My late father-in-law, Scobey as his friends called him, worked for over 30 years out at Lackland, mostly in the transportation department. He actually drove the bus I took from the SA airport to Basic Training, and I remembered him years later when I met and married his daughter.
During his years working at Lackland, he had quite a few friends and co-workers, but one man who stood out was named Jim Parker. When Mr. Parker retired and got to be up in years, it was not uncommon for Scobey to help him with work around his house or taking him to doctor appointments and such. Other than a sister in California, it turns out that Mr. Parker had no other family to speak of. But he had always relied on his pal Scobey to help him out.
When Mr. Parker's health was failing and it was apparent the end was near, he asked Scobey to take him back to the town where he was born and raised, Christine, TX. This is not hardly the dramatic task as Augustus McCrae asking his friend Woodrow Call to haul his body all the way from Montana to Texas in a cart; Christine is only about an hour south, and in the case of Mr. Parker, he would be cremated, thereby lightening the load considerably.
In a handsome wooden box that was big enough to hold the urn containing Mr. Parker's ashes with the letter from his high school letterman's jacket, it was a pretty day in a very small town cemetery, when my in-laws, the sister from California and a preacher returned Mr. Parker to Christine. Not a whole lot of fanfare I suppose, but he was home.
I had never been further down Highway 16 than the Poteet Flea Market, not even to the Strawberry Festival. But I wanted to see Christine, and say howdy to Mr. Parker and perhaps get a feel for what the area was like. When my wife and I take drives out of San Antonio, she is constantly on the hunt for that piece of property that we will surely purchase if we win the Lottery, in spite of the fact that we never play. Texas has so much wide open and inviting land that it feels like a crime to sit here in 78250 with the traffic and the shopping centers and the houses popping up like mushrooms, but then I remember that I'm not a rancher or a farmer, and there was a reason Mr. Parker left Christine in the first place. Work.
But we can dream.
We drove down Highway 16 south of San Antonio and I finally got to see Poteet. The drive is quite nice once you get past the trashy frontage just south of Loop 1604. They never seem to show these parts when you see San Antonio featured on national television for Spurs games or the Alamo Bowl.
But looking south, you can understand why some people stay out there and not succumb to the comfort of a job in the city.
And so you know you are in Poteet when you see the big strawberry.
Further south on Highway 16 is the town of Jourdanton where there seemed to be a bit more to look at.
Though the water tower did not have a paint scheme resembling fruit of any description, an older castle looking building caught my eye warranting a quick investigation. Turns out this was the old jail house. My guess is, not a lot of folks busted out.
This huge building is built with a round-about type road around it making the traffic smoother, I suppose. And of course, Jourdanton has a post office if you need to mail anything.
When we got to Christine, my wife told me to slow down. It wasn't for fear that I might get a speeding ticket, but she didn't want me to miss it. That population of 436 must be pretty spread out because we only encountered maybe a dozen people during our visit.
In spite of the few visible residents, Christine does have both a fire department and a post office.
They also have a City Hall and a museum, though I confess, neither seemed readily identifiable to me.
What we did see was a shocking amount (shocking to us anyway) of just busted up and abandoned dwellings. Was there a tornado I missed?
The few unpaved roads we traveled down contained churches or seemingly abandoned homes. I can only guess we didn't find ourselves in the Alamo Heights section of Christine. And it seems a shame to see a place like this. Because after all, we had come to see Mr. Parker and I suddenly wondered how long it had been since he had visited his hometown, if there was anybody for him to visit. Would he have recognized the place and still desire to rest there?
I feel bad saying it, because I'm sure if anyone from Christine were to read this, they'd wonder why I would be so down on their small place in Texas. I can only confess that I was disturbed by the sights. I probably wouldn't do well on a trip to some impoverished third world nation, though I suspect the people of Christine have a much greater opportunity to change their situations.
Thankfully, the Christine Cemetery seemed to be, dare I say, one of the brighter spots of town. We drove up and after my wife got her bearings (she's made the trip to visit Mr. Parker a few times before), we stopped and paid our respects to the man. 
