at least her share of the load. Modena's pleasant round face is encircled by a bleached-blond hairdo that would probably stand up well in a three-quarter-speed tornado, and she is nothing if not outgoing. By turn earnest and comical, she speaks in a voice that carries, and in sentences that often end with an interrogative inflection that implicitly checks to make sure the listener is still with her. And she works hard. I was told that "You can call the Jernigan offices at two o'clock in the morning and Modena will answer the phone just like it was the middle of the afternoon."
After registering for the door prize of semen from Charolais bulls Valiant and B-71, prospective buyers picked up handsome Jernigan-prepared sales booklets containing pictures, pedigrees, and other pertinent data on each animal to be sold, then added their own notes in the margins as they wandered through the stalls for a final personal inspection and tried to feel out other buyers.
"Which one of these do you think is the best, Sam?"
"Well, there's two or three pretty good ones."
"Reckon we've picked out the same ones?"
"I wouldn't be surprised."
By the time they settled down at long tables for the lunch Mr. Hutchins had prepared for them, a fine air of anticipation mingled with the warm smells of hay, prize cattle, fresh manure, barbecue, and coffee. It was just right, and everybody who was supposed to be there had shown up.
Senator Kimball from Louisiana was there, and so was Dr. Billy Newton. Walker Wilson, who looks like Fred Flintstone would look if he looked like Wallace Beery, was there with his wife Potty, who is about a quarter of his size and losing ground. Wilson is president of the American International Charolais Association, a canny cattle raiser, a flamboyant gambler, and a wearer of marvelous hats. His new brown plantation hat drew a lot of attention.
"Walker, that's the best-looking hat you've had on all year."
"Thanks. Potty don't like it much." Richard Hass was there to represent Nelson Bunker Hunt—"He's H. L.'s boy"—who owns the largest herd of Charolais cattle in the world. Last fall, Modena told me, Bunker sold 1250 female animals in an auction that lasted four days and totaled over four million dollars. Potty spent the four millionth dollar.
Senator Kimball and Dr. Newton and Walker Wilson and Richard Rass were there to buy cattle, and so were a good many others. But some, including some who had traveled hundreds of miles, had no intention of bidding. They had come to pay their respects to Mr. Rutchins. More than one expressed the sentiment that "It's kind of like going to a funeral, if you want to look at it that way." Among those who seemed to look at it that way was Ralph Rutchins himself, who admitted it felt a bit strange to see his whole life's work come into the barn in three trucks, to be sold in three hours.
As is true at a lot of country funerals, the sadness at this one was tempered considerably by good food and good talk.
"How you doin', Johnny?"
"I'm kicking, but not too high."
"What's the matter? Did you get a lot of partying done last night?"
"I got enough done to last me awhile. How're you feeling?"
"If I felt any better, I'd be dangerous."
"Chris, I believe you're supposed to eat the seeds on those peppers."
"Let me tell you something. My momma killed all her idiot children at birth."
"Seriously, you oughta try 'em. They say these Jalapeños are the main reason Mexicans never have any grass back of their houses."
"I saw that good-looking daughter of yours at the party last night. Help me remember her name."
"It's Judy, but I can see why you forgot it. She's not a Judy. I never did think so. She's an Amanda."
"1 don't know. I think she's a Martha."
"Yes, she could be at that, now that you mention it."
"If everybody was like Ralph Hutchins, the lawyers in this country would starve to death, wouldn't they?"
"That sure is right, isn't it? You know, I think that's about the nicest thing I ever heard said about anybody."
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