Chinquapin, Texas - Chinqua Where? by Fred B. McKinley. (original) (raw)

Chinquapin, Texas used to sit in the shadow of San Augustine, the county seat of San Augustine County. It is now a town so quiet that even the clock on the town square is a sundial. Chinquapin, halfway between San Augustine and Bronson (now do you know where it is?) was even quieter. Although Chinquapin has now disappeared from state maps, it lives again with the publication of this book.

The guardian spirit of the town seems to have deemed young, observant, and curious Fred Barry to be the town resident most likely to become a writer and save the town from becoming a mere footnote in the Handbook of Texas. And so it came to pass that Fred Barry was sent forth into childhood to participate in or witness a smorgasbord of incidents and events so dramatic or comic that he would be compelled to share them with the world. These are those stories.

Who needs Harry Potter?
One story takes place on the the San Augustine square where a daring daylight theft of young Fred's back-to-school clothes (including some red-trimmed cowboy boots) forces his father to buy a second wardrobe. How could a crime like this go unsolved in East Texas? Well, because it went unreported, that's one reason. Weeks later the "stolen" clothes and boots were delivered to the very doorstep of the McKinley residence by a man in a mysterious black sedan. How's that for magic?

Snakes in apple trees, slow rabbits and even slower drivers, hypochondriac school mates, and the youngest "sugar daddy" in Texas are all found within these pages.

There's even "Zen in the art of storekeeping" when Fred's grandfather explains that accounts receivable have a small place in the big scheme of things.

These stories might be considered children's bedtime tales since there are all sorts of lessons to be learned and most children could easily identify with the hero. The story of the worst way to start the first day of school could benefit first-graders all over the world.

Fred claims to have survived an East Texas childhood without requiring a single stitch or breaking one bone - although a water fountain run-in at school came very close to providing both. There's the redundantly named bully Carlo de Carlo, the supremely patient dog, Ol' Lep and the story of long hours and cold biscuits which is a classic tale of man-child compromise.

The entertainment value of the book is its most obvious point, but we'd also like to say that it serves as an excellent example for anyone considering writing a book about childhood, small towns or both. If you have half the love of place and family that Mr. McKiney has, you should do all right.

July 2003 � John Troesser