Continued from page 53
sion, in the early 1870s the order of the day
became “Kill every buffalo you can! Every
buffalo dead is an Indian gone.
Inhabitants first called the fledgling
community everything but Aledo: “Medearis
(Medera?),” “Hood’s Ranch,” and then
Not uncommon in early-day Texas, town
names often remained tentative until railroads
and the postal service had had their say; and
this was exactly so in Aledo’s case. After
the federal postal service became confused
over the name Parker’s Station — presum-
ably a mail sack meant for Parker County was
dropped in Parker Station by mistake — they
sought a name change and accepted a T&PRR
engineer’s suggestion of “Aledo.” The rail-
road man hailed from Illinois, a little town
called, you guessed it —Aledo. As the story
goes, the federal government —no surprise
here — accepted the name without consulting
the town’s inhabitants. The Aledo Post Office opened in
By the mid-1880s, 150 or so souls called Aledo home
and the bustling little hamlet had become a shipping
center for the area and boasted a bank, a steam-powered
cotton gin and a corn mill. By 1915, the little town on the
prairie had 21 businesses and served as a retail center.
The community did not incorporate until 1963 and
beginning in the mid-1970s saw rapid growth as Tarrant
County’s population spilled over the Parker County line.
According to the City of Aledo’s website: “In the mid
1990’s, the city experienced rapid growth from expand-
ing Fort Worth. With a population of 400 citizens in
the 1920’s, Aledo has grown to 3,000 plus residents
living within a 2.5-square-mile area. Today, Aledo has
a uniqueness which preserves its historic character and
citizens that appreciate the quaint, country feel the town
During Aledo’s population spurt in the 1970s, a
little to the north near what is now Willow Park, the
tiny village of Buck Naked popped up. While it did not
become a collection point for hides, many thought it
might be, or become a haven for nudists or even undesir-
ables on motorcycles. The name begged for opposition,
which was soon abundant.
According to the PCHC, “It was advertised as a family
amusement community with games and rides for the kids.
Although the precinct Commissioner had given approval
to place signs on county right-of-way, the neighbors
were not amused with Daron Moore’s ‘community.’
Commissioners voted 4-1 to remove the signs, thus
ending the main draw to this community by CB’er(s)
having their pictures (made with the signs).”
Always on the lookout for something novel or contro-
versial, reporters converged on Buck Naked only to find
“the advertising was clearly better than the product.”
“Mayor” Johnny Logo freely admitted the name “Buck
Naked” had that certain something about it — something
that the neighbors couldn’t stomach.
“It’s always been meant in fun,” Logo was quoted
as saying in a 1992 Associated Press-distributed article
appearing in The Times of Shreveport, LA, and other
newspapers across the country. “It’s just tough to pull off
a town named Buck Naked in the heart of Baptist coun-
try. But we have had a great time trying.”
”Everyone misunderstood our intentions,” property
owner Charles Nolte said. “The last thing I wanted was a
bunch of naked people on my property.” “It was designed
as a fun place, an el cheapo Six Flags,” Logo added.
According to the article, the late Waymon Wright,
longtime Parker County Commissioner, said: ”It was just
somebody’s thought of creating some excite-merit (sic),
and it did. The problem was people got nervous about it.”
Perhaps fittingly, the article — headlined “Texas Town
Stripped of Name” — appeared on page 12 of The Times,
the obituary page.
• Handbook of Texas Online
• “Kill Every Buffalo You Can! Every Buffalo Dead is an
Indian Gone,” by J. Weston Phippen; theatlantic.com,
May 13, 2016.
“The Cast Iron Forest: A Natural and Cultural History
of the North American Cross Timbers, by Richard V.
Francaviglia; January 2000; University of Texas Press