In Defense of Dobie
On a soft autumn evening last year, I stood in a South Texas ghost town, ready to climb up onto the bed of a rusted old pickup truck and speak to nearly 300 people. The bed had been fashioned into a wooden stage, decked with stringed lights and a small reading lamp. Nearby, a campfire’s flames licked the cooling air. I looked out at the audience, friendly folks who’d brought their own lawn chairs for this occasion. A breeze rustled through the leaves and a fading orange glow hugged the southwestern horizon. What a perfect night for me to share old-time tales collected by J. Frank Dobie, the father of Texas literature
Dobie had been dead more than 50 years, but I’d just put together a new book of his best writing, The Essential J. Frank Dobie (October 2019, Texas A&M University Press). Now I was invited to join some of the state’s leading writers and storytellers at this festive literary gathering known as “Dobie Dichos,” Spanish for “sayings of Dobie.” Over the past decade, I’ve become a regular here, joining people from all over the state who travel to the historic village of Oakville (pop. 30). Everyone gathers under a majestic live oak tree beside an old stone jail and eats chili con carne with pan de campo. Then, as the sun sets, we pay homage to Dobie, who grew up on a nearby ranch in the surrounding brush country, by reading his works.
Born in 1888, Dobie came of age just as old pastoral lifeways were crumbling before the
