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If Dallas was a giant with breath and life of its own imagine seeing Houston for the first time. The spaghetti bowl of highways alone was enough to bring humility to a country girl. This wasn't justone giant. Surely it must be a whole army of giants to create such a city as this.
Rod's aunt and uncle were living in a neat, almost country looking house somewhere deep in the midst of the foray of metropolis. The small house was nothing like th e larger home they later built. This one
told of sweet memories wrapped around the pictures and memorability of her family of whom were grown up and moved away. Only one son was living in the same area in his own apartment.
Aunt Bobby, Florence Buttleman, welcomed us with open arms. She was a tiny woman who kept to the chore of maintaining a trim, youthful appearance. The woman was obviously well schooled in dealing with young people. Her chatty, hospitable ways made us feel totally at home. She took me
in with a loving way to make me believe I was her favorite daughter.
“Come on in to my kitchen. We’ll have a cup of coffee while the men visit.” She showed me to
a small table actually only big enough for two people. The place could have been a farm house in
the middle of the prairie so comfortable it was.
While we visited she outlined the places she wanted to take me. There was a banquet for a Senator
one day, a luncheon at a French restaurant the next day, a visit to the Art Museum and one morning to visit her church.
“We will have one evening for my son to come to dinner. He will be glad to meet you.”
And so it was Houston became as friendly and easy as even a country town in Oklahoma and yet even more. The cream of Houston’s society were as easy as pie on the afternoon for the Senator’s banquet. The French restaurant could have been no different than a folksy country restaurant in our town. To attend a beautiful gathering of sweet ladies of the Unitarian Church was something to remember.
“Ladies, if you will excuse us we will retire to the living room.” Bobby’s husband announced at the end of our meal while his son had dinner with us. I was reminded of movies I had seen when this
custom was followed for having the men spend time together over drinks and cigars while the ladies were involved in chatty heavier discussions of wherever their intelligence led them, albeit the discussion of men themes such as a law case, a business matter, and on and on in the confines of their private conversations never to be revealed under the scrutiny of the menfolk’s gaze.
“Oh honey! What do I know about business?” The coy comment of a southern woman to her husband at that time of 1966 was heard.
However, together with her female peers she might discuss Dun and Bradstreet with ease.
These are the wonderful memories I have of Florence and Warren Buttleman, aunt and uncle of my husband, who lived in Houston, Texas.
Rod's aunt and uncle were living in a neat, almost country looking house somewhere deep in the midst of the foray of metropolis. The small house was nothing like th e larger home they later built. This one
told of sweet memories wrapped around the pictures and memorability of her family of whom were grown up and moved away. Only one son was living in the same area in his own apartment.
Aunt Bobby, Florence Buttleman, welcomed us with open arms. She was a tiny woman who kept to the chore of maintaining a trim, youthful appearance. The woman was obviously well schooled in dealing with young people. Her chatty, hospitable ways made us feel totally at home. She took me
in with a loving way to make me believe I was her favorite daughter.
“Come on in to my kitchen. We’ll have a cup of coffee while the men visit.” She showed me to
a small table actually only big enough for two people. The place could have been a farm house in
the middle of the prairie so comfortable it was.
While we visited she outlined the places she wanted to take me. There was a banquet for a Senator
one day, a luncheon at a French restaurant the next day, a visit to the Art Museum and one morning to visit her church.
“We will have one evening for my son to come to dinner. He will be glad to meet you.”
And so it was Houston became as friendly and easy as even a country town in Oklahoma and yet even more. The cream of Houston’s society were as easy as pie on the afternoon for the Senator’s banquet. The French restaurant could have been no different than a folksy country restaurant in our town. To attend a beautiful gathering of sweet ladies of the Unitarian Church was something to remember.
“Ladies, if you will excuse us we will retire to the living room.” Bobby’s husband announced at the end of our meal while his son had dinner with us. I was reminded of movies I had seen when this
custom was followed for having the men spend time together over drinks and cigars while the ladies were involved in chatty heavier discussions of wherever their intelligence led them, albeit the discussion of men themes such as a law case, a business matter, and on and on in the confines of their private conversations never to be revealed under the scrutiny of the menfolk’s gaze.
“Oh honey! What do I know about business?” The coy comment of a southern woman to her husband at that time of 1966 was heard.
However, together with her female peers she might discuss Dun and Bradstreet with ease.
These are the wonderful memories I have of Florence and Warren Buttleman, aunt and uncle of my husband, who lived in Houston, Texas.