In Niagara Falls, I once
toured the wax museums--
a lot of Hollywood Legends,
and Ripley's Believe It Or Not.
Gangsters and aliens
had nothing on my uncle.
A 14th century martyr
wouldn't cut the mustard.
He is so famous, I'm
no longer able to find him.
His jokes are hovering between
the Hillcrest Cemetery and any pole strung
by Southwestern Bell;
bobbing on a plastic toy
in his modest swimming pool;
skewered to the horns of his
pet goat named after his wife;
living in the spectre of his monkey, Pierre;
humming in the tractor tires
of his riding mower;
stuck in the cross-hatched chrome
of his motorcycle gunning the interstate
to every chili cook-off in Texas;
and his hands, yes, his hands, where he'd
knuckle one finger and say,
"sorry bout the wart,
I meant to get it fixed";
where you'd bring your new husband for a visit, and he'd reverently make eye contact, drawling,
"why I'm so pleased to meet you--
name's Lee Harvey Oswald.
You must be Jack Ruby."
So it's late, and I've arrived on a last-minute
bereavement flight;  I'm eating brisket
and potato salad in a cookie cutter
church with sand-colored brick.
There's a needlepoint steeple and baptistry
white with hospital tile.  The sons,
daughters and cousins of matriarch,
Carrie Leona, search for gravy
and ketchup and salt; for immortality
in the sweet, fresh faces opening the doors
to Fellowship Hall; for Kleenex
as the acapella choir sings
Amazing Grace.  Before the service,
my Aunt Martha Jean, weakened by grief,
sought my hand, saying,"let's go see Doolen";
so we edged toward his flag-draped coffin,
thankfully shut.  The words of my
uncle's bumpersticker hovered
in the chasm of a grape-stained carpet:
"beauty is skin deep, but ugly is forever."
The sound of his voice was so real,
I saw myself dipping hot sauce
in a Texas Mex eatery, while Doolen,
decked out in suspenders and plaid,
heckled the waitress; then we were
bouncing over gravel roads
with two other uncles in my
first stick-shift car--
heading for Heart Attack County.
Can't say if Uncle Doolen
ever made it to Niagara Falls,
but you might catch him there now
on the set of Hee Haw. Odds are
he's rocking in a porch swing,
or adjusting his string tie,
looking too much like Roy Clark
to be coincidence.
Even in this guise, my uncle's
more famous than any president,
king, or C & W star.
Because that many characters
lived inside of him.
It only took seventy-two years,
and his "first, second, and third mistakes,"
as he called his children,
to lay them to rest.

Martha Jean Allen, age 80
November 18, 1926 - July 14, 2007

Martha Jean Allen, resident of Waxahachie, passed away peacefully at her home Saturday, July 14, 2007. Born Martha Jean Milam, November 18, 1926 in Vernon, Texas but grew up in the then thriving community of Reagor Springs, Texas. On December 24, 1945, she married Herschel Doolen Allen. Martha was known in Waxahachie as "the AVON Lady" throughout her 40 years in AVON sales. She was a member of the College Street Church of Christ and the Rebekahs of Waxahachie. Survived by three sons, Mickey D. Allen and his wife, Sheri of Midlothian, Charles G. Allen and his wife Brenda of Red Oak and Herschel Dwayne Allen and his wife, Elda of Waxahachie; five grandsons, Chris, Bradley and his wife, Ashley, Ryan, Kirby, and Keaton; and one great granddaughter, Hallie. Also survived by two brothers, Robert Milam of Dalhart and Glen Milam of DeSoto and one sister, Mary Hartsfield of Reagor Springs. Preceded in death by her husband of 54 years, Herschel Doolen Allen; her parents, Meddie and Carrie Milam; brothers MT, Clyde and Melvin; one sister Elizabeth and two granddaughters Carrie and Avery Allen.

Aunt Sister (Mary) and Martha Jean's Photo appeared in the Waxahachie Daily Light after attending a Church of Christ function in Waxahachie in December 2002.  Martha is pictured here with her second husband Charles Allen (Doolen's brother) and Gary Pyle who was raised by Martha Jean and Doolen.