Weed, California June 18, 2008: Walking the dogs in the huge vacant lot toward the end of day, I plucked a thick blade from an uprising of wild grasses, and made a loud whistle. This both excited and alarmed the dogs. So we had a little game all the way back to the house. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Damn, we had fun!

And this reminded me that, back in September of 2007, Derrel Blain, another Henrietta Texas boy, took the time to capture this wondrous technology on his weblog of photos, drawings, and musings, called Daily Art Mas O Menos (Daily Art more or less). He drew the illustrations with ink, graphite, and a Derwent wash pencil.

With his permission, I here reprint “How to Make a Grass Blade Whistle.” Something every boy ought to know.

HOW TO MAKE A GRASS BLADE WHISTLE

Let’s suppose you need to make a loud noise to frighten off a large wild animal (assuming you’ve encountered a large wild animal that can actually be frightened), or suppose you become lost or injured while hiking and need to signal your whereabouts, or let’s suppose you are eight years old hanging out with your cousins in a small town in Texas with not much to do, trying to make as much noise as possible.

In that case you can make a really loud whistle from a grass blade. Strictly speaking it’s not a whistle but a single reed instrument. A whistle has a fixed surface; a reed instrument has a moving surface vibrating against a fixed surface.

Whatever, it still is ear-splittingly loud.

Here’s how to do it.

Find yourself a grass blade, or leaf, or something similar, longer than your thumb. Not a wimpy grass blade from a suburban lawn, but a native grass or weed that’s tough, with about a finger’s width to it.

Hold it between thumb and forefinger so the grass more or less drapes along the length of your thumb.

After holding it between thumb and forefinger with one hand, so the grass more or less drapes along the length of your thumb, catch the bottom end of the blade with your middle finger.

Pull the grass blade tight along the side of your thumb with this finger, while bringing your other thumb up to replace your forefinger.

After pulling the grass blade tight along the side of your thumb with your middle finger, bring your thumbs parallel to form an opening with the grass blade centered in it.

Keep holding the grass blade taut with your middle finger, at the base of your thumb, so that the grass blade is stretched tight across the opening.

When you blow between your thumbs, the reed (the grass blade) will vibrate against the sides of your thumbs, much the same way a reed works in a harmonica.

This reed-whistle will be piercingly loud and strident, sort of like a one-note saxophone gone bad, a very desirable quality if you’re eight.

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Thanks to Derrel Blain for permission to archive this essential information.

And now you know.

Go thee forth and share this with young lads everywhere. The world will be a better place.

Henrietta, Texas, Summer 1949: My mother, who worked as a nurse for her brother, Dr. Hurn, had made arrangements for me to stay with Mrs. Miller and her two boys.

Rex was older than me, and Mike younger.

One afternoon that last summer, before I began first grade at Lulu Johnson Elementary School, we all went to pick cotton. I suppose I should be grateful that I had this highly-touted southern experience, but what I learned was this:

Picking cotton sucks.

A cotton-field in summer is no picnic. It’s hot as hell. Plus, the cotton is prickly and tough, and you’re supposed to put it in a bag. What kind of bag? We had gunny sacks.

Are you familiar with a gunny sack? Do you know how scratchy a gunny sack can be? We young boys, shirtless, wearing cut-offs and tennis-shoes, fought those gunny sacks. Drag it on the ground, it itches your hand. Throw it over your shoulder, it scratches your hide!

And cotton is heavy.

All in all, those stories you’ve heard … about the happy pickaninnys, singing and toting those sacks of cotton … I’m pretty sure that’s all crap.

This was just another of the adventures that Mrs. Miller arranged for us boys. I suppose I should be grateful. Some of our outings are still with me.

One roasting summer day, we drove to the ice house.

You see, at that time, there was still an ice-man who came around with blocks of ice. He had a horse, which pulled a wooden wagon with walls and a back door. Inside the wooden wagon were large blocks of ice, which he delivered with deadly-looking metal tongs. This was for people who had ‘ice-boxes’ rather than electric refrigerators, and it was also for people who wanted to make home-made ice cream.

We’d asked Mrs. Miller where the ice-man got the ice.

“Let’s go see,” she said.

That afternoon we drove forever out into the mysterious countryside, and along an eternal flat road in the middle of nothing, where in the distance we saw a large unpainted wooden building. We arrived. On the building, a fading sign said, “ICE.”

Inside we were shown a cold, dim room with huge blocks of ice. A mountain of blocks of ice. Of course, looking back, now I wonder: Where did the ice come from?

Another time, we went to a fourth-of-july cookout at the Henrietta Country Club, where I won a prize.

And another day we went for a picnic and a swim with friends of the Miller’s. These people had a farm, and a young boy named Alf, who was a year older than Rex. After a swell picnic, we all went down to the tank, a kind of pond, and wearing our cut-offs, in we splashed. The water was muddy brown, but cool and refreshing. “Don’t step in any holes!” called Mrs. Miller.

We had a great time.

For a while.

Until somebody asked, “Where’s Alf?”

We were hustled out of the water while the grown-ups splashed in. Mrs. Miller brought us back up to the house, and soon after, we left, quietly. After returning to her house, I heard her on the telephone.

Finally, they had found Alf.