The cemetery is fairly small but full of names from the handful of families that once made the town what it was. Interestingly enough, I stumbled upon what seems to be quite the controversy brewing within the tows people. This marker posted above the grave of Christine Andrews Paul explains how the town derived the name, Christine. (Click on the picture to enlarge it, and you can read the story yourself.) Well, this seemed like a pretty official looking monument to me. But as I was looking to find more information on the town, there is a different Christine wanting a little credit. Apparently, a land developer named CF Simmons had two daughters, one named Imogene, and another named Christine. It is said that Mr. Simmons developed the town of Christine and named it after one daughter, then named another nearby town Imogene, though that town never really made it.
So, decide for yourself. I suspect Mr. Parker doesn't care either way.
I think in the grand scheme of things, flea markets take us back to the roots of our ancestors, regardless from what continent we might originate. Certainly in Europe, Asia, The Middle East and Africa, you see people doing their shopping at markets, and not just for vegetables or fish, but for stuff too.
And there is a culture of sorts for people who make the flea market a weekend commitment, the people who have the same booth each week, selling crafts or things they make with their own hands, as well as for the people who visit every weekend, hoping to find the right thing to hang on the wall in the garage. You also have family who decides to load up the contents of their attic and see if they can make a little more than had they just opened the garage door and held a yard sale.
My wife and I don't go nearly as often as we did years ago, but we still like to make several trips a year to Bussey's Flea Market on IH-35 North in Schertz. We went Saturday, just for a quick stroll around the grounds and I took a few pictures that might motivate you to visit the next time you get a chance.
Probably the most important thing you should know, and quite frankly, the thumbs up versus thumbs down on any flea market attempt is the status of cold adult beverages and whether or not they are served. In the case of Bussey's, we do have a thumbs up, and it is therefore safe to proceed.
Now I have been to flea markets where the majority of vendors are people that want to open there own version of The Dollar Store, but don't want to have to pay the price of rent in a strip mall. It helps to take a crash course in Korean when visiting these flea markets. The one on Highway 16 South, between San Antonio and Poteet is a perfect example. You will often find vendors at these locations who also double as circus freaks for other sources of income. I say this with the utmost respect to full-time employed circus freaks, who are an important part of our nations economy.
At the Highway 16 flea market, there used to be an old guy that ran a merry go round. Probably 10 years ago or more, he made the mistake of yelling at my niece for probably a valid reason, but my brother-in-law, Junior, was none to pleased with this display of rude behavior and threatened no less than to physically assault the man for cause. Since that time, including the last time we went, over a year and a half ago, Junior would see the old man at the merry go round ride and stare him down. Because our visits had become so sporadic over the years, it is very likely that this poor man had long ago lost any recollection of the reason why my brother-in-law gives him the evil eye for a minute, then calmly moves on. Ah, the pitfalls of life as a carny.
But back to more pleasant things at Bussey's. If you are looking for the latest CD's of your favorite artist, you can get them here for a reasonable price. I'm sure these are all original copies and the artists receive due compensation.
At Bussey's you will find a full range of country folk, and friendly people like this one seemingly Native American fellow who sells incense and relics and knives and secret spiritual products and stuff. 
I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but the secret product that his incense has strangely seems to smell a bit like reefer, but I could be wrong. I'm sure the ladies visiting his booth have come for the ancient Native American cure for glaucoma.
Many of the best things to look through are what I like to call other people's junk. If you dare to brave the heat of South Central Texas, you will find tables out in the open air. This is where the good deals are found. I once bought a really nice antique chair from a lady who was selling all of her husbands stuff before the divorce papers could stop her. 
I asked her how much she wanted for the chair. She said $50.00. I turned and started to walk away as such a substantial investment might cut into my funds needed for the aforementioned cold beverages. She then stopped me and asked how much I would give her for the chair. I didn't want to offend her because the chair was clearly worth way more than the $50.00 she was asking. Her helpful best freind advised me that it was a divorce sale and she suggested I offer up $15.00. I did and the two ladies high-fived one another, convinced the soon to be ex-husband would be boiling mad over my good deal.
You can't go wrong with used books or magazines from a flea market. I mean, aside from the worries of somebody else's germs and such, why buy new? And as soon as you finish reading those old copies of Life, you can sell them at your garage sale as "collectors editions" and nobody will know you got them at Bussey's for a dime.
Ready to get back to school, or you have a bunch of ankle biters that need some Shakespeare in their lives? For fifty cents, they'll be on the street corner reciting The Bard as if they had paid attention in Alternative School.
Okay, I'm no trophy hunter, but let's be honest - it would be cool to tell everyone that you went on a big safari to Hondo or some place exotic like Cotulla. Why not spring for a few stuffed Bambi's and make your family dining room look like dinner at the Water Buffalo Lodge?
