I can’t tell you much about Ozona, Texas except that it’s a very long way from anywhere. I haven’t been there in thirty-seven years, but in 1972 Ozona was little more than a greasy spot in the road halfway across the 635-mile expanse of West Texas hill country and desert that separates Austin and El Paso.
Ozona is both the biggest and the only town in Crockett County, a county made up of more than 3000 square miles of land, the 8th largest county in the Lone Star State. I can’t think of a single famous person who came from Ozona.
During 1972 Mary Ann and I made the Austin-El Paso-Austin round trip several times in our first car, a reasonably roadworthy 1968 Toyota Corolla wagon. No matter whether we were traveling east or west, we would always need to stop in Ozona to fill up the tank, and we’d always stop at what appeared to be the town’s only gas station.
Sometimes we’d leave Austin in the morning and pass through Ozona around noon. Sometimes we’d get a late start and roll into Ozona at night. The one constant thing about those trips was the pimply faced teenage boy who would always be the lone attendant at that lone gas station in that lonely place. We never knew his name, so over the years, whenever we’d talk about him, we’d just call him Billy.
No matter the time of day or night, the same kid seemed always to be there, ever at the ready to pump the gas, check the air in the tires and recommend another quart of oil. He was always excited to have customers passing through from out of town, and he was always full of questions about places customers had been and things they’d seen. “Hey, man, what’s it like to see the Longhorns play in Austin? Do you know Darrell Royal?” Billy would ask every time he saw the UT water decal in the rear window of the Corolla. He had never been outside Ozona.
One Sunday morning in the summer of 1972 as Mary Ann and I were on the flip side of the Austin to El Paso trip, the Corolla rolled into the gravel driveway of that little gas station around 11:00 a.m.. Predictably, Billy came bounding out toward the car, a red shop rag hanging from his back pocket and sporting a t-shirt with a familiar design. “How do you like the shirt?” he asked, opening his arms wide so that we could get the full effect of the white design on his black t-shirt. “It’s pretty happening, huh?”
Whenever we traveled, Mary Ann and I would take turns at the wheel. When she wasn’t in the driver’s seat she often passed the time doodling and sketching in a cheap, wired sketchbook.
Four days earlier as we had passed through Fredericksburg, Texas en route to El Paso she had seen a a large sign bearing the design of the Gadsden Flag—the famous and familiar coiled serpent accompanied by the “Don’t Tread On Me” text. Overall, the sign extolled the virtues of a hawkish foreign policy and the advisability of continuing the war that raged in Vietnam. The sign stood just down the road from Fredericksburg’s major tourist attraction, the Admiral Nimitz Museum.
Because she is Mary Ann and thinks as only Mary Ann thinks, she began to consider the power of the serpent relative to the power of the dove, the power of war relative to the power of peace. Perhaps her conclusion was determined by her preference, perhaps it was the inevitable product of reason, but whatever factors led to her decision, Mary Ann concluded that peace is more powerful than war. She decided that if others were promoting conflict and war, she should be promoting reconciliation and peace.
It wasn’t only countries that needed to understand her message, she said. It was individual people, as well. The threatening, protectionist and aggressive attitude expressed by the serpent could only beget a threatening, protectionist and aggressive response, she reasoned. It was similar to Newton’s Third Law of Motion. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
She supplemented her thesis with illustrations from theology and history. Jesus, she pointed out, raised people from the dead. He was himself resurrected—a feat requiring considerably greater power than killing someone. Like love, she concluded, peace was of God and, as such, possessed of divine power.
As we drove the 152 miles from Fredericksburg to Ozona on that bright morning Mary Ann was talking and doodling in her sketch book all the way. Among the things she drew was her response to the Gadsden Flag. She drew a large dove, and on the side of the dove she wrote “Peace.” Below the image she added the slogan, “Don’t Tread On Me.”
While Billy was washing our windshield during our gas stop in Ozona he saw Mary Ann sketching away. Her “Don’t Tread On Me” image caught his attention and peaked his interest. After a few moments discussing the message with him, Mary Ann tore the sheet from the sketchbook and handed it to Billy. He was holding the sheet and waving as we pulled away from the station and back onto the highway.
The shirt Billy so proudly displayed four days later bore a close approximation of the drawing Mary Ann had given him. He explained that his girlfriend was somewhat of an artist and had managed to reproduce the drawing on cardboard. She had then cut a crude stencil and printed Billy one shirt using white paint. She had learned how to do it in an art class at school. It was a crude print, but it had impact.
“I’m showing this to everybody who comes through town,” Billy said. “You guys need to print a bunch of shirts and sell ‘em back in Austin. I’ll bet you could sell ‘em like hotcakes there. Everybody asks me where they can get one.”
Billy was right. Once back in Austin we printed a couple hundred shirts, cut a few deals with street vendors on The Drag, and Mary Ann’s “Don’t Tread On Me” became an instant hit around the UT campus. We didn’t get rich, but our first t-shirt venture jump started our efforts to raise enough money to buy our now infamous VW bus.
Over the years Mary Ann’s sketch books have served us well. Her wit, sense of the absurd, and gentle perspective on the complex issues of life have served us even better.
It’s been nearly four decades since Mary Ann’s first shirts appeared amongst the wares of street vendors on The Drag alongside the University of Texas campus. Mary Ann recently recreated the original 1972 t-shirt design, and we are offering a limited number of the shirts again for the first time. 100% percent of the profits from the sale of these shirts will be donated to Sitting Bull College to support the school’s programs of entrepreneurship for Native American students.
Available in styles for both men and wmen, the shirts are printed on fashion weight 100% cotton using eco-friendly waterbased ink.
Price: $22 plus shipping via USPS.
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{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
Cool! This story (I want to call it “un relato”, Spanish for a report or a “relating” of some happening) takes me back in time to when I was finishing high school & commencing university studies — and to Texas. I’ve never been to Ozona (or El Paso), but native Texans whom I befriended during my residences there have spoken of the town much as you have.
I’ve been to Fredericksburg, and know the Nimitz Museum/Hotel. Here’s a tidbit for you. My fluency in Deutsch (German) isn’t on par with either of the Romance languages I’ve studied (Spanish & Portuguese), but the town was named for a German monarch of the 19th Century, if I remember correctly. And Friedrich in Deutsch is “Man of Peace”! Ironic, then, that this Texas city with a peaceful name has a museum for the great American Navy admiral of WW II.
But peace, the peace signified by the Hebrew “shalom” (meaning much more than simply the absence of conflict, but rather wholeness and well-being), WILL win out! And make a terrific tee-shirt!
Austin was like no place in the world in 1972. Wouldn’t we give a lot to do all that again! I never had enough money for books because I spent so much with street vendors before I could get inside the Coop bookstore. I even had tye died socks! I haven’t been to Austin in more than 30 years but friends tell me that all the street vendors are gone. How can that be cool?
Oops! My error. “Friedrich” does not mean man of peace (which is the source of the name Manfred). It means “rich in peace”. Thus the Texas town of Fredericksburg literally means “town abundant in peace”. Of course, even with this correction, the conclusion of my earlier comment still stands.
Peace is more powerful that war. When will we ever understand that killing and destruction are not answers and that they are the problems? Peace has the power to heal but war can only tear people apart. People laugh when you ask why we can’t all get along, but it is a good question. Why can’t we all live together in peace?