It's changed a lot, but Boerne was once a small farming and ranching community in Central Texas, a place where locals knew nearly everyone around. Ranching families worked hard, but finances were often tight. Livestock was a significant source of their income, but lambs and poultry were easily preyed upon by foxes. To help, Kendall County put a bounty on foxes. If you killed a fox, you would take proof to the county clerk's office, and collect a $2 reward. In a world where an entire BBQ chicken cost 50¢ and a Coke was 10¢, $2 was a lot of money.
My dad was the youngest of four kids in one of those ranching families. Growing up seven miles outside the city limits, he did well academically, played running back on the high school team, and was voted “most handsome” by his classmates. Even with the classroom learning, like many of the kids around him, his dad—my grandfather—was my dad’s most significant source of education.
One evening in 1965, my dad took one of the school’s cheerleaders on a date to watch Boerne High School face off with New Braunfels Canyon. After the excitement of the game, they started the drive back home on the two-lane highway. In the glare of the halogen headlights, my dad spotted a roadkill fox lying on the side of the road. He instantly remembered the bounty and was
excited about the tank of gas it would buy.
With no cars in sight, he turned the car around and stopped with the lights on the fox. He inspected the fox and found it to be only recently lifeless, so my dad took his proof with the sharp folding tool that all ranch kids carried for just such an occasion. His date didn't raise an eyebrow when he placed it in the trunk because she and her family were cut from the same cloth. The youthful pair continued back to Boerne without a question.
Before the sun got hot the next morning, my dad and grandfather were leaning over the engine compartment of a 1946 ranch Jeep. My dad, with grease on his forearms, proudly mentioned the fox he'd picked up the night before. My grandfather asked him, "Whereabouts did you pick up the fox?" When my dad told him, my grandfather paused, stood upright, and replied, "I think that's Comal County. It's pretty close to the county line, but they don't pay in Comal."
My dad—with a wry smile—replied, “Well, maybe the fox was born in Kendall and was just visiting relatives in Comal.” They both chuckled, but my dad, more seriously now, said, “The clerk isn’t going to be able to tell if this is a Comal fox or a Kendall fox. No one is going to know.” My grandfather responded, “There are three people who already know: me, you, and God.”
No sufficient rebuttal came to mind, so my dad shifted his focus back to the engine. A few seconds later, my grandfather said, “I’ll give you the $2 if you don’t turn them in.” My dad was taken aback at the proposal. He knew my grandfather always did what he said, but my dad also knew that he never had money to spare.
No. You can't buy my honesty," my dad replied, "I'll just throw them away." And so my dad made an exchange with a brushpile: a fox for a lifetime of integrity.
My five siblings and I heard this story a lot growing up. It seems that the older he gets, the more likely he is to get emotional toward the end. And that’s understandable. This one foundational experience has helped four generations understand that no amount of money can equal the value of your character.
Oh, and the cheerleader he took on the date? That’s my mom.
PULL QUOTE 1 (page 3): My dad made an exchange with a brushpile: a fox for a lifetime of integrity.
PULL QUOTE 2 (page 4, flex page 7):
My dad was the youngest of four kids in one of those ranching families. Even with the classroom learning, like many of the kids around him, his dad—my grandfather—was my dad’s most significant source of education.