Don't tell me you didn't have a Snoopy suitcase the first time you took a trip on the aeroplane. Oh sure, they poked fun at you all the way through Basic Training, but you know your Military Training Instructor was just jealous that he didn't have one. If he had shopped at Bussey's he'd have had his own too.
My wife and I once took visiting family to a night of dancing at the club. One of her cousins was pretty enthusiastic about the fact that for 50 cents, you could get shots of various men's cologne sprayed upon your body like one of those machines at the car wash dispensing NuCar smell on a beat-up Chevy backseat. And he spared no expense trying all the available brands.
My friends, why empty your pockets of lose change one spray at a time when you can get the entire bottle (less any that Grandpa may have used during WWII) for a buck?
Finally, I ask you, where can you get fine Mexican dinnerware and a handsome Seeing Eye Dog all in one location? Of course, Bussey's Flea Market.
Do you have a flea market that I should know about? Tell me about your favorite circus freak stories.
My late father-in-law, Scobey as his friends called him, worked for over 30 years out at Lackland, mostly in the transportation department. He actually drove the bus I took from the SA airport to Basic Training, and I remembered him years later when I met and married his daughter.
I had never been further down Highway 16 than the Poteet Flea Market, not even to the Strawberry Festival. But I wanted to see Christine, and say howdy to Mr. Parker and perhaps get a feel for what the area was like. When my wife and I take drives out of San Antonio, she is constantly on the hunt for that piece of property that we will surely purchase if we win the Lottery, in spite of the fact that we never play. Texas has so much wide open and inviting land that it feels like a crime to sit here in 78250 with the traffic and the shopping centers and the houses popping up like mushrooms, but then I remember that I'm not a rancher or a farmer, and there was a reason Mr. Parker left Christine in the first place. Work.
We drove down Highway 16 south of San Antonio and I finally got to see Poteet. The drive is quite nice once you get past the trashy frontage just south of Loop 1604. They never seem to show these parts when you see San Antonio featured on national television for Spurs games or the Alamo Bowl.
But looking south, you can understand why some people stay out there and not succumb to the comfort of a job in the city.
And so you know you are in Poteet when you see the big strawberry.
Further south on Highway 16 is the town of Jourdanton where there seemed to be a bit more to look at.
Though the water tower did not have a paint scheme resembling fruit of any description, an older castle looking building caught my eye warranting a quick investigation. Turns out this was the old jail house. My guess is, not a lot of folks busted out.
This huge building is built with a round-about type road around it making the traffic smoother, I suppose. And of course, Jourdanton has a post office if you need to mail anything.
When we got to Christine, my wife told me to slow down. It wasn't for fear that I might get a speeding ticket, but she didn't want me to miss it. That population of 436 must be pretty spread out because we only encountered maybe a dozen people during our visit.
In spite of the few visible residents, Christine does have both a fire department and a post office.
They also have a City Hall and a museum, though I confess, neither seemed readily identifiable to me.
What we did see was a shocking amount (shocking to us anyway) of just busted up and abandoned dwellings. Was there a tornado I missed?
The few unpaved roads we traveled down contained churches or seemingly abandoned homes. I can only guess we didn't find ourselves in the Alamo Heights section of Christine. And it seems a shame to see a place like this. Because after all, we had come to see Mr. Parker and I suddenly wondered how long it had been since he had visited his hometown, if there was anybody for him to visit. Would he have recognized the place and still desire to rest there?
Thankfully, the Christine Cemetery seemed to be, dare I say, one of the brighter spots of town. We drove up and after my wife got her bearings (she's made the trip to visit Mr. Parker a few times before), we stopped and paid our respects to the man. 
The cemetery is fairly small but full of names from the handful of families that once made the town what it was. Interestingly enough, I stumbled upon what seems to be quite the controversy brewing within the tows people. This marker posted above the grave of Christine Andrews Paul explains how the town derived the name, Christine. (Click on the picture to enlarge it, and you can read the story yourself.) Well, this seemed like a pretty official looking monument to me. But as I was looking to find more information on the town, there is a different Christine wanting a little credit. Apparently, a land developer named CF Simmons had two daughters, one named Imogene, and another named Christine. It is said that Mr. Simmons developed the town of Christine and named it after one daughter, then named another nearby town Imogene, though that town never really made it.
